Brian Cassander shivered halfway through his sales pitch for the Delphi, momentarily losing his train of thought.
“Excuse me,” he said, covering his hesitation with a cough and a quick shake of his head.
He could feel the eyes of the client – well, potential client – on him as he blinked rapidly, stretching his fingers and cracking his knuckles, like a man slipping back into the folds of his own skin. He had the feeling that he had done this before. Which was, of course, technically true. He was the top salesperson (regional, but still) in 2033, ’34, and, with any luck, ’35. He could pitch the device in his sleep.
“You want water?” The client asked, the words heavily accented.
Arsalan Mirzayi, owner and proprietor of Mirzayi Diamonds, had been all smiles and waves when he thought Brian was a customer, but ever since the sales pitch for the Delphi started, Arsalan’s composure had hardened. Seeing Brian cough, his bushy black eyebrows drew together, as if he suspected this were some clever sales tactic to get sympathy.
Brian blinked. Took a breath, shook his head one more time, then smiled. “Sorry, where was I?”
Arsalan’s eyes remained narrowed but, after a heavy pause, he said: “you were telling me about the device.”
“The Delphi, yes,” Brian smiled and, just like that, he was back on track. Giving Arsalan the bird’s-eye view of how the Delphi worked. Avoiding phrases like “predict the future” (legal had been very clear on this point) while dropping buzz words like “A.I.,” “Advanced Algorithms,” and “Cutting Edge Technology.”
Brian was a good salesman. Despite being almost thirty-three, he had a round boyish face, with cherubic cheeks and wide blue eyes that made him appear almost comically earnest. He leaned into it now, gesticulating wildly with his hands and trying to sound excited. Excitement could be infectious, Brian knew, and he needed to break through Arsalan’s shell.
Still, Brian struggled to suppress the rising tide of déjà vu bubbling just beneath the surface. He tried ignoring it first. When that didn’t work, he reminded himself that déjà vu was just a neurological hiccup. A temporary lag in brain power. The same way he could burn his hand on a pan, knowing for a split second before his hand touched the metal what was about to happen. This might be a particularly strong feeling, but it was just a feeling, and it would pass. Even if in the meantime he felt like he was watching a movie on two screens at the same time, with one screen slightly ahead of the other.
It was almost certainly not a side effect of working with the Delphi. There were no side effects to working with the Delphi. And thus, there was no point in even letting his mind wander down that path.
“In an industry like yours, help is hard to find. Am I right?” Brian said, shifting from his boilerplate pitch into the speech he prepared specifically for clients like Arsalan. Business owners who worked with something as valuable, and easily stolen, as diamonds. “I mean, look around. We’re practically standing in a treasure trove.”
As he said this, Brian waved his hands, palms up, at their surroundings. Mirzayi Diamonds layout resembled a rectangle with a horseshoe of glass displays curving along the walls towards the back inside. There were frequent breaks between the display cases, so Arsalan could move between them and allow customers to see the diamonds inside from different angles.
“So it’s a, how do you say? Lie detector?” Arsalan stood at the top of the horseshoe with both arms crossed and, while Brian couldn’t be sure, but he thought Arsalan might be flexing.
“Yes. Only better,” Brian said. When Arsalan’s neutral expression dipped into a frown, Brian continued. “A lie detector will tell you if someone is lying today, but what about tomorrow?” As he spoke, Brian took the Delphi out of the briefcase he kept handcuffed to his wrist. “What about next week? What about next year?”
The Delphi looked like a skullcap with a chinstrap connected to one of the early iPads from twenty years ago. Only, as Brian would explain when he got to the demonstration portion of the pitch, it wasn’t a chinstrap but designed to cover the eyes. Not that this was strictly necessary. Most users closed their eyes when wearing and using the Delphi. However, for the select few that kept their eyes open, the sight of them with their mouth ajar and eyes rolled back was deeply unsettling.
Arsalan raised an eyebrow. Despite being completely bald, Arsalan had thick, hairy black eyebrows that matched the hair on his arms. “So, it can see the future? Why don’t we put it on? Play lottery?”
Brian smiled, trying to project a confidence he didn’t feel. He wondered if the uneasy sense of déjà vu came from the memory of the last time he tried to sell the Delphi to the owner of a construction company who, like Arsalan, had been bald and muscular. Brian, who looked like a boy next door, found he fared better with women.
“The Delphi doesn’t predict the future – it predicts human behavior. Specifically, the human behavior of the person wearing the Delphi. By drawing on past experiences and current thoughts.”
“It reads minds?”
Instead of falling back on his boilerplate answer for this question, Brian looked at the back door behind Arsalan marked ‘employees only’ because he knew they were coming. Five seconds later, just as Brian knew it would, the door shook, splintered, then broke beneath the heavy, steel-toed boot of the first gunman.
