Gin & Cologne in the Wearable Tech Apocalypse

By RT Swindoll

Outrageous and wickedly fun! If Douglas Adams and Jane Austin had a robot love child...

 

Ronny Cologne IV will do anything to keep the trust fund. Attend "bored" meetings. Kiss a**. Even flush away twenty years Earth-time on Father's interstellar cruise. But a drink on the spaceliner with Allison Gin, genius programmer, leaves a weight on his chest. She's as much a Company slave as he is. Drinks lead to confessions, confessions to love—now Ronny's gotta rescue them both from Father's clutches! Except the cutthroat billionaire has set a dastardly trap for Ronny on Earth. Allison's no fool. Her pure untested AI just might save her career and the rest of humanity, too...assuming she can stop Ronny from screwing the future first.

 

Author RT Swindoll presents Gin & Cologne:

• a big, binge-able comedy adventure in three acts
• a technological farce, driven by relatable characters (and their neuroses)
• a cheeky space opera, dripping with heart, and accessible to adult readers of all stripes

Is serial entrepreneur Ronal Cologne a thinly veiled metaphor for another space tech billionaire? You decide.

 

Meet Argyle the Barbot, an AI disaster-artist just self-aware enough to know when to drug you, pop a switchblade, or kick your nihilism about the future in the cajones.

 

Flavor notes: hints of disaster capitalism, salty sardonic bite, silly romantic body, unabashed aftertaste of hope. Sip or toss down—sits well, either way.

 

About RT Swindoll: Wonder for the Modern Mind. Anxious are the wonder-starved. So many wonders cross vast distances to touch our lives, only to fall unseen and unheard, and we moderns are restless in the absence. I write to pierce the veils that shroud our senses and reveal the wonder in our midst. Come settle into a story of cosmic significance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RTS Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781964208015

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Copyright Information

Gin & Cologne in the Wearable Tech Apocalypse

Copyright © 2024 by RT Swindoll

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

rtswindoll.com

Cover artwork by Joze Groselj

Published by RTS Press, Dallas, TX

April 2024 Edition

Dedication

To Grandma.

Always believing the best.

Inestimable thanks to my wife and family, to Writer’s Group for their enduring support, and to E.S. Murillo, to whom I owe a metric ton of whisper-quiet fidget toys for her generous editorial contributions and dastardly wit.

Online Posts

Starman (@aeroxventures) · 2:25 AM April 1

Am considering interstellar cruise (no joke!) Flyby Centauri, Bernard, Cygni, Tau C, Eridani, Sirius. Lightspeed tech ready for prime time

Starman (@aeroxventures) · 2:25 AM April 1

Because time dilation, cruise lasts 20 days, returns 20 years in the future. Don’t panic! AeroX holdings secure = Investors very safe

Starman (@aeroxventures) · 2:25 AM April 1

20 years has its perks. Drop assets on stock, reap on return. Buy time for incurable cancer. Get dragonball boost for your career slump

Starman (@aeroxventures) · 2:26 AM April 1

Personally, I just want some star time. Wife is bored. Who wants to name a planet with me? 1 bil to reserve. 200 ppl max. Sirius-ly…

Prologue

TOUR THE STARS with Ronal Cologne III and Genasia! Never has a billion dollars gone so far. Invest in the voyage of your life on the AeroX spaceliner, the pinnacle of science, engineering, and entertainment culture. Our grand tour will ring six diamond stars in state-of-the-art safety and style, all powered by the AeroX-patented Neumine Quantum Drive.

WELCOME TO LUXURY. Low gravity—high ceilings. See other worlds via the Viewscape Grand Ballroom. Enjoy the nightlife in the Nautilus Discotheque. Find your circadian rhythm in our TruLight Passenger Suites. Taste our rehydration creations brought to you by celebrity chefs. Stroll the centripetal Love Tunnel with the light of your life—or the light of your night.

TICKET PRICE INCLUDES an exclusive, all-access invitation to join Ronal Cologne’s coveted Hari Seldon Committee, Safeguarding the World’s Future, Forever and a Day.

