Infinite Worlds 8 (JUNE 2021):
A Ray Gun for Finley

“It should not be this hard to kill someone.”

BY DAVID HOPKINS

“I—would like to purchase—one ray gun—please.”

Finley faltered over his words. He spoke with an unnatural, hesitant syncopation. The man behind the counter raised an eyebrow, arched like a question mark.

“Which one did you have in mind? We have a wide range of ray guns.”

“Something from the original Z-line?”

Finley didn’t care which ray gun he purchased. He assumed most differences were cosmetic. He wasn’t even sure the “Z-line” was a real thing. All Finley needed was something with a trigger or a button that when pulled or pushed would emit a death ray that could blast a hole into someone or disintegrate them. Either was fine. He didn’t care about the science involved.

Finley did care about his body language and how the store’s computer system analyzed his every action. Finley was fidgety. He shifted his weight from his left leg to his right and back again. He checked his watch too often. Every anxious gesture was a tell, communicating he should not own a ray gun and would not be sold one. That is the peculiar nature of guns. While it is legal to purchase a ray gun, it is illegal to use said ray gun as intended. In such a well-ordered world, the ray gun is a glorified pointing and threatening device. But Finley had every intention of using whatever ray gun this man would sell, and he’d use it as soon as he drove across town.

“I’ll see what we have in stock.”

The man behind the counter smiled, but in form only. Tight lipped and strained, it wasn’t a happy smile. The wiry corporate stooge didn’t need to see what he had in stock. The stock database was in front of him on the holo-screen. He was checking for something else. Possibly to review what the system had to say about Finley’s twitchy tendencies.

The man turned and walked through a beaded curtain to the back room. Finley focused on the showroom. He counted nine cameras watching him. Each one evaluating if he was the kind of person who could be trusted to not use the gun he wanted to own. Finley did not know what to do with his hands. He put them in his pockets. He took them out of his pockets. He folded his arms in front of him, but decided this pose was too aggressive. He held his hands behind his back. Too coy. He settled on interlocking his fingers in front of him. He rolled back and forth on the balls on his feet. Meanwhile, Finley fixated on one thought: Give me the damn ray gun.

The man walked back to the front, empty handed.

“I’m sorry. We are completely out of the Z-line. We might have more product shipping next week.”

“How about that one?”

Finley pointed at a display model.

“The 9000-Beta? That is,” the man took a deep breath, “quite the blaster. It could cost you a thousand credits, depending on your union score.”

“Don’t worry about my union score. It’s solid.”

“Well, okay, then.”

The man typed on his screen. An alert caught the man’s attention and he nodded, but like the smile, it wasn’t true. Everything about him was false.

"Yes, you are correct. You have a very high union score. That should bring the price down." He tapped a few more times on the screen. The only true motions made. "But it appears that your," he paused to emphasize the awkwardness, "trust rating is not high enough. Do you know any reason why that might be?"

"I don’t think you’re allowed to ask me that." Actually, the man was absolutely within his rights. The trust rating existed so these questions could be asked.

"I do sell ray guns."

"You haven’t so far."

"Quite right."

Finley reconsidered his approach. Of course his trust rating was low. Every camera recorded his nerve-racked mannerisms. Every digital device picked up on his raised body temperature and quickened heart rate. The system worked as it should. Finley wanted to kill someone across town. The system did not want that to happen. The best approach, Finley figured, was the truth—but not the whole truth.

"I’m stressed," Finley confessed. "I’ve never purchased a ray gun, and guns make me nervous. Gun violence used to be so bad, back in the day."

“Terrible time, back in the day.”

“It was.”

Finley gave him an earnest thumbs-up and immediately regretted the staged gesture. He returned to the facts.

“But you’re saying my union score is good enough. I could walk out the door with that 9000-Beta today?”

Finley had visited two other ray gun shops during his lunch break. If this one was a bust, the system would block him from entering another shop for a couple weeks. If this occurred, he’d have to kill the guy with a brick, a pocketknife, some garden implement perhaps—not ideal.

The man behind the counter relented. He scanned the case and opened it to reveal the stylish blaster. The 9000-Beta was beautiful with smooth curves and chrome accents. The blast end extended to a thorn-like point with a metallic sphere at the tip. The handle was molded to fit in Finley’s hand with sensors across the surface and trigger. These sensors would determine, at the cellular level, his intentions. This would be a problem.

