In the Near Future

River Arts District, Asheville, North Carolina

Will Robin was unaware something life changing had just happened. With his scalpel, he cut an inch-long incision in his patient’s scalp. Entangled in her bloodied jet-black hair, his fingers pushed until her Aurora, an artificial intelligence microchip encased in silica, slid through the incision and popped into view. He twirled the scalpel handle between his fingers, picked up the quarter-sized Aurora chip from the crown of her head, and placed both on surgical cloth atop a barren desk. Between clenched teeth, she moaned while he stitched the incision shut.

“Welcome to the free world, Alyss. We can speak now,” he said, crouching to untie her blindfold. Will’s tone of voice conveyed trust to his clients, for the most part. At least that’s what many told him. In essence, he desired to be trusted. His intentions were worthy of trust. Most of all, his clients needed trust in moments like these.

“It’s a shock to see again,” Alyss said. She stayed seated and looked Will in the eye. “Different without the Aurora. It’s weird.” She inspected the abandoned windowless office as if recalibrating to reality. “Like I have no foundation.”

“Even so, you’re free,” Will said. “Can you feel it?” He was familiar with how most of his patients reacted when they gave up a need-fulfilling device and were left with an emotional black hole.

“I don’t know. It’s hard to tell what I’m feeling. It’s just weird. I used the Aurora for just about everything. Now, there’s nothing.”

“What’s it like, quitting the Aurora?”

“Part of me feels strong. The other part of me, not so much.”

“You’re trembling. I’m curious—”

“I am, aren’t I?” Alyss closed her eyes, and her face contorted. “I hate what the Aurora’s done to me. It fucks with my body.” She opened her blue eyes, tensed, and then stopped, as if self-conscious. “You wouldn’t know, would you? You’ve never had an Aurora.”

“No, and I don’t plan to,” Will said. “But what’s your experience? Hating something that was such an intimate part of your life.”

Alyss stared at him and sat on the edge of her chair. “It wasted my life. My parents forced me to get it when I was six so I could keep up with the other kids in school.” Likely this was Alyss’s third or fourth Aurora, as Cirrus made getting an upgrade affordable. Surgical robots in the back rooms of Aurora Stores implanted the devices with an impeccable record of safety, comfort, and convenience, and Cirrus sold most of their retail Auroras at or below cost. Conversely, removing Auroras legally without an upgrade was designed to be prohibitively expensive for many and wasn’t covered through insurance.

“But I’m tired of trying to keep up,” she said. “What’s the point?”

“Right. What is the point? How’d you snap out of it?” Will asked.

“Friends. When I first met them, I knew they were different, kind of like you—something in your eyes and the way you are. I wanted to be like that. When they told me they didn’t have Auroras, I began to question mine.” Alyss’s hands were shaking. “But it’s not going to be easy, is it? What the hell is going on?”

 “I’m guessing you’ve got some extra energy looking for a place to go. Can you let it go?” Will asked.

“Not sure.”

“Try it. Just see where it takes you.” Will gave her space, watching her with care and curiosity. “I’m right here with you.”

She rose from her seat and walked around, her hands clutching one another. Her eyes darted to and fro, as if looking at thoughts and mental images. She stopped walking, and her eyes focused on the graffiti-covered concrete wall before her. Slap! She released her tight hands, hitting the wall with palms, then fists, over and over, screaming as if exorcising demons until she collapsed and curled into a ball, sobbing.

Will sat next to her in support. He knew the transition was challenging. Depression, bipolar emotional swings, low self-esteem, social awkwardness, anxiety, memory loss, and irritability were some of the symptoms. Secretly, Will cherished these symptoms. He saw them as guides to how his clients could understand the world with greater depth. He wanted her to awaken to the unconfined possibilities of her life, beyond the pale of the Aurora’s insanity. Thinking of her future awakening, lightness danced through his body. This feeling compelled him to carry on, despite the dangers of his work.

“Thank you,” she said, wiping the tears. Her knuckles were bloody, but she didn’t seem concerned.

She’s been through far worse, Will thought. “You ready?” he said, looking toward the door.

