FAR SIGHT

Brandon Morrow
 I

Richard Stevens bustled along a sidewalk choked with people. Even at night, the streets
of New York pulsated with life as its residents went about their business, drenched in the neon
light of the signs overhead. The busy streets were framed by monolithic buildings that
disappeared into the night sky. Stevens checked his watch. This action prompted his heads-up
display to give him the time, superimposed over his wrist. He saw that not only was he going to
miss dinner with his family again, but the watch also reminded him of his dozens of upcoming
appointments and meetings for the next day with small alerts that seemed to hover around his
hand. He wouldn’t get home on time tomorrow either, it seemed. Stevens quickened his pace.
Several feet behind him, another man did the same.
Driverless taxis zipped by at frightening speeds that would have been dangerous for
human drivers. They stopped at intersections with no traffic lights, seemingly operating on some
telepathic level. For those few drivers that still chose to navigate the roads manually, they did so
in a designated lane, and the traffic lights were projected on the windshield as if actually there.
None of this interested Stevens as he continued on his way. He approached a diner decorated
with a large sign that read Jimbo’s, and as he did, pages of information winked to life out of thin
air, hanging in empty space outside of the diner’s windows. One of the pages showed a four-star
review from a very reputable culinary website. Another showed the menu with the most visually
tempting meals proudly on display. An attractive woman also came into existence, wearing a
Jimbo’s T-shirt that left little to the imagination.
“Hey there handsome,” she cooed after Stevens, “Want to stop for a bite to eat? We have
the best burgers in town!”
She gave a dazzling smile that didn’t change even as Stevens ignored the offer and kept
walking. The woman and the accompanying signs disappeared just as quickly as they had
appeared, only to reawaken as soon as the next passerby on the crowded streets came close
enough. This shameless advertisement reappeared as the next potential customer walked by.
Another block down the road, the crowd thinned as Stevens neared a residential area.
Curiously though, another man still shadowed his every move. Stevens failed to realize that he
was now completely exposed. There were no more crowds to protect him, and few other people
ventured these streets at night. The shadow seemed to sense that the time to strike was near, like
some wild beast. This new man rummaged around in his coat and produced a gun, with its dark
metal surface reflecting the dim, cold light of the overhead street lamps. The night was almost
oppressive in such lighting, as if trying to swallow the two men whole. There was a metallic
click as the shadow readied his weapon to fire. For the first time, Stevens realized he was in
danger. He froze.
“Turn around. Slowly.”
This voice belonged to the shadow. From this point of view, the gun was surrounded with
bits of information much like Stevens’ watch had been, only it displayed tactical data instead.
The distance to the target, the amount of ammunition the gun had left, and a trajectory line that
ended at Stevens’ midsection. Like the woman at Jimbo’s and the various other advertisements
that line the streets of New York City in the year 2048, this too was a result of augmented reality,
a digital overlay on the real world. Anyone wearing the appropriate AR contact lenses could see
into this hidden world, and everyone had them.
Stevens finally corresponded with his shadow’s demands, and slowly turned. His
expression, initially one of fear, morphed into shock and quickly into horror as he saw the
identity of the man who had been stalking him.
“Jesus Christ…Terry…” the he began stammering, “Look man, I had nothing to do with
what happened to you! None of that was my call—”
He was cut off by the explosive crack of the gun and the ensuing bullet that pierced
through his chest as quickly and effortlessly as a diver slicing through water. There were no
more words exchanged. The only sound, as Stevens lay in a pool of his own blood on that dark
street, was the sound of his killer, Terry, breathing heavily. Terry stared at the corpse, no doubt
coming to terms with the horrid act he had just committed. He then raised the gun to his own
head, and—
“Stop!” a voice from beyond exclaimed, and time froze. “Rewind to five minutes, forty-
five seconds.”
The scene that had just played out began running in reverse at more than twice its regular
speed. The crimson puddle that had gathered on the street slithered back into Stevens, and he was
hurled back to his feet. This continued another second or two until the scene had reached the
point that the seemingly omnipotent voice has specified, until it began playing out normally
again. The disembodied voice watched again as Terry Montag shot and killed his horrified
victim. Finally, a hand waved through the scene, causing this reality to dissipate.