As Finley left the shop, the door scanned the union chip in his pocket and deducted the credits. And like that, the ray gun was his. Registered and ready to fire. In theory.

Finley sat in his car. The car was a standard-issue thermoplastic bubble on wheels, able to take him anywhere he was approved to go. He pushed the start button, which should transport him to the office across town, but nothing happened. He pushed the button again. A notification appeared on the car’s holo-screen. His heart rate and perceived stress level were too high for him to be in a moving vehicle. Then soothing calypso music, a delightful melody on steel drums, played on the car’s stereo. Finley took deep breaths. By the end of the song, the car determined he was within the approved stress threshold for travel.

The car moved five feet, and then jerked to a halt. Another notification and a new ordinance. After any ray gun purchase, the owner must take the gun directly home—or the store can ship it at no extra cost.

Finley found a work around. He rolled down his window and held the ray gun outside the car. This worked. The car hummed to life, and rolled onto the highway toward the office.

“Hello, Finley.” The car’s Vox-Plus program spoke with a gentle tone. “Is now a good time to talk?”

“Sure, car. What’s up?” If the car concluded he was doing something illegal, it would drive him to the nearest safety center to be further monitored.

“I noticed you are experiencing symptoms consistent with high stress, more than your usual readings. Is everything okay?”

“Doing fine.”

“That is good to hear. Would you like me to place a call to an available crisis prevention specialist?”

“I’m doing fine.”

“That is good to hear,” again with the car’s go-to reassurance phrase. “Can I play soothing music?”

“Not necessary.”

The steel drums began again.

“Finley, would it help if I read motivational quotes by inspiring people?”

“Please don’t.”

The car spent the rest of the trip reading motivational quotes by inspiring people. These people spoke of making the most of opportunities. How setbacks are opportunities in disguise. Every day is a new opportunity. Nothing is worse than a missed opportunity, and some opportunities don’t come around twice, but they are also around every corner. You’re not supposed to wait for opportunities. However, you do need to be ready for opportunities. Finley failed to be inspired by this jumble of sentiment and wishful thinking.

The glass-encased office building gleamed in the afternoon light, brilliant and blinding, angelic and obnoxious. Finley walked toward the front door in casual reverence, head down, hands in pockets. He did not want to draw any attention, but his procession stopped short. Finley could not get past the entrance. A holo-screen announced the doors would not open while he had the ray gun.

After a few attempts at opening the door, he stepped back and looked up. He could see the balcony on the eighth floor. He just needed to get up there. If only he had a jet pack. A jet pack would be good. Finley got back into the car.

*   *   *

“I would like to purchase one jet pack! Please!”

Finley made his request with more confidence this time, enthusiasm overkill.

“Back so soon?” The even tone of the man behind the counter communicated a parodic professionalism. Was he even human? It hadn’t occurred to Finley, but with the advances in android technology, who knew anymore?

Another purchase. Another round of deep breaths and steel drums before he could start the car. Another lesson on the inscrutable nature of opportunity from the Vox-Plus. Finally, Finley was back at the office building with ray gun in hand and jet pack strapped to his back.

The jet pack would not start.

Finley looked at the eighth-floor balcony. He threw his jet pack to the ground. He ran at the office building and tried in vain to climb the smooth glass facade. He clawed at the glass, beat it with his fists. He screamed his discontent, hoping that anger alone could knock down all obstacles. He achieved nothing but a hapless, uninspired noise. Then he fell to his knees.

“It should not be this hard to kill someone.”

With these words, his phone, his watch, the ray gun, the jet pack, and the car all called the safety center. His own devices betrayed him. The police would arrive within minutes.

“Hello down there! Is everything all right?”

A head peered over the edge of the eighth-floor balcony.

Finley tittered. What luck! This was an opportunity if ever such a thing existed. He wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt, took hold of the ray gun in both hands, and aimed at the tiny head peering over the edge of the eighth-floor balcony. Finley’s hands shook as he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

“My god. Did you try to shoot at me with a ray gun?” The voice from above called down.

“Yes?”

“Please don’t.”

Then the head retreated from the edge of the balcony.

Finley could hear the police sirens. They sounded like steel drums, a familiar melody. He thought about running away, but wondered if his sneakers would stop him in the attempt.