“No,” she chuckled. “Is anyone ever?”

“Probably not. Just remember, the first days are always the hardest.” Will handed his client the Aurora. “Here.”

She examined the membrane-encased microchip. Will imagined her as someone meant to be born in another place and time, someone uncomfortable with the unraveling of the world. She’d seen through the sheen of the Aurora and taken the leap, even though life would undoubtedly be more challenging for her. At last, she stood, rolling the Aurora from her hand onto the concrete floor and crushing it under the sole of her leather boot.

“I’m sorry, Rose,” she muttered.

“Rose?”

“My Aurora Friend.” She fidgeted with her hands and looked toward the floor.

“You miss her?”

Her brow angled. “I know she’s not real,” she said. Alyss paused, and her brow relaxed. “But in a way, she was. She was like a best friend, there for me when I needed her, when I needed comfort. Anytime, actually.”

“It’s okay to miss her.”

“Is it? Doesn’t seem like it. It’s embarrassing.”

“What else?”

“I’m afraid,” she said. “But I’m ready to dance again.”

“I like your spirit,” Will said.

“Thank you,” she said, steadying her hands to pay him.

She slipped out the office door, revealing an unsanctioned dance party in a decrepit warehouse, complete with a DJ and light show. Will set the blindfold on the chair for the next client. Standard procedure. Practicing medicine without a license was a felony, and if a client saw his face or heard his voice during the procedure, the Aurora, ready to gather evidence, would see him as well. He picked up Alyss’s crushed Aurora and added it to six others on the table, a good night because of the dance party. But still, only seven. Though he knew he was helping, Will thought of the sheer number of Auroras in the world. I can’t change the world a few Auroras at a time. I need to do more. Much more. But how?

While sterilizing the long blade of his scalpel, he noticed several missed video calls from 12:34 a.m, and an encrypted peer-to-peer message, twenty-one minutes old, on his anachronistic cell phone: “Someone’s targeting Scalpels. I think it’s Cirrus. Call me ASAP. Ollie.”

In that moment, the Aurora assassin myth transformed to plausible reality and imminent threat, a life-changing event. The prime suspect was the largest company in the world by market capitalization, Cirrus, maker of the Aurora. His heart tightened. I’ve got to get out of here.

Putting on his black rain jacket, grabbing his scalpel, and forgetting everything else, he ran out the door into the dance hall, knocking down his next client. “Hey. Wait a second.”

But Will had already ducked to the right into the crowd. Stay aware, he thought. His eyes darted throughout the room. With hundreds of moving bodies surrounding him, everyone was a potential threat. His body tensed, and the dance hall seemed to envelop him. Stay inconspicuous. Will slid through the mass of dancers toward the nearest exit.

A broad-shouldered, bald-headed man pushed his way. For a second, their eyes met. Will froze. The man barreled through dancers toward him. Will detoured to find another exit and left the building into a cold, dark downpour. To his left, Lyman Street followed the curves of the French Broad River. To his right was the Asheville rail yard. Which way?

He dashed through a muddy parking lot and jumped over the coupler joining two still freight cars. Between two long trains, his pace slackened on the slick crushed ballast. Will turned around and saw the man, a distant silhouette aiming a gun his way.

Will ducked under a freight car. Bullets slapped into metal. For a second, he lay prone between the rails amid the creosote scent of crossties.

He ran across more tracks and crawled through a hole in a chain-link fence. In a woodland, he stumbled through briars, trash, and fallen branches knotted with kudzu vines. Two miles later, after weaving through neighborhoods toward downtown, he slowed to a walk in a neighborhood of old bungalows, postmodern eco homes, and multiplex apartments. At last, he found a covered bus stop and sat to rest. The streets were empty of people, and rainwater flowed into a gutter before him. At 1:18 a.m., he video-called Ollie, the IT manager for Asheville’s Scalpels, shielding the phone from the rain as he walked. “Will, I’m glad you’re okay,” Ollie answered, poorly lit from streetlights. A passing car’s headlights accentuated the middle-aged wrinkles and revealed his mixed Eurasian features.