The three gunmen wore matching uniforms of heavy black armor, indistinguishable aside from the numbers one, two, and three painted on their chests in red, blue, and white. They wore holographic masks with constantly shifting features, dubbed Van Goghs by the media, to hide their faces. Brian had time to appreciate the accuracy of the label before Number One moved towards him while Number Two and Three fanned out down the sides of the horseshoe, breaking glass and shoveling the contents inside their bags as they went.
Arsalan turned but said nothing, the narrowing of his eyes the only sign that anything had changed. Brian knew they would order him to his knees as they filled their bags with diamonds, just like Brian knew he would obey.
“Knees. Now!” Number One said, pointing his gun first at Arsalan and then at Brian.
Brian knew from past political campaigns that all guns were made with built in safety measures that prevented them from being pointed, much less fired, at a civilian. Which meant that even with the déjà vu, Brian was surprised to be staring down the barrel of a gun. He wondered if maybe the brightly colored patches and strips of silver around the barrel and handle had hacked through the gun’s built in safety restrictions.
“No need for anyone to get hurt – they’re only rocks. Expensive rocks, but just rocks.” Number One said, and while his face was hidden, there was the clear hint of a smile in his voice.
Around them, case after case, shattered, an overhead alarm chirping in warning before bursting into a shrill scream. Brian felt his stomach drop. He saw a flicker of blue and black, the uniform of a security guard, out of the corner of his eye and he knew suddenly that the worst was yet to come. He tried to push a warning shout through lips that felt heavy and numb. A cry to tell the security guard rushing through the front door to stop, to turn around, to find cover. To do anything but run straight in with his club held high.
The warning never came. Brian watched – seemed to re-watch – as the security guard pushed in through the glass doors at the front of the shop, armed with only a shocktop, which he held out like a sword. The shocktop, the electrically charged billy clubs given to most security guards, sizzled and sparked with blue electricity as he screamed for the gunmen to stop.
“We don’t want to hurt you, old man,” Number One said while Number Two and Number Three shifted their half full bags behind their backs and raised their own guns.
Normally, Brian questioned the purpose of security guards in the jewelry district. They were usually old and rarely armed with anything more than a shocktop. The only security they might provide, Brian liked to joke, was advance warning, because at least if he saw the guard running, he would know to run away too. Now, Brian wished it hadn’t been a joke. He wished he had been right and the security guard had run away.
Instead, the security guard saw the gun leveled on the customers he had sworn to protect and he made a move. He feinted towards Number Two standing behind a broken glass display, swinging the shocktop in a wide arc that had him tripping over his own feet before turning back to Number One and lunging forward.
The security guard moved with surprising speed for an old man, but he wasn’t fast enough. Number One cursed and pulled the trigger, catching him in the face and chest with a spray of bullets. The shocktop flew free, losing its charge the second it left the old man’s hands, and clattering harmlessly across the floor.
Arsalan, his chest swelling up, roared like a lion and lunged from his knees towards Number One. Grabbing Number One’s gun, he yanked him off balance with one hand as he landed a vicious punch across the gunman’s helmet. A loud crack filled the store and the Van Gogh stopped flickering, revealing the long narrow face of a man who couldn’t have been a day past twenty-one.
All at once the déjà vu ended, the future and the present came together, and Brian saw the surrounding scene with horrifying clarity. The sulfuric smell of the gun powder mixed with the stale, unwashed smell of the three gunmen filled his nostrils. Still kneeling on the ground, Brian fell forward, looking first at the pool of blood around the security guard and then up at Arsalan, who still wrestled with Number One.
“Grab the shocktop!” Arsalan shouted. “Hurry!”
Brian blinked. He comprehended the words, but not their meaning. Arsalan couldn’t possibly want him to fight. Not when they were outnumbered and outgunned.
“Hurry!” Arsalan screamed again.
Brian pushed himself back up to his knees, just as Number Three pushed a gun into his back while Number Two stepped up behind Arsalan, shoved his gun against the back of his head, and pulled the trigger.
Arsalan’s head snapped forward as a wave of gray and red splashed across Number One’s chest and face.
“Christ, Two – what the hell?” Number One screamed, wiping his face and chest, then flicking them free of blood and brains.
Brian barely had time to process this before he felt a pair of hands on his back, forcing him up on his feet and pushing him towards the broken back door.
“Get up.” Number Three said. He nodded at Number One and then Number Two. “One. Two. Car.”
“Wait,” Number One said. He tapped his mask twice, then shook his head. “It’s broken.”
“On me,” Number Two answered.
