The bus lurched on into the city, catching seven red lights in a row. It had been a smooth ride for the most part, but now the seats rattled and knocked like the farm truck. Maybe they had switched to a human driver after exiting the freeway; maybe it was just bad roads. Rosemary tried to keep her stomach in its proper place, concentrated on the map overlaid by her Hoodie and finding the best route from the bus drop-off to her hotel.
By the time it stopped to discharge its passengers, on what looked to Rosemary like a random street corner, she was more than ready to get off the bus. She headed toward the exit holding her small bag in front of her to navigate the narrow aisle between compartments; it added a buffer between her and the person ahead if he stopped abruptly. She paused for a second on the last step, looking up at the buildings, down at the sidewalk. I’m here, she thought. I can do this.
After so many hours riding, her legs wobbled a bit with her first steps, like the ground beneath them was still moving. She walked three blocks to the hotel, enjoying the chance to stretch a bit.
The hoodmaps had left out pedestrians; they’d made her expect empty streets. Wide sidewalks let her keep her distance from the other walkers, but it was still a good reminder that even with all her preparation, real life was different. How did that Whileaway song go? I walked in with open eyes / and still you caught me by surprise. She didn’t even know what to open her eyes to, so she guessed she’d be surprised a lot.
The hotel lobby was the most ostentatious nonvirtual space she’d ever been in; she checked to see if she’d forgotten to switch to clearview on her Hoodie. Chandeliers like constellations, casting a golden light over the slick white counters, all speaking cleanliness and warmth and comfort to an exhausted Rosemary. Too many firsts for one day.
She stepped into a service booth, tapped her phone on the pad. The low battery light flashed. She wiped it against her side and tucked it back in her pocket.
Reservation confirmed, the screen read. Welcome, Mx. StageHoloLive. Please confirm identity.
That didn’t bode well. She tapped her ID to the reader, her heart sinking.
ID does not match name. Please place fingerprint against glass.
She put her finger on the smudged glass, trying not to dwell on all the other fingers that had touched it, then hit the button for assistance when it didn’t accept her fingerprint, either. The screen switched over to a cheerful-looking av, a middle-aged Mexican guy. “How can I help you? ¿Cómo puedo ayudarle? Please state another language if English or Spanish is not your preferred language.”
Rosemary wondered how someone was supposed to parse that third sentence if English wasn’t their preferred language. “I’m here on business. My company sent me, but I guess someone goofed and didn’t put my name on the reservation.”
“I’m sorry to hear about that mix-up on your company’s part. Please be advised our hotel cannot be held responsible for mix-ups on your company’s part.”
The repetition clued her in that this was an assistance bot rather than an actual person’s avatar. She wondered if there was a second button for human assistance if the bot didn’t understand her situation. Surely this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence.
“I’m sure if you call SHL they can verify I’m the person on the reservation,” she said.
“I understand you want me to call essaychel to verify you are the person on the reservation.”
“Yes!”
“That name is not a name we associate with this account. Please verify.”
“StageHoloLive. SHL, not ‘essaychel.’” She tried not to get too impatient with the machine. If bots improved their performance, companies would phase out their customer service specialists, and she’d have no Superwally job to fall back on. Maybe she ought to be celebrating its failure.
“Please wait while I call StageHoloLive.”
Yes. “Thank you.”
She waited a minute, two. Her phone buzzed. A single-word message from some nameless logistics assistant: “Sorry.”
A moment later, the bot spoke again. “StageHoloLive has changed the name on the reservation to ‘Rosemary Laws.’ This identity matches your identity as confirmed by your identification, your fingerprint, and visual ID points.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Our records show you have not stayed at a hotel in our franchise before. Our hotel chain policy is to check the identity of all guests against all public lists of terrorists, sex offenders, and violent offenders. Please stand by. If your name is on the list of sex offenders or violent offenders, you will be placed in a special wing, provided you have no outstanding warrants. If you are on the list of terrorists, you will not be permitted to stay at our franchise.”
Rosemary waited. She wondered whether the hotel pinged the police if somebody did have outstanding warrants—or if they were on an active terrorist list!—and what the special wing for violent offenders looked like, and if it counted people who had acted in self-defense. Pretty harsh to never be allowed on a regular hotel wing again if you’d served your time.
“Congratulations, your name is not on any lists of known terrorists or offenders. We apologize for the inconvenience of the wait. Your fingerprint will grant access to your floor and the lobby floor. Your room number is 2507. Welcome to the Marton family of residential experiences.”
“Thank you. Um, what floor did you say?”
“Room 2507 is on the twenty-fifth floor. The elevators are past the service desk on the left. Have a good evening.”
Rosemary slung her bag back over her shoulder and followed the bot’s directions to a bank of doors she presumed were elevators. It was silly, but she hadn’t wanted to admit to a machine that she didn’t know how to operate an elevator.
“How many in your party?” a screen between two of the doors asked, in audio and visual.
“One.”
A door to a small compartment opened and she stepped inside. The door closed behind her, faster than she expected. She pressed her finger to the ID pad, and the number 25 lit up. It was the top floor listed, but she had counted at least thirty from outside. Maybe this was like the SHL compound and they had extra floors to increase their square-footage-to-occupant ratio.
She steadied herself as she found herself pushed slightly toward the floor. It was a neat sensation. A screen at eye level proclaimed:
Every floor of our hotel is individually reinforced and blast-guarded.
Our elevators do not pick up more than one party at a time.
Marton hotels comply with all congregation and occupancy laws.
All surfaces in every room are sanitized between visits.
Please conserve water.
Your safety, health, and comfort are our primary concerns.
The door opened again on the twenty-fifth floor. She followed wall placards with numbers to her room and pressed her finger to the lockpad, saying a silent prayer that it recognize her so she didn’t have to go back downstairs. It worked. The lights came on as she opened the door.
She locked both dead bolts and the chain behind her. There was a button marked Do Not Disturb beside the light switch. She didn’t know why somebody would choose to be disturbed, but if there was a way to opt out, she approved. She dropped her bag on the bed and ducked into the bathroom to scrub the bus and strangers and fingerprint pads off her hands. The water shut off twice, and she had to wait a minute each time for the timer to reset; apparently even fancy hotels weren’t immune to conservation laws. A little gold placard on the toilet tank informed her they used a gray-water system like the one at the farm.