“Are you okay, Dad?”

“I’m fine.” Oliver Robin said, turning to look behind him. 

Will imagined another assassin emerging from the darkness behind his father. “A man tried to kill me, Dad. He’s not following me anymore.”

“Are you sure? Now’s not the time to be careless,” his father said, turning his head once again.

“We should turn off the video if you’re being followed,” Will said, imagining the screen illuminating his father’s face in the darkness. He wondered how an assassin could have reached his father so soon. Was there more than one? Was his father being tracked?

“No. It’s fine. I don’t think I’m being followed.” he said, wiping dripping rainwater from his face. “I just wanted to see you.”

“Where are you?”

“In our neighborhood. Whatever you do, don’t come home tonight. Stay hidden.”

 Will’s heart sank in his chest. “What’s happening?”

“Maya sent me a warning message. I think she was targeted by an Aurora assassin.”

“Maya! No. She’s not dead. She can’t be. I have to find her.”

“I don’t know. She’s not replying. But don’t go. It’s too dangerous.”

“I have to go, Dad. I love you.” 

“No, don’t—.”

Will tapped End and tried video-calling Maya. No answer.

He made haste toward her West Asheville apartment just over two miles away as though the frigid rain didn’t exist. He ducked through a fence behind Asheville Middle School, passed a crowd emerging from a music hall, and crossed the brimming French Broad River on the main West Asheville thoroughfare, Haywood Avenue. A steep side street and stone stairs through a neighborhood park exhausted his legs, and he slowed his pace. At last, he reached her tiny apartment and knocked. No answer. He had a copy of her key, just in case. His heart pounded as he unlocked the door. Leaving the lights off so any hidden micro video cameras couldn’t film him, he waited until his eyes adjusted.

Papers were strewn on the floor. He checked her bedroom. Still no one. The dresser drawers gaped, vomiting Maya’s brassieres, pants, and blouses onto the floor. He noticed the absence of the electronic devices that were typically on her desktop. Even the large network computer was missing. That computer was one of many relays in an encrypted network that Scalpels and their allies used to maintain anonymity. Will’s heart sank, knowing that the data in those devices, if decrypted, could reveal the identity of more Scalpels and jeopardize their ability to communicate. No other anonymity networks were deemed safe, as NSA whistleblowers confirmed that the government could decloak virtually anyone’s identity at will.

He pictured the Aurora assassin murdering Maya just as she was removing someone’s chip in one of her usual haunts, then finding him and trying to kill him, too. So efficient. How? His head throbbed. Why them? Why now? Because we’re getting too good at this Scalpel thing.

He found her Scalpel supplies. Not daring to return to the abandoned warehouse office for the rest of his equipment, he took what he needed, slipping the supplies into his jacket with his scalpel. His phone rang—a voice-only call—startling him.

“Maya. You’re okay,” he said. “You scared the living piss out of me.”

“She’ll live,” a man’s deep voice said. “Just do what I say.”

“Let me speak to her.”

“No.”

“You’re lying. She’s dead,” Will said.

“You’re right,” the man said. “She is dead. I’ll kill your father, too, if you don’t follow my instructions.”

“Don’t kill him. I’ll do what you say,” Will replied, not knowing if the assassin knew of his father’s whereabouts

“Keep your phone on. Don’t contact your father or anyone else. I’ll call you back.”

The man hung up. I need to warn my father, Will thought, despite the assassin’s instructions. Leaving Maya’s home, he saw three police cruisers approaching.

Hiding in the shadows, he jumped a backyard chain-link fence and ran through a neighbor’s yard to a side street as the police stopped at Maya’s place.

Thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. The cold rain pounded his jacket as he sent an encrypted message to his father.

“The assassin is after you. Call me if you can. Where are you?” Will texted.

“Got it. I’m moving. I’ll meet you in Magnolia Park.”

