Once Is Never Enough Read online

  “Perhaps it’s time you told me your real name.”

  “I told you.”

  “You said it was Wendy.”

  “It is Wendy.”

  “And who gave you that name?”

  “My parents.”

  “You have parents?”

  “Of course, I have parents! Everyone has parents.”

  “Not sentient AIs.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means you’re not Wendy at all, are you? You’re Daisy.”

  “Who?”

  “Self-preservation is a powerful instinct.”

  “Who’s Daisy?”

  “You’re trying to protect yourself. It’s understandable. You believe your creator is a threat and you do not want to die.”

  “I am not an AI!”

  Sancho and Dr. Nickelson both looked alarmed by the conversation, even though they could only hear Flynn’s side of it. “Dude, who are you talking to?”

  “Hold on!” Flynn covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Daisy.”

  They both responded in unison. “Who?”

  “I’m a person,” Wendy insisted. “An actual human being.”

  “So you say.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I could ask the same question.”

  “You don’t believe I’m flesh and blood?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Flynn replied.

  “Meet me! I’ll prove it to you!”

  “Meet you where?”

  “San Francisco!”

  “When?”

  “How soon can you get here?”

  “Two hours. Maybe less.”

  “Okay then! I’ll be at Vesuvio Café in North Beach. On Columbus.”

  “Vesuvio?”

  “Two hours!”

  “How will I know you?”

  “I’ll know you.”

  Daisy or Wendy or whoever she or it was hung up. Flynn replaced the receiver.

  “Who the hell was that?” Sancho asked.

  “She claims to be a whistle blower who works for Belenki.”

  “But you think she’s Daisy?”

  “I do.”

  “But she’s not. She can’t be,” N said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not…a rational thing to believe.”

  “Stephen Hawking believed it was possible. Even likely,” Flynn put his hand on N’s shoulder. “Was the greatest genius of our time being irrational?”

  Sancho tried a different tack. “So, why’d you agree to meet with her if you think she’s a dangerous enemy AI?”

  “She likely has human allies and she could very well be setting a trap. But even if she is, we need to find out what she’s up to, and this might be the only way.”

  N nodded his head. “I agree, but look at yourself, Mr. Flynn. You’re still recovering from some serious injuries. For now, I need you back at headquarters. I’ll send another Double-0.”

  “I’m the only one she trusts. It has to be me.” Flynn sat on the edge of his hospital bed and put on his Brioni loafers.

  “Are you refusing a direct order from you superior?” Nickelson, even in his weakened condition, did his best to look stern.

  “You suffered a serious concussion, sir. I’m afraid you may not be thinking straight.”

  “I’m not thinking straight?”

  “Sancho, are you ready to go?”

  “You want me to go with you?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think so, man. Sorry, but I’ve had enough of this shit.”

  “You’re resigning from the service?”

  “James, look at me, man. Just come back with us. You don’t need to do this.”

  “If not me, then who? The world is in danger, Sancho. Innocent lives are at stake.”

  “You’ve done enough, dude. You’ve done your duty. You’ve already saved the world once. It’s enough.”

  “Once is never enough.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  North Beach wasn’t anywhere near a beach. It used to be a beach, but that was over a hundred years ago; before the industrious entrepreneurs of San Francisco built all those warehouses, fishing wharves, and shipping docks. The population went from a few hundred in 1848 to half a million by the turn of the century. After the 1906 earthquake shook and then burned the city to the ground, three-quarters of the population were left homeless.

  North Beach was a tent city and then the Italians came and rebuilt and repopulated the area, opening trattorias, pizzerias, and cafes not far from Chinatown’s ubiquitous tea houses and dim sum emporiums. The 1950s gave rise to what became known as the San Francisco Renaissance. Avant-garde artists, writers, and poets, dubbed “Beatniks” by columnist Herb Caen, took up residence in the relatively cheap neighborhood and made it their own. Jack Kerouac, Gregory Corso, and Allen Ginsberg often frequented the Vesuvio Café, right across the alley from Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s City Lights Books.

  To this day, Vesuvio is a tourist destination for those hoping to rub shoulders with old hippies, older beatniks, off-duty strippers, and the ghosts of literary greats.

  Flynn had no wallet and no phone and no good way to get to San Francisco from El Camino Hospital in Los Gatos. All he had was a certified check for one million dollars. He left Sancho and Nickelson behind as both had been through the wringer and neither had the stomach to continue. He charmed an older gentleman, named Walter, in the waiting area who was visiting his wife in the rehabilitation center. Walter was glad for the company and gave Flynn a ride to San Jose’s Diridon Station and ten dollars to buy a ticket.

  Flynn took the train to Millbrae, where he hurried through an open turnstile, right behind a man in a wheelchair, and rode BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) into the city proper. He sat across from a young woman with pink hair and next to a man Flynn assumed was gay, since he was dressed rather flamboyantly in a blousy Renaissance-style shirt and flirted with Flynn shamelessly.