Brian saw Number One tap a different place on his mask and it became opaque. Then he reached out a hand, grabbed Number Two’s shoulder, and the two moved like one out the back door. They were barely past the broken glass when Number Three swiveled behind Brian, using him like a human shield as he backed through the employees’ only entrance after the others. For a second, Brian dared to hope they might leave him there, but then Number Three grabbed his shoulder and yanked him through the door.
“Move.” Number Three ordered. “After them.”
Brian kept his eyes on the back of Number One and the sprint from the diamond shop to the car barely registered as a blur. He caught glimpses of the dingy hallway that ran along the back of every shop, the occasional pile of boxes or overflow items followed by a brief glimpse of daylight before plunging into the darkness of the underground garage. These blurry details were in sharp contrast to Brian’s perception of Number One’s back, where he took in every detail. He saw that the uniform wasn’t completely black, but marked with the occasional scratch of gray or off color patch. While the blood – Arsalan’s blood – that didn’t fall away left splotchy stains wherever it soaked in.
“Why you bringing the civ?” Number Two shouted when they reached the waiting van.
Number Three didn’t answer. He only threw Brian into the back and climbed in behind him.
Once they were all inside, Number Two climbed into the driver’s seat and the car roared to life. Brian expected him to peel out, but he calmly checked his surroundings, shifted into reverse, and pulled out as casual as any shopper. A block later, he even waited for a couple to cross the street at Sixth Street before pulling out into the busy flow of traffic on Hill Street.
Brian lost track of time inside the car. He thought maybe he went into shock, as the only other plausible explanation was that he fell asleep, and he couldn’t imagine falling asleep with a gun pointed at him. When he came to later, the car had stopped. Number One, looking at him eye to eye through his broken mask, studied him.
“What’s your name, kid?” Number One asked.
Brian licked his lips. He saw no reason to tell them he was almost thirty-three, well past being a kid. “Brian.”
“Listen, Brian. We don’t like killing people. We’re in this for the money. So I need to know if I let you go, can I trust you to say nothing?”
Brian’s heart raced. He nodded, slowly at first and then picking up speed. “Of course. Of course.”
“Good, because you saw my face. And you heard my friend’s name. So you understand why we can’t let you go unless we can trust you, right?”
Again, Brian nodded, jerking his head awkwardly up and down. He could barely believe it. He felt a surge of compassion, bordering on love, for the man sitting in front of him. Looking at the other two gunmen, he felt his heart swell. They could trust him and he could trust them.
“Yes, of course. Of course you can trust me. I won’t say anything,” Brian said, surprised to realize that he meant it. He really wouldn’t say anything.
“Why risk it?” Number Three said.
Number Two nodded. “We can’t be sure.”
Brian saw Number One nod, perhaps with a touch of sadness, and start to raise his gun.
“Wait,” Brian said, the déjà vu coming back in a rush. Only this time, he was thankful. This time, instead of an ominous portent, the déjà vu provided a solution: the Delphi. “Yes, you can.”
Number One hesitated, frowning.
“I have something,” Brian stuttered, raising his arm with the briefcase attached. He had left the Delphi back in Miryazi’s, but he always kept an extra. Just in case something went wrong.
“What the hell is that?” Number One mumbled.
Brian gave a shaky smile, his confidence slowly returning as he started to slip back into his sales pitch. “I’m glad you asked.”
Brian pitched the Delphi like his life depended on it, which, of course, it did. Since he would be the one wearing the Delphi, he explained the mechanics, showing them how to watch on the viewing screen.
“It’ll take about ten minutes to harvest my data,” Brian explained. “It will look like you’re watching a rerun – but after that you can fast forward as far as you want. An hour. Two hours. Even a whole year.”
Brian gave a nervous laugh as he fit the skull cap over the top his head, feeling a slight tingle as the nodes connected to his skin.
“Once I put this eye mask on just,” Brian licked his lips, “just press that button. Okay? And repeat your question over and over every ten seconds. Loud enough that I can hear.”
“My question,” Number One said, his voice flat.
Brian nodded. “Whatever you want answered. Whatever you would ask me.”
Number One looked skeptical but nodded, and the last thing Brian saw before he slipped the mask over his eyes was Number One’s furrowed brow.
Brian had only used the Delphi once before during employee orientation. It hadn’t been mandatory, but strongly recommended. The best way to sell a product was to believe in it, after all, and the best way to prove it worked was to experience the machine’s results.
What Brian had forgotten, or possibly blacked out, was how quick the process felt. User manuals described it as akin to waking up from a catnap, but Brian thought it was more like being called out during class after zoning out. One second Brian was slipping the mask over his eyes and an instant later he was blinking in the back of the van.
Brian couldn’t be sure how much time had passed, but he was relieved to see Number One grinning at him.
