from Nikola’s era, and the inventor would have recognized the laptop as a device he had predicted over a hundred years before, one that could wirelessly send and transmit information across the globe.
Nothing here would shock Nikola. For all Joe knew, Nikola Tesla might have visited this underground house and sat in this very parlor. He might have known the designer of one of the largest electrical underground rail systems in the world—one that ran under his very feet. If so, why wouldn’t the man have invited the famous scientist here for tea?
Joe pulled the leather armchair closer to the fire and set his shopping list on the arm. It wouldn’t take him too long to order the parts. He’d have them sent to his lawyer’s office. Mr. Rossi would forward them by bike courier to the information booth. That was how Joe got all his mail.
Before he started ordering, he needed to check his email. He’d been off the grid for most of the day, other than a quick note to his administrative assistant to tell everyone he’d be unreachable.
One (cyan) email had been sorted into his Private folder, and he went there first to see an email from Alan Wright, CEO of Wright Industries. Joe paused before answering it. Alan had sent him a few emails over the months he’d been in New York, and he hadn’t answered any of them. He hadn’t wanted Alan to see him penned up in the tunnels like a hamster.
He skimmed the email. Alan had heard of his father’s death and wished to express his sympathy. How had Alan heard, and why did he care?
Joe hadn’t told anyone but Celeste and Vivian about his father’s death, but the Internet was a giant tattletale, so presumably the whole world knew. Anyway, Alan wanted to meet tomorrow for a drink at The Campbell Apartment—a trendy cocktail lounge in Grand Central Terminal. That couldn’t be an accidental choice. Alan must know he was trapped here.
In some ways, Alan was as trapped as Joe. He could move around the world, but he couldn’t escape from his role as a billionaire CEO. Joe knew the trap of being surrounded by people suddenly afraid to tell him the truth, afraid to open up to him, ready to lie to make him happy, certain his life was far too glamorous for them and their concerns. He wondered if Alan missed being ordinary as much as he did. He tapped out a quick answer, arranging to meet him the next evening at eight (purple) for drinks.
Then he switched over to his Work folder which contained bug reports and a couple of questions from the young software architect he’d been grooming to take over maintenance of the facial recognition engine so that Joe could switch to working on gait recognition.
Gait recognition was new and interesting. In gait recognition, the computer tried to determine a subject’s identity from the way he or she walked. Gait recognition enabled identification from a much farther distance than facial recognition. It was surprisingly effective.
He dealt with those emails before moving to his newest folder, RRT, an abbreviation for Recognition Request Tracking. He whistled in surprise, and Edison lifted his head.
“It’s OK, boy, go on back to sleep,” Joe said.
But it wasn’t OK. Just the opposite. In the last few hours, a million more requests had been made than the week before. That didn’t make sense. Either his software had a bug, or all the governmental agencies in the United States were experiencing a massive crime wave, or something new had come online, probably something automated. His stomach clenched.
List forgotten, he logged into the system and began tracking the requests down, compiling reports of where the requests originated and the reasons why. So far, they all came from a single source.
Edison nudged his knee, but Joe pushed him away. “Busy, Edison.”
The dog dropped his head into Joe’s lap, blocking his view of the screen.
“What do you need?” He looked at the clock on the corner of his computer. He’d been sitting here
Nothing here would shock Nikola. For all Joe knew, Nikola Tesla might have visited this underground house and sat in this very parlor. He might have known the designer of one of the largest electrical underground rail systems in the world—one that ran under his very feet. If so, why wouldn’t the man have invited the famous scientist here for tea?
Joe pulled the leather armchair closer to the fire and set his shopping list on the arm. It wouldn’t take him too long to order the parts. He’d have them sent to his lawyer’s office. Mr. Rossi would forward them by bike courier to the information booth. That was how Joe got all his mail.
Before he started ordering, he needed to check his email. He’d been off the grid for most of the day, other than a quick note to his administrative assistant to tell everyone he’d be unreachable.
One (cyan) email had been sorted into his Private folder, and he went there first to see an email from Alan Wright, CEO of Wright Industries. Joe paused before answering it. Alan had sent him a few emails over the months he’d been in New York, and he hadn’t answered any of them. He hadn’t wanted Alan to see him penned up in the tunnels like a hamster.
He skimmed the email. Alan had heard of his father’s death and wished to express his sympathy. How had Alan heard, and why did he care?
Joe hadn’t told anyone but Celeste and Vivian about his father’s death, but the Internet was a giant tattletale, so presumably the whole world knew. Anyway, Alan wanted to meet tomorrow for a drink at The Campbell Apartment—a trendy cocktail lounge in Grand Central Terminal. That couldn’t be an accidental choice. Alan must know he was trapped here.
In some ways, Alan was as trapped as Joe. He could move around the world, but he couldn’t escape from his role as a billionaire CEO. Joe knew the trap of being surrounded by people suddenly afraid to tell him the truth, afraid to open up to him, ready to lie to make him happy, certain his life was far too glamorous for them and their concerns. He wondered if Alan missed being ordinary as much as he did. He tapped out a quick answer, arranging to meet him the next evening at eight (purple) for drinks.
Then he switched over to his Work folder which contained bug reports and a couple of questions from the young software architect he’d been grooming to take over maintenance of the facial recognition engine so that Joe could switch to working on gait recognition.
Gait recognition was new and interesting. In gait recognition, the computer tried to determine a subject’s identity from the way he or she walked. Gait recognition enabled identification from a much farther distance than facial recognition. It was surprisingly effective.
He dealt with those emails before moving to his newest folder, RRT, an abbreviation for Recognition Request Tracking. He whistled in surprise, and Edison lifted his head.
“It’s OK, boy, go on back to sleep,” Joe said.
But it wasn’t OK. Just the opposite. In the last few hours, a million more requests had been made than the week before. That didn’t make sense. Either his software had a bug, or all the governmental agencies in the United States were experiencing a massive crime wave, or something new had come online, probably something automated. His stomach clenched.
List forgotten, he logged into the system and began tracking the requests down, compiling reports of where the requests originated and the reasons why. So far, they all came from a single source.
Edison nudged his knee, but Joe pushed him away. “Busy, Edison.”
The dog dropped his head into Joe’s lap, blocking his view of the screen.
“What do you need?” He looked at the clock on the corner of his computer. He’d been sitting here
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