Ellen sighed. It sounded debonair. Just the thing a narcissist would love.

Setting the brochure in her lap, she craned a look behind the wheelchair at her attendant nurse, a young Scandinavian immigrant who carried, despite her protests, that godawful beige wool beanie.

She warned the nurse to put it down. Trifle with a woman’s dignity, and watch a woman’s dignity trifle with you.

The nurse chided, You a debutante, now? D’lobby is frigid.

Ellen felt the itchy beanie slip over her bald scalp. She immediately snatched it off. I’m sick, not senile. With a shudder at the checker-stitched maple leaves and hockey sticks, she flung away the tacky thing like a soiled tissue. "I paid dearly for my beautiful crown, and I won’t cover it up. Besides, I look like Samuel L. Jackson, God rest his mother-loving soul."

She rubbed her hairless dome and relished the souvenir from her failed chemotherapy.

The nurse knew nothing of Hollywood, only the consternation of caring for an American transplant—from Texas, no less. Bending to retrieve the beanie, the nurse stole a glance at the discarded brochure and changed the subject. Your son? He’s going on d’cruise?

Ellen sighed again. Snakes on a plane, did she have to bring it up now?

The nurse added, We can talk. If it’d help.

"Talk about what—the cruise? That scintillating marketing copy? Or the crushing sense of helplessness ’cause I’m fifty-five and leaving my only child in the maw of that good-for-nothing Company?"

The nurse hummed expectantly.

Ellen moaned. She’d hardly seen Ronny since the diagnosis. Hell, she lived at the opposite end of the hemisphere, and every brief Happy Birthday internet call showed a man aging like his father, years ahead of time. Drinking ravaged his body. Money choked his soul. Cancer ate his mother.

"Not up for it, Astrid. Sorey, Ellen held her head high, exaggerating the Saskatchewan accent. But you’ll see. He’ll come around. Sooner or later, he’ll come. You forget, I’ve a Man on the inside." Of course, the nurse thought this was a religious expression, but Ellen secretly alluded to the AeroX robot she’d commandeered to keep watch over her prodigal son. Not that God needed the help…

The nurse pushed the wheelchair around the bend to the lobby. Even a month ago, Ellen would have sued knowing she’d be wheeled to her own death when she had two good legs, but her heart was no longer up to the task. Walking or litigation.

The lobby bore the cheerful delight of summer in the subarctic. Sunlight streamed through the windows, yet it was much colder here than in the convalescing room. This detour was Ellen’s special request, and her nurse, stubborn as an old fax machine, tried again to punish her for it with the offending beanie. She snapped off the woolen monstrosity and clutched it tight. She liked the cold. What was the Great White Canadian North but a clingy child who loved hugs and rummaging chilly fingers inside your coat?

Little Ronny had loved to rummage.

The doctor waited in the lobby and smiled whenever Ellen looked his way. His arms crossed around a clipboard, a finger and thumb locked in a private neurotic tussle. When it came to his patients, the doctor never could admit defeat. They wheeled his way.

I have something for you, Ellen told him, "a gift to add to my already generous endowment."

She made great ceremony of giving him the beanie.

The doctor pressed his lips at the overture. Indeed, her foundation had left a large fortune in trust to the hospital and its related cancer research treatments, but the beanie wasn’t going to help the doctor get over his neuroses. He picked at a snag in the stitching, uncertain what to say.

A reverberating boom hit the lobby windows.

Ellen perked up. Grabbing the wheels before her attendants could object, she rolled to the frosty panes that looked out. The leaching cold fogged her breath, but she held fast, a bony hand raised to block the sun until she spotted on the horizon the chemical spew of a supply rocket. She traced its torrential ascent, just catching a metallic glimmer as it vanished in the blue.

So many goodbyes, unsaid.

She blew a kiss to her baby boy and the frozen vacuum he’d soon navigate, alone.

