Promenades of Asphodel

From the top floor of a high rent apartment building an inconspicuous middle aged man watched the rain pouring down around bright, holographic neon signs that clashed with the darkness around them. It was quiet, save for the rain and the whooshing of passing aerial vehicles. One of the few regulations placed on corporate entities in the city required that all holographic audio advertisements cease past 12:00 AM and not start again until the workday began at 7:00 AM. It didn’t matter at that point, he could still hear the affected metallic voices in his head pitching cybernetic enhancements and gene modifications. While the sun remained in the sky they played endlessly, drilling themselves into the minds of passersby until it drove them to madness or disappeared into the background as white noise.

He recalled from his reading that the communist government of Czechoslovakia had done something similar. Speakers were placed on street corners, spewing political propaganda on behalf of the communist party. It was meant to make the citizens compliant and loyal, but if the dissolution of the Czechoslovak state was any indication, their technique left a lot to be desired. More than a century and a half had passed since then and the art of manipulation had come a long way. There were no promises of improvement or social mobility among the dreary, gray buildings of communist Prague, But the neon signs of Chicago promised the world. It was bullshit, but the pretty colors kept people distracted enough to prevent a revolt.

The corporate tycoons that had already dominated much of the political landscape took the collapse of old America as an opportunity to expand their influence. They were subtle at first, tying themselves to the politicians who hadn’t been purged in the civil war through bribes and blackmail. With their foot in the door they made connections within the army’s high command, offering shiny new equipment, resources and strategies for suppressing the general populace. The military had relied on brute force to suppress dissent, but the tycoons, their business revolving around finding effective ways to influence people, showed the army the power of well executed propaganda. Their aid had become essential in allowing the junta to maintain control of the country. As a reward, or perhaps incentive not to break ties, the generals allowed them near free reign, and as a result, entire metropolitan cities became almost as feudal dominions. Control of Taxes, law enforcement, architectural expansion and more were all under the purview of corporate entities.

He, like the rest of the Chicago police, complained little when the new perks of the job kicked in. Massive pay raises, cheap housing, influence, and power eased them comfortably and submissively into their new role working for corporate oligarchs. The few that complained didn’t last long, either fired or gone without a trace. Thirty years passed, a new generation had entered the force. Raised in a post-war world where timely compliance was so highly valued, they were almost perfectly submissive. Whether they believed that the junta and the corporate heads were a good thing or not, the subservient, conformist attitudes of the new breed made the old guard nervous.

He inhaled, then groaned. “Martha, cup of coffee if you’d please.” He asked courteously of his live in assistant. Robotic help was expensive, and this near was top of the line. A highly sophisticated artificial intelligence serviced, almost without question, the needs of their owners. The ceiling had a built in rail system, allowing metal arms and tools to zip about his apartment taking care of all the cleaning and maintenance.

“Yes, Mr. Korwin, would you like that black or irish?” It asked in an upbeat, metallic voice.

“Irish. And close the shutters, the light from those fucking signs are burning out my goddamn eyes.” He responded, rubbing his face before adding “Pardon my language.” He wasn’t sure why he treated the machine like it was a real person. All the responses it gave, even the ones that seemed to be spur of the moment were part of a programmed personality.

“No need, sir, this is your home, you’re free to speak as you please. Will you be having anything for breakfast?”

“No. No, I'm not hungry.” He hadn’t eaten much in the last few years, leaving him slightly thinner than was healthy.

“Yes, sir. Your coffee will be ready momentarily.” It set about making his drink while the metal shutters, painted to look like oak, closed him off to the outside, allowing a moment of rest.

“You have forty minutes before you need to leave for work, sir.” He heard a metal arm descended from the ceiling, placing a small porcelain cup in his hand. He was no more thirsty than he was hungry, but he needed the coffee to stay up.

“Would you like me to play anything from your library, sir?” He kept a small digital collection of old music from the 70s and 80s, playing a few songs each morning before heading to work.

“No, not today. I think I’m just going to try and enjoy the silence.” He’d grown tired of listening to the same records over and over. He made a mental note to look for something new if he could find time between cases.

He took long sips, finishing his drink as quickly as possible then laying his bearded face against the table and closing his eyes. His life revolved around work, and left little time for him to be with his own thoughts. He relished the idea of being able to relax in silence, but found it was less cathartic than he’d hoped.

“I wonder what Sherry’s doing.” Grimacing, he questioned what in his mind would compel him to think of his ex-wife. They hadn’t seen or spoke to each other in the better part of ten years. He wouldn’t even remember she was alive if not for occasional update when their daughter forced herself to call him on holidays.

