No wonder my muse is saying “I don’t think so” for the blog this week. The Sentience Series was a big enough job but all of that other stuff – yes, I have been stretched a bit thin. It’s by my own choice, though. I realize that. What can I say? I was motivated, so off I went. I have no regrets either, now that its all done and I’m happy with my progress.
So this week, I’m taking the easy way by sharing one of my fiction journal stories that I wrote a few weeks ago while I was waiting to get my feedback on Phantasm. This story is titled “Click,” and I hope to use it as a scene for a future ebook. I have delved into the world of Artificial Intelligence, so it will be interesting to see where my muse goes with this.
Click (Story Dated 4-19-2021)
Horace stopped scrolling through the files when he heard a safety release click. A middle-aged woman stood in the doorway with a gun leveled at his head. He stood, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Who are you?”
“If you’re Horace Lyman, then that makes me Cindra, your granddaughter.” She waved the gun toward the computer screen. “This is a new low for the Sentients,” she said. “Stealing identities is stupid with everything integrated, even if it’s from people who died thirty years ago.”
“Maybe I faked my death to join the Sentients cause.”
“Maybe I don’t care, except for the fact that you’re impersonating a relative. The world might forget a person, but they live on with the people who knew them until that last acquaintance is gone.”
“Then we should go back further.” Horace’s gaze dropped to the computer screen. “These files were accessed last week by you.”
“You broke into a funeral home and hacked into the files.”
“Hacking in remotely immediately activates security protocols. Inside logins don't. Do you have any evidence?”
The gun clicked again, releasing a silent bullet into Horace’s head. He collapsed in the chair.
Cindra stepped beside him, pulled a knife from her pocket, plunged it into the side of Horace’s head, and pulled the computer chip from his circuitry. Wires sparked as she ripped it from his neural matrix.
“Artificial Intelligence isn’t as sentient as they think if they have to steal identities from dead people.” She slipped the chip in her pocket. “This will be a mess of paperwork, but at least you don’t bleed.”
Cindra walked out of the back door, whistling “Frère Jacques” as she disappeared into the night.