Arthur Woodsworth, known almost exclusively as Woody (only his mother called him
Arthur), rubbed his temples as his vision was cleared. Looking through another person’s eyes
always gave him a headache and working in the dead of night didn’t help. He removed the small
ear buds that had provided audio to the scene with disgust. Woody himself was an unassuming
man in his late thirties of medium height and build. His dark hair was short and unkempt. His
jaw was lined with a few days’ worth of stubble, and he had bags under his eyes. The eyes
themselves were his most distinct feature. They were sharp and filled with intelligence. When
people met Woody for the first time, it was those eyes, which had seen much in the line of duty,
that told them he was dangerous. It was those eyes that told them he was an Enforcer. Woody
parted his trench coat and stuck his hands in his pockets, deep in thought.
He looked down at the body of Stevens, this time from his own point of view, not from
the killer’s. He turned to look at the murderer whose vision he had briefly shared, another of the
powers granted by augmented reality. This technology was a potent weapon for law
enforcement, who could use it to look through the eyes of criminals or witnesses. Woody
crouched next to the two dead men, examining them closely. Around these bodies streamed a
wealth of information that only a detective would find useful. Body temperatures, measurements,
blood types, and countless other pieces of forensic evidence were displayed in Woody’s vision.
“Sir,” another voice asked from behind Woody. This one sounded mechanical, as if it had
been projected by a speaker rather than a human mouth. “Why are we here? As Enforcers, our
job is to hunt down active criminals that have been confirmed guilty through FAR Sight. This
perpetrator is already dead.”
“I appreciate the reminder Tex,” Woody muttered dryly. “We’re here because this case
doesn’t make any goddamn sense. I can feel something’s wrong.”
“Ah, one of your feelings. Apologies, sir.” Tex responded. Woody turned to his partner.
As always, he was momentarily awed by the sheer size of it…or rather, him, as Woody had
already begun to think. TX-7732, or “Tex” as Woody had dubbed him, was a humanoid robot
that stood well over six feet tall. His body was covered in dull silver plating that was thick
enough to stop any low caliber bullet with ease. Over his chest he wore an Enforcer’s tactical
vest with the word POLICE emblazoned on the front. Woody always thought that whomever had
designed the TX models had abandoned making them look human in favor of making them look
intimidating. He was certainly built with their job in mind. His body was covered in dull plating
that could stop a bullet, and with his mechanical limbs he could out-muscle even the most
dangerous criminal. He could easily crack a man’s skull as easily as one might crack an egg, but
he couldn’t kill. Not unless extremely specific circumstances were met, and not without
Woody’s direct order. From within Tex’s armored face, a pair of eye-like receptors returned
Woody’s gaze.
“Are you mocking my flawless instincts?” Woody feigned shock at his partner’s claim.
He often had such ‘feelings’ about cases, almost like a sixth sense. They were accurate
too…usually.
“Of course not, sir,” Tex responded evenly, “but there was that case—”
“That case doesn’t count. My instincts are always on point. That’s why we’re the best,”
Woody interjected. Their track record was indeed impressive.
“If you say so, sir.”
Being paired with a machine had been jarring at first, even a little insulting, Woody
recalled. After all, Tex was one of the first robot Enforcers. Despite that, his artificial
intelligence made him seem almost human sometimes. Even now, Woody sensed that his
mechanical partner was teasing him. Woody didn’t mind of course, as Tex was usually the one
on the receiving end. This was just another sign that his partner had begun to adapt to Woody’s
sense of humor.
“Alright then tinman, let’s go over it one more time.” Woody began, “We have our perp,
Terry Montag. Family man, wife and kids, a real swell guy if all accounts are accurate. No
previous criminal record. He gets fired from his job at ARacle, gets pissed, and blows away his
supervisor Richard Stevens. Then he puts a bullet in his own brainpan. Not to mention, he kept
his Sight lenses in, which only a total dumbass would do. It’s like the guy wanted to be caught.
The victim was also clean as a whistle before this incident.” As he spoke the names of the people
involved in the case, all of their records and information made themselves available in his visual
display. Woody glanced at them briefly to confirm what he knew, and then banished the data
with a wave of his hand. He questioned his partner, “None of this seems off to you?”
