1
San Francisco
December 1, 2026
Alainn stepped on the brake pedal of her vintage convertible and hoped, this time, it would listen to her.
Vintage. That was what the used-car-sales automaton had called the little white car. Three hours later, she was learning that “vintage” meant “death trap.”
The convertible jolted to a stop inches from the intimidating steel door that blocked off the underground parking garage. The building itself rose up in a sleek square column. Its glass exterior reflected nothing. No sheen or glare ran across its surface—as if light was anathema to the tower.
The electronic screen that almost spanned the length of her car lit up. A soothing monotonous voice called, “Please state your purpose.” In perfect sync with the voice, the same words scrolled across the screen in crisp, black letters.
Alainn’s window made a god-awful screech and creak as it slowly rolled down. Screech, creak, repeat. Halfway down, it stuck.
“Ugh.”
The convertible tried to slip downhill, so she shifted it into park and pulled up on the emergency brake.
The engine immediately died.
“Crap,” she mumbled, jiggling the key in the ignition.
The car made not a whisper of a stutter.
“Do not use profanity. State your purpose directly.”
“Okay.” Climbing to her knees, Alainn leaned out over the half-open window. “Um, hi. My name is Alainn Murphy. I’m here to talk to Mr. Garbhan, if he’s available?”
“Please type your e-mail address into the screen, and then leave your message.”
“Can I actually talk to him in person?”
“I’m sorry, he is unavailable at the moment. If you leave a message for him here, someone will be sure to get back to you.” A keyboard surfaced on the screen.
“Actually, well . . . The thing is, I’m Connor Murphy’s daughter. I’ve been trying to call and e-mail for a while now, and I’m not getting any response. Can I just talk to him over you—I mean over the monitoring system? Or, could I come in? It would just take a second. Please?”
“The answer is no, Miss Murphy. Please leave a message.”
“Fine,” she grumbled as she extended her arm to type in her e-mail address.
“Please record your message now,” the voice said. Then there was an almost-melodic beep.
“Okay. As I said, my name is Alainn Murphy, Connor Murphy’s daughter. The Rose 76GF is ready, but my father needs to put the finishing touches on her. It’s taking a little longer than expected. And the probation department said if you’re willing to defer the restitution, it’s okay with them. Please, he just needs a little more time. Ideally a month, but any amount would be greatly appreciated—”
The soft white of the screen blurred, and the image of a man appeared. More exactly, the vision of a suit appeared. All that showed of the man himself was his torso. It was a nice suit, dark blue and a little gleaming, as if direct light shone on him.
“Hello? Are you Mr. Garbhan? I think maybe your camera is tipped down?”
“Miss Murphy—”
“Please, call me Alainn.”
“The answer, Miss Murphy, is no.” His voice was a jagged shard of ice—cold, hard, and sharp. It cut straight through Alainn.
She closed her eyes. “Mr. Garbhan, I get why you’re angry. You’ve been more than generous with us. He’s not a bad person. He pled guilty. He’s following all the terms of his probation . . . This isn’t like six months ago. He can fix her programming—”
“The answer, Miss Murphy, is no.”
The screen dissolved back to soft white. Crisp, black letters and a soft, dispassionate voice told her, “Please remove your vehicle from the premises. Now.”
“Ugh!” Alainn cried out. “Really? Really? You couldn’t treat me like a human being for one damn second?”
She tried the key again. Nothing. Turning it hard in the ignition, she slammed her foot on the gas pedal. She had no idea why she thought it might help, but it didn’t do anything. Neither did pumping the gas.
Vintage obviously also meant “scrap metal.”
“Please remove your vehicle from the premises now, before a tow truck is called. You will be charged for the tow, or your car will be impounded.”
“Wow. Just wow.”
No matter how hard Alainn turned the key, the car refused to start. Finally, the convertible spoke to her: click, click, click. The starter.
“The tow truck has been called and will be arriving in ten minutes.”
Alainn had already grown to despise that soothing, disembodied voice.
There was one way to start a car with a busted starter, a method Alainn used when she and her coworker Cherry found abandoned cars. Unfortunately, it took two people. Pulling out a bobby pin, she let her messy dark hair fall into her face. Using her teeth, she bent the bobby pin. A metallic tang filled her mouth. Her molars complained, but they bent the metal into the right shape. She hooked the bobby pin through the hole in the head of the key, stuck the end of it under the plastic dashboard, and, by some miracle, it stayed.
As the engine tittered with a rhythmic clicking, she tried the reluctant handle to the car’s trunk. It opened.
“Thank all that’s holy!”
Glancing inside, she hooked a finger under the dirty carpet liner—only to find that the car had no spare. It did, however, have a rusty, chipped tire iron. Wrapping a fist around it, she moved to the front of the car.
“You have three minutes until the tow truck arrives. Please remove your vehicle.”
“Got it!”
Yanking up the hood until it stuck open, Alainn hefted up the tire iron with both hands and hit the starter as hard as she could. When nothing happened, she rammed it several more times.
The engine turned over.
Slamming down the hood, she jumped into her car, threw it in reverse, and shut the door as she pushed her foot on the gas pedal. In the rearview mirror, the trunk swung up and down.
Her car made a loud, screeching protest. A black cloud of smoke fired from the tailpipe as Alainn reversed into the private-inlet alley. A large yellow tow truck turned into the alley right as she drove out of it. The automaton driver pulled to the side, letting her pass.
“No need for a tow truck!” Alainn yelled.
With another black cloud backfiring its farewell, her piece of scrap metal turned back onto the city street.