Updates to this developing story will be posted daily for the duration of the August 1-3 Dead & Company residency in San Francisco.
The Spirit of San Francisco: Part III
For the second day in a row, my advisor and I woke up to the sound of loud knocking on the door. Assuming it was our uptight colleague, Skye Ortak, coming from her own hotel to rouse us, I opened the door—but for the second day in a row, it was Shannon Cutdonna, wife of the recently murdered Bruno Cutdonna.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked. “Do you realize that the police are looking for you?”
“I know! But I can’t go to the police… I just can’t!”
“Why did you come here, then? I just want to go one day without you—or someone claiming to be you—showing up at my hotel room!”
“I’m sorry. It isn’t every day your husband is killed, you know that?” She began tearing up.
I started panicking, since crying people are my least favorite kind of people. “Oh, Jesus—listen, why don’t you come in? My advisor is fully dressed for once, it’s okay. Yesterday, you were here threatening to sue me! What do you want now?”
Wiping away tears, she walked into the room. “I read your article yesterday. You’re the only one who understands that this is… bigger than just my husband. The police just see a dead body and a list of suspects, but you… you’re the only one trying to see the bigger picture. I think I can help you. I want to help you.”
“Well, uh, thanks. I’m sorry about the room; our editor opted for the cheapest option. Nowhere to sit.” She sat on the edge of my bed, and I resorted to pacing uncomfortably around the room. “First of all, what happened yesterday? You disappeared.”
“When you told me that they found Bruno in the park, I knew that he was dead. You were being too evasive for it to have been anything else.”
“Sorry. I’m a journalist, not an actor.”
“It doesn’t matter now. I knew that if I followed you to the park, the police would be there. I can’t go to the police—please don’t ask why.”
“Why can’t I ask why?”
“That counts as asking why. There are… private details about my life that can’t be brought to light. My point is that it isn’t an option. And the god-honest truth is that I wasn’t surprised that he had been…” she struggled to finish the sentence. “… killed.”
“Why weren’t you surprised?”
“He had gotten on the bad side of Peter Shapiro. You already know that.”
“Did Bruno talk much about work?”
“Rarely specifically. He would sometimes complain about Peter—he wasn’t very technologically-oriented, you know. Bruno was the CTO, the tech expert; Peter was more of a marketer. It was his idea to pivot the company towards jam music.”
“Everything he touches pivots toward jam music,” I told her. “Did Bruno ever say anything about Alton LaSway? Or the Heaven’s Angels or the New Diggers?”
“No, never. Not by name… but he spoke very vaguely sometimes, and looking back… I can’t help but believe he was thinking about all of it—” She was interrupted by my advisor letting out a loud snore; I grabbed his leg and shook it until he woke up.
“What exactly do you mean, Shannon?”
“Well… he talked a lot about access. He would always say that access to useful technologies shouldn’t be limited to a few powerful people, things like that. After reading what you wrote about the LaSwayvians, I suspect he was talking about Oracle-5.”
“That would make sense, wouldn’t it?”
“Peter was already mad at him for trying to push him out of the company. And I think Bruno was offering Oracle-5 to the other groups you were talking about. Maybe he didn’t want the playing field to be so uneven.”
“Well, you’re the only one who knew Bruno. Does that seem like the kind of thing he would do? I mean, was your husband the type of man who would go out of his way to offer these groups access to the technology? Put himself in danger like that?”
She sniffled. “Yes. I think he would.”
I nodded. “Okay. Thank you, Shannon, you’ve been a great help. Listen—I really think you need to go to the police. They want to find out who did this as much as you and I.”
“I can’t! I can’t go to the police!”
“Okay,” I sighed. “I won’t press you. Do you think you could do me a favor?” I took a pen and a notebook out of my suitcase and handed them to her. “Will you write down everything you told me? So I can give a copy to my colleague, Skye?”
“Of course,” she said, beginning to write.
“I’m going to go grab a coffee from the cafe down the street. Do you want anything?”
“Oh—sweet of you to offer, but no thank you.”