“See boys? We can trust him.” Number One said, squeezing Brian’s shoulder.
Relieved, Brian gave a shaky laugh. “See,” he croaked. “I’m trustworthy.”
“That you are,” Number One said, then he leaned forward. “So here’s what we’re going to do.”
Brian could see nothing unreasonable about what happened next. If anything, he respected the three gunmen even more. Of course, they would need to blindfold him and, of course, he would count to three hundred before he took the blindfold off. In fact, just to be safe, he gave them an extra thirty seconds before he lifted the blindfold from his eyes. He felt he owed them that much.
Looking around, Brian realized he wasn’t as far as he suspected. He was a few blocks north of the gates of USC. It would be a hike, but he could walk up to LA Live and catch the subway back to his car.
As he walked, he thought about the robbery. He still felt sorry for Arsalan and the security guard, but now his sympathy was tinged with frustration bordering on anger. The gunmen had only wanted the diamonds. They hadn’t wanted to shoot anyone. If anything, they had acted in self-defense after the security guard and then Arsalan attacked them.
Drawing closer to LA Live, Brian felt the ground shake. What had once been a few bars and restaurants around Lakers Stadium had turned into the west coast answer to Times Square, expanding out into a patchwork of clubs, bars, and even two or three hotels with rooftop pools for the wealthier clientele. Massive screens stretched across any surface not covered by signage and, as Brian drew closer, he saw most of the screens were showing footage of the recent robbery.
Seeing Arsalan standing with his family in past photos on one of the giant television screens, Brian’s heart ached, but even this couldn’t shake his conviction that Arsalan deserved it. Arsalan had made a choice and now he had to live or die, with the consequences.
The days and weeks that followed passed in a blur.
The cops had questions, of course, but Delphi hired him a slick attorney who argued that Brian was really a victim, and eventually they stopped asking him questions. There were other cases. Other armed robberies. This was only a small crime in the tumultuous ocean of Los Angeles, and it was soon forgotten.
After that, Brian’s life seemed to race ahead at a breakneck pace, as if eager to put as much difference between the incident at Miryazi’s and the present. There were promotions at work, an ill-advised fling with a coworker, and the deaths of first his grandfather and then his grandmother, but still he kept his promise. Until one day, many years later, when he was sitting on the couch with his fiancé watching television.
“What should we watch?” His fiancé asked, and he shrugged.
“Whatever you want,” Brian said, more focused on the emails streaming into his phone than whatever was streaming.
He heard the familiar chime as she selected something and he recognized the theme song for a popular program about unsolved crimes, but it wasn’t until he heard the announcer describing the premise of the episode that he looked up.
“The Number Gang, as they came to be called, were responsible for a string of robberies in Los Angeles. Targeting immigrant owned stores in the jewelry district they…”
“Holy shit,” Brian said.
“What?” His fiancé asked.
Brian hesitated. He had kept his promise. Never telling anyone, but it had been years ago now. Surely they hadn’t expected him to take the secret to the grave. And besides, if they had any sense, they were long gone by now. Or, more likely, Brian thought, dead or incarcerated. There was no reason to keep their secret any longer.
“I actually know who they were,” Brian heard himself saying, his fiancé’s eyes widening in surprise. “I’ve never told anyone this but…”
Whatever Brian said next grew faint, then faded completely, replaced instead by a sound like rushing water. Brian felt something slide off his head and then away from his eyes and he had to blink because the light was so bright. As soon as his eyes adjusted to the light, Brian found himself sitting in the back of the van, staring at Number One.
“Well, Brian. I am sold. The Delphi is one hell of a machine.” Number One looked up from the screen in his hands and gave a low whistle that turned into a chuckle. “And now you see why we can’t just let you go. Why we can’t just trust you.”
Brian shook his head to clear it. He wanted to explain that the Delphi didn’t predict the future, to tell them all the things he never said in his sales pitches. About how the Delphi was really just making a guess based on certain assumptions. That the chances of it being right were often lower than fifty-one percent. How studies clearly demonstrated the diminishing accuracy of these predictions the further into the future the Delphi attempted to predict. The undeniable truth that everyone broke if you left the Delphi on long enough. The Delphi was attempting to answer one question. Even if it answered not a hundred, or even a thousand, times it would eventually answer yes.
Instead, all he could do was whimper as he stared down the barrel of a gun for the second time that day.
“Don’t. Please.” Brian said, but he didn’t need the Delphi to predict what would happen next.
This story previously appeared in Mystic Mind Magazine.
Edited by E. S. Foster.
Harold Hoss the penname of Blake Hoss. He is a graduate of USC Law with a passion for horror films. He most recently worked as a producer on the feature films Creep Box and The Unheard. The Unheard is streaming now on Shudder.