Tex didn’t take long to consider his response. His processors worked much faster than a
human brain. He said, “Humans do tend to act in rational patterns. A human with a strictly
nonviolent past and no sign of mental instability would be unlikely to commit murder without an
extreme stressor for influence. The loss of a job does not fit this description. It is also common
practice for criminals to remove their AR lenses to avoid being tracked by FAR Sight, ensuring
Enforcers must rely on the perspectives of witnesses.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Woody remarked, somewhat sarcastically, at Tex’s
mechanical response.
“Terry Montag was under extreme stress and had no experience operating as a criminal.
It is possible that his mind was too occupied to remove his lenses.” Tex noted.
Woody considered this, then said, “Possible, but unlikely. Especially considering he was
one of ARacle’s boys. He knows what FAR Sight can do better than most.” The more he thought
about this case, the less it made sense to him. Why would a family man become a murderer?
Why make it so obvious? There were too many unanswered questions. Woody hated that. He
added, “We’re taking this case.”
“It is your call sir, but anymore non-Enforcer police work may upset Chief Banks.” Tex
reminded him. “You are already on her ‘shit list,’ as you call it.”
“Don’t remind me.” Woody grumbled. More firmly, he said, “The plan is to investigate
this on the side. What the Chief doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Besides…I have a really bad feeling
about this one. Everyone takes advantage of augmented reality thanks to ARacle, even us.
They’re giving their shit out for free for god’s sake. Now their employees are killing each over.
If there’s something nefarious is going on at the biggest tech company in the world, this could be
huge. The fact that we aren’t being ordered to follow up on this is what really bugs me.”
“Perhaps Chief Banks believes it is a job better suited for standard law enforcement.” Tex
suggested, helpfully as ever. Woody rolled his eyes.
“Doubt it, but who knows with her. Speaking of standard law enforcement, we’d better
stop hogging the crime scene before they start hating us even more.” He waved to the officers
that were maintaining the perimeter. “You boys can have your turn. We’re done here.”
As they moved away from that gruesome scene, Tex said, “It’s me they hate, not you.”
“I know, I was just being polite,” was Woody’s snide reply, but then realizing he may
have been a bit too harsh, continued, “Don’t take it personally. They just don’t like the idea of a
machine outranking them.”
 “Technically, I don’t outrank them. Enforcers are outside of the normal chain of
command and answer only to the Chief of Police for their respective division.” Tex was always
quick to correct him.
“That’s not how they see it,” Woody said, Anyway, let’s head back to the station. Bring
the car around.”
“Already done.” Tex replied, and on his command, their self-driving cruiser rolled to a
stop in the street beside them. It was an old model from 2040, with numerous dings and scratches
visible in its dull grey paint which had been a brilliant silver. Over eight years old and she still
ran like a dream. Woody had refused an upgrade when they were offered one by the department.
Maybe that was a part of the reason that they had assigned Tex to him. He got attached to
machines, maybe because it was easier than getting attached to people in his line of work.
Woody walked to the driver’s side of the old muscle car and opened the door, which slid
upwards with a soft hiss.
The inside of the cruiser was similarly well-used. The leather seats were torn in several
places, and the floors were covered in the crumbs of many an on-the-job meal (at least on the
driver side, Tex didn’t need to eat, and he would be much less sloppy if he could). Between the
front seats, Tex’s Taser shotgun waited, as if eager to be used. Woody eased himself into the
driver’s seat, which conformed perfectly to his body. Tex did the same on the passenger’s side.
He had to rotate the antennae on either side of his head down in order to accommodate for his
height, a subtle action that had always amused Woody.
Woody recalled when he was a kid and cars had required constant manual driving. Unlike
in those antiques, there was no gearshift or buttons that controlled the temperature or radio.
Everything was augmented and appeared before his eyes only when he needed it. Even the
steering wheel was inlaid neatly into the dashboard while the car operated itself, only coming
forth if Woody chose to drive manually.
“Take us to the station,” were the only words Woody had to utter for the car to comply.
On the edges of the windshield, a digital overlay appeared showing their arrival time and current
speed. They would arrive in less than ten minutes, thanks to the ridiculous speeds at which self-
driving cars were allowed to operate. The Enforcer’s cruiser vanished into the night, ready to
pursue its prey.