Her teeth began to chatter. M—maybe he’ll meet a m—movie star…decide to s—settle down…

The doctor wheeled her from the window, from her last rays of sunshine. They took a different path down the hall, to the palliative care ward and a bed that bristled with life support machines. The nurse laid her to rest. Ellen felt feather-light, already a ghost.

With a nod to the anesthesiologist, the doctor offered her one last smile. Are you ready for us to put you under, Ms. Cologne?

She squinted at the beanie still tucked in his hand. I see what you’re trying to do. I swear to God, somebody add this to my DNR.

Chapter 1: The End of the World

Ronny IV was in no mood to romp with the female celebrities in the footsie pool, or slide The Culebra on the magnetic floor, or smash himself silly on Father’s bottomless bar tab, all of which had become the nightly ritual these nineteen glorious days in space.

Alas, no.

Tonight, he’d raise a glass of questionable milk to the misery that awaited him tomorrow morning, when the countdown clock expired and the spaceliner plunged into orbit, flushing his life of exquisite frivolity unto one of hard work and respectability, as per the legal terms of Father’s trust fund. Ronny could already feel the inertia, the circuitous suckward descent.

What might it feel like to just let the whirlpool of reality drag him under?

His gaze roamed the Nautilus Discotheque, the spaceliner’s only nightclub. The neon seashell marquee, violet and pink, pulsed over a throng of silhouettes undulating to a bass line. Scattered patrons drank away their apprehensions at the bar in the back. Ronny blinked. The disquieting girth of his augmented-reality contact lenses bore witness to his mission.

One last dive, fully sober.

He cleared his throat. AeroLens. Record.

A tiny red spot appeared in the middle distance of sight.

Lifting an eyebrow like an undercover agent, he glanced overhead at the bare feet that dappled across the glass ceiling—the Nautilus’s footsie pool suspended above the dance floor. He had to hand it to the engineers at AeroX: the concept of the footsie pool was as audacious as it was precarious, and the frathouse vibe was spot on Father’s brand. If only the engineers had thought to add eye bleach. Ronny wanted to forget. His only purpose in capturing video now was to snip apart the recordings later, render them as looping memes, and spam them on whatever forums kids these days were using to shitpost their dads.

His inner DJ was already drumming up captions for his nineteen-day escapades.

This wallow is brought to you by AeroLens: A GIF For Every Goodbye.

Goodbye to spiking the pool system with scented suds! Goodbye to parkour on the cabin deck at 2 AM! Goodbye to dancing the lobsters on down the buffet line!

Oh, hello…

His rudderless gaze foundered on a woman, sharply dressed, hunched at the bar. Thirty-ish, like him. Alone, like him. She ran delicate fingers around the base of her cocktail glass and stared into its pool, awaiting an oracle.

It chanced that he could be that oracle.

Beatific…apocalyptic…aviary? Ronny, head cocked, chest puffed out, wondered perhaps if his ruffled shirt bore an unsettling resemblance to a scraggly pigeon in mating season. A vision unsought for, yet swooping in on a wing and a prayer. It didn’t matter; she wasn’t his type. Her polyasian features were more and more the genetic norm on Earth, and Ronny preferred the exotic pastime of a bombshell blond. She had black-walnut hair pulled into a migraine-tight bun, sharp-rimmed glasses that could stab you, an excellent figure all tucked away.

Too prim. Too dour. Yes, the perfect companion for tonight’s countdown to sobriety.

He bounded toward her. It was entirely against his will. The half-gravity of the ship’s centrifugal design prohibited the slow saunter he was aiming for. He preferred a controlled glide and the discretion to adjust how things land, but the Nautilus was notorious for its lack of handrails. He landed at the bar stool next to her like an overeager freshman, a first impression he downplayed with his nonchalant opener.

You haven’t touched your drink.

She didn’t look up. You’re making me wish I had.

He smiled broadly at the flat snark of her answer. Misery, meet company.

I’m Ronny.

God—! She dry coughed. Had there been a drink in her mouth, it would have burst over the bartop as she spun wild-eyed to see him.

