Our Dependence on Foreign Keys
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About this ebook
When high-tech partycrashers swarm his exclusive soirée high above the floodways of New York City, billionaire inventor Pell Franziskaner can't be sure whether it's a garden-variety annoyance or a prelude to murder. His own.
Environment, economics, and augmented reality collide in this tale of reputation, revenge, and artificial intelligences so advanced they run directly on the fabric of spacetime.
William Shunn
William Shunn is the author of the acclaimed 2015 memoir The Accidental Terrorist: Confessions of a Reluctant Missionary. Since his first publication in 1993, his short fiction has appeared in Salon, Storyteller, Bloodstone Review, Newtown Literary, Asimov's Science Fiction, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Science Fiction Age, Realms of Fantasy, Electric Velocipede, and various anthologies and year's-best collections. His work has been shortlisted for the Hugo Award, the Nebula Award, the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award, and the Association for Mormon Letters Award. His chapbook An Alternate History of the 21st Century appeared from Spilt Milk Press in 2007, and his novella Cast a Cold Eye, written with Derryl Murphy, came out from PS Publishing in 2009. He lives and writes in New York City.
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Our Dependence on Foreign Keys - William Shunn
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this work are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
This work first appeared online in two parts in Across the Margin, April 30 and May 1, 2015.
Copyright © 2015, 2017 by William Shunn
All rights reserved
eBook Edition
ISBN-13: 978-1-941-92847-9
ISBN-10: 1-941-92847-1
Cover photograph by Tomáš Šereda/Bigstock
Author photograph by Alison Pitt
Sinister Regard
New York
Table of Contents
Our Dependence on Foreign Keys
About the Author
Also by William Shunn
Our Dependence on Foreign Keys
Fran needed a drink. Forty people. That’s all it was supposed to be. Instead there were eighty-seven, and that was just in the living room. One of whom might want to murder him.
But instead of heading to the autobar, he pinged Hondo again. The situation here’s out of hand, big guy,
he subvocalized. Where are you?
The cursor on the Pet’s secure feed continued to blink. Was Hondo giving him the silent treatment because of the party crashers or was something more sinister up?
Fran took off his retro, wood-framed spex and rubbed the bridge of his nose. I feel like an interloper in my own apartment,
he said. He had to bellow over the noise and music.
It’s a great party, Franny,
Kareem Foster said, sounding amused. The crowd had them both backed up against the wall.
The nickname made Fran grit his teeth, but he let it slide. His friends didn’t seem to care that he hated it. You’re the planner,
Fran said. "You have to say that."
Kareem had secured the sponsorships, designed the environments, crafted the terms and conditions, and laid in all the supplies. The work was far beneath Kareem’s molecular biology training, but since neither of them could work in that field any longer, Fran liked to help him stay busy.
You know I’m the harshest critic of my own work,
Kareem said. Just relax and enjoy this, Franny. I remember when you would have killed for attention like this.
Kareem was right. Fran craved fame but it always seemed to elude him, and even had when he’d been involved in the biggest corporate lawsuit in the country.
Maimed, maybe,
he said. "But look at everyone. They don’t even have room to take their life jackets off. Where did they all come from?"
Water taxis,
Kareem said, brushing back his dreads.
Um, before that.
Jersey City?
Fran sagged. Jesus. There go the last tatters of my reputation.
Kareem patted him on the shoulder. "Don’t worry, man. Most people here don’t know the first thing about you, let alone the name of your big invention. You have no reputation."
Frowning, Fran surveyed his jam-packed living room. People of all colors and genders holding drinks jostled one another in Brownian motion, bulky with their personal floatation devices on, their voices drowning out the electronic soundtrack. More kept trickling up from the jetty downstairs, accepting the terms and conditions with barely a glance, choosing an environment from the menu, and following the party’s meandering jet stream to the autobar. It was a huge apartment by East Village standards—completely rehabbed from what