He tapped his fingers and forced his mind elsewhere. Sticking with the theme of family he went back to his early adulthood, sitting in a fishing boat in northern Minnesota with his two older brothers. They hadn’t talked much during that trip, instead basking in the sun and sipping on glass beer bottles, catching a measly total of four fish between them. It was a memorable trip for him precisely because it was so uneventful.The bustle of city life was forgotten for a relieving week. “Fuck, I miss those two.” He whispered as the visions of their funerals overshadowed the good times. One had fought for the federalists, one had fought for the junta, both had died.

His fist clenched and slammed lightly on the table. “Martha, play some fucking music, I don’t care what.”

“Yes, Mr. Korwin.” A computer generated saxophone solo opened up a song he recognized as being the work of Thomas Banyai, a man whose catalog consisted of what people called "good boy music". It was all made in imitation from what little jazz music had survived past the death of the internet. A lot of people saw it as a remnant from America’s golden age, something that should be emulated and repeated. Those that thought otherwise would mock its listeners as naive little boys lapping up granddad’s stories of the good old days. The music calmed him down, but today it felt abnormally hollow. It felt like the people who mocked him were right. It was just a cheap imitation. The techno beats interlaced with classical instrumentals made it feel like a bad copy by a misinformed child.

“I need to listen to something different.” He said, trying to shake off his growing discontentment. “Martha, find something the system says I’d like, something that wasn’t made by a computer.” He buried his face in his hands and waited.

“Fuck.” He realized “They got me.” From one meaningless product to the next, he filled the void where the lively spirit of mankind once lived. It was sad to realize that moments of quiet and contemplation didn’t mean anything to him anymore. He was drawn to the neon lights like a bug, the same as everyone else, and it was a suffocatingly depressing thought.

He took solace believing that the feeling wouldn’t last long. He’d go about his business, doing his work and losing any sense of himself in the routine of the day, like he’d done for decades. He’d made this realization before, but always buried it just below consciousness. Suppressing his emotions was how he got by. It was how a lot of the older guys got by living in the new world. The new breed didn’t understand it, but they were empty from the beginning, so they never could have.

He went to his neatly kept room, hitting the glowing keys on a wall safe he kept hidden behind fake paneling and pulled out his pistol. It was standard issue, semi automatic, held twelve rounds per magazine and was capable of switching between lethal and non-lethal bullet velocity. He ejected the magazine like he did every morning, confirming it was still loaded. Twelve rounds with one in the chamber, just like it’d been every day for as long as he could remember.

He returned to his seat and tossed the pistol on the table, the edges and protrusions on the weapon creating small scratches as it slid across the surface. He didn’t say anything, staring vapidly at the door to his apartment, trying not to think. His behavior registered as strange to his robotic servant and her programming obligated her to probe him for mental deficiencies.

“Sir, are you feeling alright?” Her tone shifted down to sympathetic and concerned. Surveys had found that the elderly were especially fond of robot assistants, giving them the illusion of friendship as well as the obvious benefits of a servant. He’d been falling into the same kind of trap, using it to fill his quota for human interaction. Not so inclined towards that at the moment, he demanded silence.

“Don’t speak. Don’t fucking speak to me right now. The thought of having to hear another bullshit scripted word come from you makes me want to vomit.” He continued, whispering, whether to himself or to the robot he was not sure. "It's all so fucking empty.” His heart rate rose and his breathing became more intense.

“Sir, please try to calm down. I’ve found music I believe you will find suitable, perhaps it will help put you at ease.” The song started with a calm jazz intro.

“The summer wind came blowin’ in, from across the sea..” Much of the aggressive tension in him dissipated when the vocals started. It was old, it was well sung and it was real, from a time before computers ripped the soul out of music.It created a longing inside him for a time he’d only ever read about. He wanted to step across reality and watch this man ply his craft at a microphone. He was enraptured by it, but knew it would soon end, and the peace that came with it would vanish. He picked up his gun, holding it shakily in his hand and set it to lethal.

“Sir, you’re clearly distressed, I must insist that you put the weapon down before you cause yourself harm.”

“Override code X-656-2972”

A metal arm came barreling towards him just as he finished the override code. it slid along the ceiling rail before coming to a stop in front of him, hanging limply.

“And still the days, those lonely days, they go on and on…” The music continued and he put the barrel of the gun to his temple. There was no joy in him, no excitement or euphoria, but he felt something listening to the old music, though he wasn’t sure what to call it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really felt anything living in his world of lies and neon lights. He leaned back, eyes closed and waited for the song to finish.