He stood, contemplating the heavens, pretending to be Father. God may be a stretch. Sure, I own the ship and am privately acquainted with the celebrities on board…

She groaned with relief, even laughed at her little mistake, and turned away. You had me. I can’t believe how much you sound like him.

God?

She snorted. Ron—al Cologne.

Ah. The Big Man Himself. She knew how to upsell those fake Latino vibes.

But she hadn’t pieced together the relation. Father was head of the Company; he, the nepo-baby who’d inherited the bogus name and barrel-chested voice, with none of the barrel chest or generational ambitions. Ronny’s wiry face and figure was the spitting image of Mother, which played in his favor when rubbing elbows with a barfly who happened to loath Father’s guts. And there was only one kind of person like that on this space cruise.

He gave a charming laugh. I take it you’re with the Company.

She sighed. Her gaze sunk back to her cocktail, hand on the hilt, clearly tempted to run herself through. Allison Gin, first division architect at Mentat.

Ah, a programming genius. He let out a quiet whistle, for he knew painfully well the events that had led to Allison’s presence on this ship. Tale as old as time: Girl perfects AI robots, Father acquires Girl’s company, Girl immediately sidelined.

Mentat was the birthplace of the world’s first Autonomous Intelligence, what headlines had called the perfect sentient—what Ronny had called, after he’d met the thing, Boredom Simulator 3000. Who could have predicted that free-rein AI would turn out so cloying and pathetic, the embodiment of all those conflict mediation therapists who’d counseled him in later adolescence? Perhaps Father had. Which is why Ronal Senior paid billions to acquire Mentat and seize its pioneer robot, to shape its impressionable mind in his own twisted image, and delegate to it the task he hated most: parenting. Which is why Ronal Junior could never miss a shareholder meeting or flout the trust fund, hounded from dawn till dusk by Father’s robot, whose parental lectures this week included how soap semi-permanently damages pool filtration systems, how parkour may cause under-reported cases of erectile dysfunction, and how New England coastal lobsters ought to receive the quiet dignity they deserve.

Ronal Cologne III had also got a second marriage out of the Mentat buyout—the CEO of Mentat, a woman Ronny’s age.

Helpless to stop the merger-marriage, stuck on the AeroX payroll, he and Allison had loads in common. But Ronny couldn’t bring himself to out the relation and spoil the surprise. After all, he was the reason Father had bastardized her precious AI into the Cologne Family Nanny Bot.

Allison said nothing more, only swirled her pale green drink and sipped none of it. Maybe it was hemlock.

Ronny reclined an elbow on the bartop, recalling one of Father’s personality updates that turned Nanny Bot into a drawling cowboy. Another AeroX engineering feat that managed to plow a redline of cultural sensitivity, and also—so cruelly effective at stressing a man’s morning hangovers. Not that Ronny had ever learned this firsthand.

"I feel your pain, Allison Gin. If you feel the need to unburden yourself on me…"

Her side-eye fished with the idea. Have you really exhausted all options on this cruise that you’ve come crawling to my quiet corner of the bar?

He chose that moment to sit, an act that felt confessional. Right. ‘Of all the gin joints in all the universe…’ Her look made it clear she’d heard that one before. I’m just trying to unwind before the big tomorrow. No ulterior motives.

She smirked. "What made you throw your life away on this cruise?"

Knew a guy. He left it at that. You?

Business.

Mmm. Makes sense.

He’d imagined raising a toast in memory of all the creative dreams Father had squashed, but really, why bother? Hard drinks were off the table. He couldn’t stomach the milk—the powdered stuff didn’t taste right, and the fresh stuff was nineteen days matured. And a water served neat would set him back on all those kidney stones he was supposedly growing.

He mulled over where to steer the conversation. Kids?

What?

You want kids someday?

She shifted uncomfortably. Why would you ask me that?

Specifically, the kidney stones had brought it to mind. I dunno. I never could sleep with a woman who wanted kids.

She stifled her shock. Perfect, since I could never sleep with a guy who wears AeroLens.