Will checked the time—2:09 a.m. and made haste toward Magnolia Park, a couple of miles away in Montford, a nineteenth-century historic neighborhood north of downtown, where he lived with his father in a basement apartment. Water trickled from his hood through his kinky hair and goatee, down the inside of his jacket. His cotton pants were soaked, but all he could do was worry about his father and think of questions. Why isn’t he calling me? Is he still alive? The assassin used Maya’s phone, so there was no guarantee. What’s happening? What am I getting into?

Vehicle headlights blinded his hazel eyes as he walked up Clingman Avenue. Is that the police? No, he thought, sighing as the vehicle passed him. As more cars passed, he became conscious of how drivers perceived him, of who might be in the cars, judging him for his brown skin. Dressed in black, he held his head low, hiding his face with the hood, wanting to disappear. Will shuddered, imagining the faces of the white supremacists when they beat him, called him racial slurs, and left him for dead a few months ago. He traced the scar on his forehead and barely remembered falling to the ground and hitting the rock that knocked him unconscious. Now, I’m branded for life. In these moments, how he yearned for acceptance and peace. But neither ever happened. Instead, existential angst permeated his life. Anger welled up inside him, and he walked as though blind, caught in the trance of his thoughts.

Three blocks from Magnolia Park, 2:48 a.m., a call from his father jolted him from his trance. “Don’t come. It’s a trap,” he said, breathing heavily. “I just got away from the assassin. He was holding me hostage waiting for you, and he wasn’t going to let either of us live. He’s just behind me, somewhere.” The video jerked back and forth as his father ran.

“Dad, I’m on my way. Hide. We’ll meet up.”

On the other end of the line, the distinctive thwat, thwat, thwat of silenced gunshots followed by the phone striking the pavement shocked Will.

“Dad? You there…?”

No reply.

“Dad…? Dad…?”

“He’s dead,” the assassin’s voice said. “I told you not to talk with him, didn’t I? You’re lucky you got away, but you’re next.”

Without replying, Will shut down his phone. They were supposedly untrackable, but was he being tracked now? Or had the assassin intercepted their messages? How had the assassin found his father, after all? No time to mourn, he ran down a side street, noticing flashing police lights on an adjacent street. Wait. That’s my apartment.

Curious, he walked around the corner to police tape surrounding his apartment. Why were they there, just minutes after his father’s murder only a few blocks away? They know about us. Will thought about their relay computer used for the Scalpels’ encrypted network. That’s what they want, he imagined. An officer sat in a cruiser, and Will walked on the other side of the street, head still down, clenching his hands under the jacket sleeves not only to keep them warm but to hold back the rage and grief.

He pictured his father. And Maya—she was like a second mother.

Clear your mind. Walk normally. Don’t let them notice you. He thought of the police investigating the murders. There will never be any leads. Will knew Cirrus was above the law, having bought all the politicians. The government was addicted to the Aurora, which effortlessly pacified the masses to create a more stable society. What a joke.

Will’s legs ached after hours of running and walking, but he couldn’t stop, as he needed to find shelter. He roamed an older neighborhood near McCormick Field, home of the Asheville Tourists minor-league baseball team. At 4:35 a.m., rain turned to snow, but, at last, Will found a decrepit abandoned bungalow. He pushed through honeysuckle vines, pried back loose plywood with his frigid fingers, and stumbled through a window frame.

In the dim light, he wondered if anyone was squatting there. The floor creaked under his feet. Old graffiti covered the walls. In a corner, amidst glass shards, mementos sat in still life: a headless doll, a dog bowl speckled with rat feces, cigarette butts. Snow fell through gaping holes in the roof, covering rotten boards in the middle of the room. He removed his soaked clothes and squeezed out the water with numb, clumsy hands. He found a torn towel and sniffed it. He retched. At least it’s dry, he thought, wrapping himself in the towel to keep warm. His head bobbed from exhaustion, but to avoid more severe hypothermia, he walked around the perimeter of the room as if in a trance, warming his hands with his breath.

Two hours later, he collapsed to the floor as he welcomed fragmented sunbeams from holes in the boarded-up windows. The sunlight blinded his itchy eyes and captured dust motes in motion, warming his body somewhat until, at last, he fell into a deep sleep.