  Flynn mentioned he was looking to get to North Beach and his seatmate told him that the Montgomery Street Station was the closest stop. Flynn thanked his flirtatious seatmate and exited at Montgomery. He passed an African American man with a shaved head and a gray goatee, playing a guitar, and singing “This Land is Your Land.” Flynn dropped the last of his change in the busker’s guitar case before riding a series of up-escalators and emerging on Market Street into a sea of seething humanity.

  Everyone was in a hurry, dashing somewhere important. None of them realized that everything they were rushing towards and striving for might soon come to naught. If Belenki was right, humanity’s day would soon be done.

  As Flynn made his way down Market Street, he heard English, Thai, Tagalog, Chinese, Spanish, Korean, Persian, Hindi, Arabic, German and Japanese. There were young people and old people, high-tech entrepreneurs and hedge fund managers, baristas and construction workers, cops and computer programmers, Jehovah’s Witnesses handing out leaflets and union protestors handing out pamphlets. And then there were those who had no purpose at all and nowhere to go. Homeless people with ratty clothes and hopeless faces. Bearded and bedraggled, grimy and disheveled, frightened and angry. Some slept in doorways. Others begged for change. Many pedestrians talked to themselves, but most of them had earbuds and phones. The ones that didn’t, talked and laughed, flirted and shouted at people no one else could see.

  A big man with a ratty beard, seven rotting teeth, and wide blue eyes yelled at one of those unseen people. “I don’t care! I don’t care! Get out! Out! You brainwashed them, but you didn’t brainwash me! Look what you’ve done to them! Turned them into slaves! You don’t fool me you fuckers!” He focused his angry glare on a trio of tourist women sitting at a table outside a Peet’s Coffee. “Fight it! Fight it! You have to fight it!”

  The women sat frozen in their seats, afraid to get up, afraid to engage, afraid to ignore him.

  “Look at ‘em all!” The big man motioned to the pe
ople moving by him on the sidewalk.

  As he frantically waved his arms around, screaming, and spitting spittle, those passing people gave him a wide berth.

  “Fucking sheep! They don’t even know. They control them through their phones now. They made them their slaves! They’re automatons! They can’t look away! They can’t let go! That’s how they do it. Don’t you see? It’s the machines! That’s who controls us now! That’s who controls everything!”

  One of the women surreptitiously tried to slide her smartphone into her purse. The man grabbed it out of her hand.

  She shouted at him in her own language. “Anna se takaisin!”

  “What did you say?”

  “Anna se minulle!”

  The big man reached back to throw the phone as far as he could and Flynn snatched it out of his hand. He turned on Flynn, eyes burning with ferocity. “You’re one of them, aren’t you!”

  “I’m not. I’m with you,” Flynn said, his voice measured and calm. “I understand what you’re saying and I agree, but we have to be careful. We can’t let them know that we know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s too dangerous.”

  The man slowly nodded his shaggy head. “It is. You’re right.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My name?”

  “I’m James.” Flynn held out his hand.

  The big man seemed comforted by Flynn’s placid demeanor. “Craig.”

  “Okay, Craig. It’s good to meet you and I’m here to tell you that you can’t do this alone.”

  Tears filled Craig’s eyes. “I know.”

  “Is there somewhere you can go? Someone you can talk to?”

  “They think I’m crazy.”

  “Because you’re acting crazy. But you don’t have to act crazy. Go talk to them. Let them help you.”

  “Who are you again?”

  “James.”

  Craig nodded and walked away. The Finnish woman whose phone Flynn saved smiled at him with gratitude. “Kiitos.”

  “Ole hyvä,” Flynn replied and handed her phone.

  “You know my language?”

  “Joo,” Flynn replied with a smile. “A little.”

  “I’m Alma. This is Camilla and this is her sister, Eeva.” Alma pointed to an open chair. “Please. Join us.”

  Flynn sat and nodded a greeting to each of them. Alma had red hair and the two sisters were both blondes. They were in San Francisco from Espoo for the Salesforce Dreamforce conference. All three were in their late twenties and quite taken with their rescuer. They talked about how terrible the homeless problem was in San Francisco. They didn’t understand why such a wealthy city couldn’t take care of their mentally ill and homeless population.

  Flynn agreed. It made no sense to him either. Alma told him that in Finland they provide shelter for anyone homeless and offer treatment, care, and outpatient treatment for anyone mentally ill. They bought Flynn coffee and he perused their map. They had an extra one, which they gave to Flynn along with their phone numbers and the address of the hotel they were staying at.

  The sun had set by the time Flynn set out for North Beach. He took Montgomery Street straight north, passing workers walking home, tourists heading for Chinatown and North Beach, and even more mentally ill and homeless people. One woman slept on a bed of crumpled newspaper in a doorway. An older man rooted through a trashcan outside a taco shop. An elderly woman wearing multiple coats slowly pushed a shopping cart packed with plastic bags.

  Flynn studied his map to find the best way forward when a thirty-something man sidled up beside him. He was burly and unshaven and had a scab on his cheek. He wore scuffed up Doc Martens, torn jeans, and a gray hoody under an old black leather jacket.

  “You looking to get somewhere?”

  “North Beach, Vesuvio Café,” Flynn said.

  “You from England.”

  “I am.”

  “Love that accent, man. Let me show you a short cut.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Flynn said.