He gestured off his temple. You might want to keep your options open, in case AeroLens sweeps the globe while we’re away.

She courtesy-laughed and glanced awry. I think I’ll take my chances with the end of the world.

Behind the exit sign across the room hung an ostentatious clock, counting the cyan seconds until their return to Earth. Twelve hours, seven minutes, fifty-six seconds.

Fifty-five.

Fifty-four.

Allison pressed her bloodless lips and blew out another sigh. Whatever soul-plunging banter Ronny had hoped would get him down the drain and into tomorrow’s business suit wasn’t happening. This woman was just as bottled up as he was. Perhaps even worse. What genius travels twenty years into the future for the sake of a company she’s desperate to leave? Even Mother, God rest her soul, knew when to get off the ride.

He sucked in a breath and swiveled toward the bar to survey his alcoholic escapes. Oh right…tonight was about catharsis, not another binge.

Damn it all, Allison wasn’t giving him options.

Chapter 2: A Trip Down the Well

Hey, you, Argyle! Ronny called after the barbot, a sleek gray automaton standing behind the counter, busily polishing the glassware. Here was a robot far less expensive than the Cologne Family Nanny Bot and commensurately less intelligent. Gimme the usual!

The barbot gave Ronny the middle finger.

Undeterred, Ronny stretched over the counter and snagged a bottle of whatever they stored in the well down there. The barbot, eyes simulated on a curved LCD screen, glanced meaningfully toward the ceiling lights and whistled a merry tune.

Not every robot on the cruise was his nanny. Though some had been with the Company since Ronny was in diapers, this last-gen barbot, whom he called Argyle for the diamond-patterned tuxedo etched on his flat gunmetal chest, he’d been hacking since middle school, secretly installing bootleg software found on Global Search. There wasn’t a security flaw in the book that Argyle hadn’t tripped over in one decade or another.

On a lavish cruise, it helped to have a backdoor with your barbot.

Ronny looked at the bottle he’d taken from behind the counter. Gin. God damn. The stars had aligned.

In a spasm of excitement, he snatched Allison’s cocktail glass and tossed its unwanted contents behind the counter. The effect of centrifugal gravity flung the drink further than Ronny had intended, and it splashed Argyle right in the diamonds. Score!

Passing it off with a shrug, Ronny dangled the bottle of gin over Allison’s emptied glass. Fancy an upgrade?

Her eyelashes flared in surprise; rebukes jammed in her slender throat.

The barbot said nothing. He turned his wipe routine on himself and got the mop.

No doubt Allison was beginning to suspect his family connections. Had any other patron tossed a drink like that, Argyle would have dispatched the taser dogs to rough him up before things got rowdy. But Allison’s curiosity, however strong, was not keeping her in her seat. With a polite if brusque nod, she excused herself.

I have an early morning.

Away she bounded for the cabin decks. Ronny watched her go.

Tough crowd tonight.

He turned back to the bar. Professional bar trawlers like Ronny were a dying breed (cirrhosis of the liver notwithstanding), earning no esteem, no pity, not even the sorry shucks a bird feels for the worm it feeds to its chicks. He thought the toss-out-her-drink thing deserved at least a time-honored Well I never! Screwing open the bottle of gin and screwing his pledges in equal fashion, he snagged a fresh glass and poured himself a double.

Let this be a lesson to you, Argyle. He saluted the old barbot, who was wiping glasses behind the counter again. Never date a coworker.

Argyle offered a dry reply. Surely exceptions can be made for a highly sophisticated drink blender like me.

Ronny shook his head. HR makes no exceptions. Especially for drink blenders. The power dynamics, you see?

Argyle projected a forlorn frown on his mouth screen. Damn. I was sure your father’s secretary bot wanted me for my personality.

A chatbot can dream. Ronny snickered and downed the shot. Gin, ugh. Too medicinal for his taste, and this brand was barely a step above mouthwash.

As bad as he’d hoped it would be.