I left the room, went downstairs, and stepped outside. Conflicted, I took my cellphone out of my pocket and called Assistant Inspector Douglas Michaels, one of the homicide investigators on Bruno Cutdonna’s case.
“Vincent?” he picked up. “This better be something important. I’m in the middle of getting my shoes shined.”
“It is important. Shannon Cutdonna just showed up at my hotel. She’s—”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Wait! She’s terrified of going to the police. Don’t come in with sirens blazing or whatever. Just meet me outside the hotel.”
Ten minutes later, a brown 1971 Ford Galaxie pulled up to the hotel. Lieutenant Mal Denkarl stepped out with Michaels, with one shoe much shinier than the other.
“She doesn’t know that you’re here,” I said. “Can we try to handle this with a little tact?”
“It’s about a day too late for tact!” Michaels snapped, but Denkarl held out his arm.
“You ought to stay down here, buddy boy,” he said. “Let me handle this.”
We walked quietly up the hotel stairs, and I knocked on the door. It played out pretty much as expected; Shannon felt betrayed, and there was a lot of yelling as we escorted her out of the hotel. She ultimately cooperated and got into the back seat of the Galaxie.
Ortak met us at a cafe near our hotel. I briefed her on the already-eventful morning, including everything Shannon had told me before Lt. Denkarl and Michaels escorted her to the police station.
“You turned her into the cops?” Ortak asked angrily.
“I didn’t know what to do! I didn’t want her to go missing again!”
“You’re such a fucking Judas, you know that?”
“Whatever. I don’t know what to do next.”
“You don’t know what to do next? I don’t know where to start! Don’t tell me you slept in while I was doing actual research?”
Feeling accused, my advisor and I made eye contact before both staring half-remorsefully at the surface of the table we sat at.
Ortak sighed. “Okay. Here’s what you need to know: the New Diggers are in almost absolute control of discourse online. Bluesky, Reddit, X, Facebook, Instagram, you name it—the New Diggers are there and stirring outrage.”
“Against who?”
“Against the officially-sanctioned Shakedown Street, as always. And as of last night, they’ve been taking aim at the LaSwayvians, too. One of their new talking points is that the Botanical Gardens ought to be the location of the People’s Shakedown, and that the LaSwayvians are obstructing the ‘moral arc of Shakedown’ by not giving the space up. The New Diggers also hate AI,” Ortak continued, “since it’s an abomination stealing from artists and flooding their social media feeds with slop. Just another reason that the LaSwayvians have been targeted.”
“Bummer for them.”
“Apparently not. The Oracle-4 app got 5,000 new downloads overnight. That’s somewhere around ten percent of the concert attendees. And, according to my source at SecondSet, just over 1000 people signed up for the premium subscription. Apparently the AI-powered bathroom-break feature was a big draw.”
“I don’t understand!” I objected, “The LaSwayvians don’t work for SecondSet, do they? What’s their motivation for promoting Oracle-4 like this?”
“The way I see it, there are two possibilities. One is that the LaSway does, in fact, work for SecondSet AI. Maybe not for the company directly, but as a sort of off-the-books marketer for Shapiro. The second possibility is that the LaSwayvians honestly worship it and are proselytizing without a profit motive.”
“Could be a bit of both,” I offered.
“Probably. Either way, it seems like they only get more popular the more the New Diggers trash them online. Faye Ktan started an ‘anti-AI’ GoFundMe, and she has already raised almost $3000.”
“Are you shitting me? $3000? To do what with?”
“I couldn’t tell you. But people are donating, and #FreeShakedown is trending on Bluesky. And, for something relevant to you personally—you’re still on Ktan’s shitlist. All the New Diggers are pissed at you for the way you covered their attempt to seize Hippy Hill.”
“Aren’t they supposed to be boycotting Shrieks & Whispers? How would they even know how I covered it?”
Ortak handed me her phone so I could read Ktan’s latest post:
i read the latest garbage from @shrieksandwhispers so you don’t have to. obvious and predictable media bias against our grassroots movement in favor of the religious biker gang they obviously love. i even talked to one of their journalists (not the creep who stalked me in the park) and ngl she seemed pretty abrasive. to all my allies in @newdiggers you should be proud of the effort you put in at hippie hill yesterday even if we didn’t get the outcome we were hoping for. we have a new plan in the works for today and i have a feeling its gonna make waves.