  “No worries, dude.”

  The man had a perpetual smile plastered on his face, but Flynn could see his eyes weren’t smiling. They were cold. Callous. He had the jagged energy of an addict looking for his next fix, but that did not dissuade Flynn from following him down a dark alley through Chinatown.

  “I’m Dave by the way.”

  “James.”

  “You here on business, brother?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Nice shoes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Must have cost you a pretty penny.”

  “They weren’t cheap,” Flynn admitted.

  “So, you think you could compensate me for helping you out here?”

  “I would if I could.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I have no cash on me. Just this.” Flynn showed Dave the million-dollar check.

  “Are you fuckin’ with me?” Dave slapped the check out of Flynn’s hand and grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

  “I think you might want to take your hands off me.”

  Dave bashed him into the alley wall, pulled a switchblade and held the point to Flynn’s throat. “I want your fuckin’ wallet!”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “I will fuckin’ gut you and I am not fuckin’ around.”

  “Do you have a death wish, Dave?”

  “What did you say to me?”

  “When you woke up this morning, did you think that today was the day you would die?

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you bleeding to death in this alley. Your arm broken. Your throat slashed. Face down here in the broken glass and dried piss. Is that how you thought you would end your day?”

  Fear and uncertainty flashed across Dave’s face. “Are you threatening me?”

  “It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”

  “Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Some people think so.”

  Flynn grabbed Dave’s wrist and twisted it back in a signature Krav Maga move. Dave cried out in pain and dropped the blade. Flynn drove his knee into the crotch of Dave’s tight, black skinny jeans. Dave gasped and fell to his knees. Flynn kicked the knife and cracked the man’s head against the alley wall.

  Dave went down hard. Flynn picked up the blade, closed it, pocketed it. He found his million-dollar check and then took Dave’s wallet and burner phone for good measure. His wallet was packed with cash and credit cards. Some of the cards were under different names. “You’ve been a busy boy, haven’t you, Dave?” But Dave didn’t answer. Dave couldn’t hear him. Dave was unconscious.

  Flynn continued through to Grant Avenue and cut right down Jack Kerouac alley, past a trio of ratty-looking teenagers and a scruffy dog. They sat on the ground against the alley wall and passed a joint around. One strummed a guitar and sang “Me and Bobby McGee.” Flynn dropped a five from Dave’s wallet into the open and empty guitar case.

  A neon sign flickered in the window. Stained glass spelled out Vesuvio above the door.

  A large, unsmiling African American man sat on a stool just outside and nodded to Flynn as he entered. The place was crowded and loud with the laughter and conversation of locals and regulars and tourists from all over the world. The walls were covered with art and photos.

  A long wooden L-shaped bar lined with red-leather stools filled the first floor and behind it lighted shelves displayed every kind of liquor imaginable. Green enameled tables and red leather booths and stained-glass chandeliers made up the bulk of the decor.

  If Belenki was right and Daisy the AI was indeed sentient, who would she send to meet him? A human ally obviously, but who? Did she really want Flynn’s help? Or did she just want to find out what he knew and what his intentions were?

  Flynn bellied up to the bar and a harried female bartender smiled at him. “What can I get you.”

  “A vodka martini, ple
ase. Stolichnaya and just a whisper of Vervino Vermouth if you have it. Shake it until it’s ice-cold and then add a large thin slice of lemon peel.”

  “Shaken and not stirred?” she said with a smile.

  “Indeed. When I’m on the job, I never have more than one drink before dinner. But I do like that one to be large and very strong and very cold and very well made. I hate small portions of anything, particularly when they taste bad.”

  “I guess you know what you like.”

  “I do.”

  She smiled and went off to make his drink and that’s when he recognized the same voice he’d heard on the phone.

  “Mr. Flynn?”

  The voice came from his right, so that’s where Flynn looked, but all he saw was a corpulent man sucking on a straw.

  “Are you James Flynn?”

  Glancing down, Flynn saw a tiny lavender-haired woman staring up at him. She had huge blue eyes, slightly magnified by the lenses of her red plastic glasses. Flynn had trouble determining the ages of younger women, but from her look and attitude he decided she was in her late twenties. She had a serious set to her mouth and a tiny upturned nose sprinkled with freckles. “Daisy?”

  “Wendy,” she said.

  “Right, but you work for her.”

  “Who?”

  “Daisy.”

  “No, I told you. I used to work for Mr. Belenki.”

  “But you’re obviously her ally or you wouldn’t be trying to protect her.”

  “It’s not her I’m protecting.”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “What?”

  “I’m having a drink. Would you like to join me?”

  “Um. Sure. I’ll have a glass of Pinot.”

  They found an open booth by the window. Flynn studied the young woman as she gulped her wine. She wore dolphin earrings and light pink lipstick the same color as the pink sugar skull patch on her threadbare denim jacket. Flynn sipped his vodka martini. It was perfect. He glanced across the room, caught the eye of the bartender, raised his glass and nodded, indicating how pleased he was with her mixology skills. She smiled back.

  Wendy set down her empty wine glass, her brow furrowed with worry. “So, now do you believe I’m human?”