An aggressive grab of his shoulder turned him fully around on the stool. Allison had returned and stood behind him, all five-foot-two of her in a wrath.

You! she sputtered. "You’re his son! His son, Ron Cologne!"

This was the first time his identity had brought a woman of such unflinching sobriety back to the bar. He was almost too stunned to respond. "Ron—ny Cologne."

The rims of her glasses tried to impale him. How dare you act like—like it’s OK to do what you did!

Do what? Toss out your drink? Honestly, I thought you were thick for not figuring out the relation sooner, given my tremendous reputation around the ship. I offered you a drink. You declined and walked away. Seemed above board, but tell me my sins.

She looked like a Polynesian volcano about to erupt into new islands. Company policy strictly prohibits…romantic interactions between employees!

Ronny flattened his lips. Come on. I wear AeroLens. You want kids. What chance is there—

I do not want kids! she blustered.

He raised an eyebrow. So you’re saying there’s a chance.

I could…I could just… Her fists opened and closed, eyes darting between his cheekbones for the one more deserving a bruise. Bet Company policy prohibited that, too. All he could guess was that her anger stemmed from her career Father had dismantled. Whether or not Ronny deserved it, he had every bit of Father’s swagger and was just short enough to slug.

Ronny readied himself. Catharsis, inbound.

She clenched shut her eyes, revealing the wet sparkle of tears, and exhaled a shuddering breath. Her fists relaxed.

Even now, she kept the cork in. He couldn’t believe it.

Pouring a trashy shot of gin into her cocktail glass, Ronny baited her. You hate my guts. You can say it out loud. I won’t tell the taser dogs. Look at us: we’re both staring down the barrel of a shotgun. He glanced again at the countdown clock. Twelve hours. God, let’s do this.

He poured himself a shot to match hers. I’ll go, then you.

She watched in utter confusion, the flush of anger radiating off her cheeks. A little red unlocked the contrast in her complexion, and suddenly, Ronny felt like he was staring at a whole different woman. Not the repressed stereotype he’d seen earlier, but a vision. An oracle.

This crap gin was messing with him.

Ronny tipped back his shot, swallowed, and vomited up his secret ambitions. I want to backpack the world and become the Spielberg of AeroLens!

Her mouth hung open like a concerned paralytic. The movie guy?

"Yeah, but of AeroLens! Ever since I was a kid and Father forgot me on the set of Jurassic Mars, I’ve wanted to film the world. And needed therapy. But I’d have to quit AeroX to do it…the filming, not the therapy…and I’m too chickenshit because Father would just turn around and give the trust fund to Argyle back there. Can’t very well film the world if I’m broke!"

He slid the shot glass away and blinked. Your turn.

It took her a moment to shake out an excuse. I—I don’t drink like this…

Come on! Don’t make me go again. This stuff’s terrible.

But he gripped the glass and poured himself another confession: the Big One, the one that had soured in his stomach these nineteen days. Poured to the brim and hoisted high, the shot glass seemed a disturbing science lesson on the stickiness of surface tension in low-gravity environments. He quailed to drink it. He already knew what came of nausea in low gravity.

Bottoms up.

He gulped the shot and cringed. I didn’t say goodbye to Mother before we left. God help me. She had stage-four cancer.

Allison’s eyes widened. I thought Ronal was a widower when he married Genasia—

"Please, jen—ay—sea—uh! He mocked the mention of Father’s current wife and the merger-marriage that had brought Mentat and AeroX together like one big incestuous family. All billionaires ditch their starter wives somewhere, and Old Ron ditched his in Canada. And it’s my one comfort thinking that global warming may have made the weather nice since he bilked those misleading press releases and divorced her ass while she lay to die at the pole."

Allison cleared her throat. I’m sorry, she whispered, visibly taken aback.

Ronny slid over her cocktail glass and made one last bid for her to sit. Now, you. Before I pass out or tell you about that one time in Dallas. What would the great Allison Gin do, if nothing held you back in life?

Her face became stone, motions methodical. She perched on the