No one had thought that Nooks kid was going to amount to anything, and yet here was an ad for his business being broadcast silently across the top of the festival stage:
“Neuroscience R Us: Bringing Rich People Back to Life Since 2035. This play is brought to you courtesy of Mr. Shady Nooks.”
Aurora looked at her mother, seated beside her at the Heritage Theatre. Like the other whispering, chatting theatre-goers, all of whom could best be described as either frail or elderly, Aurora and her mother were dressed in their best formal linen outfits in celebrational pastel colours. Aurora hoped for cake; sometimes they served it at these drama parties. What a pleasant exception to the social maltreatment of the ill and old this was! And here she had been thinking the authorities were going to stop rounding them up and start exterminating them, like in those old-timey scifi movies, like Soylent Green and Logan’s Run. A friendly voice came blazing over the tannoy:
“Welcome, friends, to our performance of Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap, the longest-running play in human history. We would like to acknowledge that this play, although performed entirely by a robotic cast for your viewing pleasure, on a set designed by artificial intelligence tools and 100% machine-built, was human-written by Dame Agatha Christie of the British Empire. Her avatar will be available for twenty questions here on the festival stage after the conclusion of the play this evening. You will find snacks and drinks in the armrest of your chair: please help yourself to a can of synthewine, a delicious tranquillizer mini cake, and a bag of pseudo-nuts on the house. Finally, note that your interactive viewscreen portal has been disabled for the duration of the performance; if you look down at your arm, you will see only your own hairy flesh.”
The audience laughed nervously, the chuckles echoing through the theatre; it was unusual to have access disabled so abruptly and completely. And why a “tranquillizer” cake? Well, it was only for an hour or so.
After the performance, the curtain rose to reveal the avatar of the playwright seated on stage. Its lifelike voice (an exact replica of Agatha Christie’s, if anyone knew it) reminded them of the dramatic tradition that the play’s iconic ending must never be revealed, then responded to questions from the audience. “What’s your favourite mystery?” someone shouted.
“This one, of course,” the avatar responded cheerfully, with an enigmatic smile.
As the standing ovation thundered through the auditorium, a high-pitched beep signalled there was another announcement to come:
“Ladies and Germs, please take your seats!” came the strident voice. Aurora sat down abruptly; her mother had never gotten up, as standing was a chore for her delicate frame.
“Folks, we have a special, final surprise for you this evening,” came the dulcet tones of the loudspeaker. “It is brought to you compliments of our sponsor, Mr. Shady Nooks. Descendants of the Christie family were able to supply for us a strand of hair taken from a silver-coated horsehair brush that the venerable Dame used to style her elegant coiffure. From that strand of hair, DNA was extracted to form the basis of what we are proud to bring you tonight: a fully resurrected entity. Folks, that was no avatar!”
Dame Christie walked back onto the stage and the crowd exploded.
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