Fortune Cookie Caper

I just took a look at this old piece again, and remembered how fun it was to write . Pardon the preface, I know they’re unpopular, but I enjoy it – probably because its mine.

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Amongst the frothing bubble-bath that is the eternal multitude of parallel universes, there exists one that is almost identical to ours, but for the presence and absence of a few things. For example, nearly all of the glacial ice on this alt-quantum-earth has melted, resulting in a sea-level rise of slightly more than two-hundred feet, on average. As a result of this, many more people enjoy the fine pastime of boating, and there is a decent amount of new marine habitat for the fish.
This additional habitat would of course normally result in additional fish, except for the fact that the extra two hundred feet of world-wide-water came as the result of an increase in global temperature. This increase thusly had the effect of co-increasing the maximum size of ocean-borne predators, which of course have bigger appetites. So, there has been no corresponding net gain in the fish population, but there are ridiculously large sharks, sea-snakes, and saltwater crocodiles. This all makes going to the beach much more of an adventure.
There are also many things that are the same as on our earth. There is still an internet, by a different name, with all its attendant woes and virtues. There are still bad reality TV shows, books made of actual paper, and sonic toothbrushes. These very human things are obviously of such great import that it’s not surprising that they persist through the veils of time and space. Another of these irreducible elements is crime, and the fact that some people love a good mystery and can’t help sticking their noses into dangerous places.

This is the story of such people, with such noses.

Oh, and they also have fortune cookies on this parallel world, with better fortunes.

It was the middle of a bright summer Monday and Sam was contemplating the big questions of life from a padded booth at The Sunken Noodle. The palm trees outside waved in the ocean breeze, and whitecaps frothed around the Sea Needle, a good sign his sail home would be quick. He’d already ordered a number-four on the in-table touchscreen, the “Sunken Drunken”. It was his fave and the bots here were quick.

Sam was waiting for a woman who went by the name Silv. They’d met recently on a supernet forum, where he was looking to buy what she was looking to sell. The tech from their first meeting had worked out, so he was feeling optimistic about this next piece. He’d told her about the other components he needed and she’d said they were rare, which he already knew, and correspondingly expensive, which he had already guessed. He hadn’t told her what he was building, and she didn’t ask, which was the way he liked it. If she had known, who knew how she may have reacted. She could have tripled the price, or refused to sell altogether. He had tried to check her out on the net but her socials were respectably clean, which meant that he didn’t know where her politics lay on this particular kind of project.

The tabletop display flashed green and chimed softly. Sam watched his bowl trundle through the clear conveyor tube across the ceiling, then transfer smoothly to the descender. He pulled it out, peeked inside, and admired the botchef’s handiwork. It really was the same every time. Sam pulled his chopsticks from their sleek metal container and then closed it with a smart-sounding snik.

Behind him, tiny happy bells tinkled signaled the door opening, and a moment later Silv was sliding into his booth with a drybox in hand. He instantly noticed the essence of sea spray and sunlight that wafted in with her, and he was struck again by the greenness of her eyes.
“Hi again,” she said, happy but not over familiar. “How are you now?”
“Pretty good, and you?”
She smirked. “Not so bad thanks.”
Sam smirked back and gestured at his still-covered bowl. “Are you going to order something? I could wait.”
“No, I ate just before I left, and I want to get headed back before the wind picks up much more. It gets to be a bumpy slog sometimes.”
“I hear you. It’ll be nice if the mag-lev gets approved someday, then at least there’d be options when the weather is rolls in. The storms these days are vicious.”
“Please, go ahead.” Silv motioned to Sam’s bowl, and he lifted the lid and took a bite. She opened the drycase, bringing out a sealed, dark blue bubble-mailer and sliding it to the middle of the table.
“The diver who got this said it’s from a new spot, one that she’s never been to before. You’re lucky actually, these don’t show up often anymore. She said the seals on the building were still intact.”
“I’m definitely surprised, and thankful. Please give her my sincere thanks. I’d be interested in knowing what else comes from the spot.” Sam waved his chopsticks as he spoke, then planted them tips-first into the bowl. He raised his left wrist and tapped his interface. “The money is on the way.”

A little ping came from somewhere on Silv’s person. She glanced at her wrist. “Got it. Thanks.” She closed the drycase and lay it flat beside her. “You know Sam, I do so appreciate getting business out of the way quickly. Some people just want to chat me up before settling up. It gets a bit tiresome.”
“Sails to raise,” he said, repeating the common saying. “How’s the Wheedle?” He asked. One of the few things Sam knew about Silv was the name of her boat.
“No red lights are flashing, so I think she’s pretty happy right now. The electrics are acting up a bit, I might have to take her to the shop.”
“You should let me plug in sometime, I probably have the dios for your system.” Sam hoped he sounded nonchalant.
“Thanks for the offer, I’ll see how it goes for a bit and I’ll let you know. I usually just give the box a Fonz and that sorts things out.

A strong gust buffeted the window where they sat and the palms outside drew attention to themselves with more vigorous frond waving. This seemed to be Silv’s cue. She looked out the window and saw the Wheedle’s masthead streamer dancing like a fish trying to shake a hook. “Wind and water wait for no woman” she said, “Time for me to get going. Let me know if you need anything else, and ah”—she looked at the package on the table—”you didn’t get that from me.”
“Don’t worry, I have no intention of advertising the fact,” Sam said with a smile. “I don’t need any attention from the authorities. Thanks again, see you on the net.”
Silv slid out of the booth, taking her case with her. Sam caught a look from her as she left that he couldn’t quite decipher, was it intrigue or mirth? Whichever it was, it was pleasant, and as she walked out the door the chimes tinkled their little tune again. He watched her walk to her boat, then took the last bite of his lunch. Silv seemed pretty level headed, he thought. To the point, efficient. He liked that.

The sensors in the table detected that the customer’s bowl was empty. This triggered the complimentary custom cookie command and a script of code was executed. Each cookie started as a soft disk. A tiny laser printer in the robot arm would write a message on a slip of paper, which was then folded into the cookie before it was cooked for 4.7 seconds, setting its shape. It was a cool retro thing that the owner of the Sunken Noodle was trying to bring back. The difference was that the little paper message was often customized with any known details about the customer, making each one truly unique.

For this cookie, everything was happening the way it should, except this time, the KitchenCook 3.0 software received specific external instructions. The little printer printed the fortune as the manipulators grasped the soft dough disk. A secondary hand grasped the fortune and placed it on the disk. The cookie was dexterously folded in 0.7 seconds and placed in the hyper-frier. Once set, the arm grasped it again, placed it in a cute little paper ramekin, and pushed it into the conveyor tube.

The message appeared in the table-screen just as the little package appeared in the descender. “The Sunken Noodle hopes you enjoyed your meal! How would you rate your experience? Rate us 5 Stars!” Sam thought it was very clever, the way they timed that, asking for a review just as the famous little fortune cookie arrived. He tapped the fifth star as he always did, and reached out for the restaurant’s parting gift. The cookie was slightly warm, but still broke in two with a satisfying snap. Sam popped one half in his mouth and pulled the little slip of paper out of the other. He always liked how philosophical these little fortunes were.
Except this one wasn’t that at all. It was something else.

Sam looked around the restaurant, thinking perhaps he was being pranked, but saw nothing. He looked back at the tiny slip, which just read:

Sam, RF here. Please help me!