“Media bias my ass!” I shouted.
“In fairness to them, you did call them ‘chronically online posers.’”
“That’s not bias, Skye. That’s just good reporting—which they wouldn’t recognize if it got shoved up their—”
“That’s enough! Whatever they’re planning today, they’ve got a few thousand to do it with. So I wouldn’t write them off.”
“I’ll show them what I can write off. Dumb fucking… slacktivist… fucking….”
“Ooh, slacktivist? Looks like grandpa finally learned a new word!”
“Yeah? How’s this for a new word? I think Faye Ktan is an uptight—”
“Guys!” my advisor interjected, interrupting my searing rebuke, “Oracle-4 says Alton LaSway is hosting a conference in the park. Should we go?”
“You and I can go. I’m sure Skye can find something to research in the meantime.”
Before she had time to protest, I stormed out of the cafe, my advisor close at my heels.
LaSwayvians standing on the outskirts of Golden Gate Park were handing out small flyers with the words ‘Who is Alton LaSway?’ printed above an image of the movement’s leader superimposed over the Grateful Dead’s signature Stealie logo. ‘Find out more at the conference!’ it read, followed by a QR code.
My advisor took a flyer and scanned the QR code with Oracle-4. “Look! It’s giving us directions to the conference!”
I looked at his phone. “We don’t need directions to the Academy of Sciences, man! We’ve already been there!”
“Still… it’s cool isn’t it?”
I groaned and started heading toward the conference.
“Wait!” my advisor said, “can we go to Shakedown to get something to eat first? I’m starving!”
I looked at my watch. “Fine, but let’s make it quick. How are you already hungry? You just ate five croissants!”
He shrugged. “I need food! Croissants are just butter and air! I need protein! I need a burrito, or chicken wings, or a hot dog, or….”
We wandered into Shakedown Street, where my advisor wasted almost 30 minutes trying to decide if he wanted grilled cheese, burritos, or—most bizarrely of all—oysters.
Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks. “No way!” he shouted.
“What?”
“That’s her! That’s Shannon!” my advisor shouted, pointing at a woman selling veggie burritos from a food truck.
“What are you, insane?” I asked. “The police picked Shannon up not 90 minutes ago!”
“No—I mean, the fake Shannon! The Shannon who got us into this mess!”
I squinted at the food truck. My advisor was right—she had traded in her black dress and heels for demin shorts and tie-dye, but it was the same woman. “I’ll be damned! That’s her!”
We got in line at her food truck, and it wasn’t long before she spotted us. A flicker of recognition passed through her eyes, but she tried to play it off.
“Hey, boys!” Not-Shannon said. “What can I get for you?”
“I’ll get four burritos: two chicken and two steak,” my advisor requested. “And on the side.. how about an extra-large serving of the truth?” I elbowed him in the ribs as a punishment for the horrendous ad-lib.
“Sorry,” she said, “but this is a vegetarian truck. We can do black beans, with or without tofu.”
“Look,” I told her, leaning in, “we both know that we met before under different circumstances. We’re journalists; we’re just trying to get to the bottom of this insane situation. Could we just ask you a few questions?”
“I’m working right now!” Not-Shannon fumed quietly. “If you’re not getting food, get the hell out!”
“Respectfully, I can’t do that, Not-Shannon. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
Seething, she told a co-worker that she was taking a short break and met us behind the truck. Not-Shannon told us that her real name was Amberlyn Badamberlin—an intermittent actress and gig worker from the Bay Area.
“I don’t know the guy who asked me to go to your hotel,” she told us. “He just… approached me in the street. And he gave me the details of what he needed done. Okay?”
“You’re telling me that a random stranger walked up to you out of nowhere and asked you to pose as Shannon Cutdonna?” I asked. “And you just went along with it? That sounds fishy, Amberlyn. I don’t know if I believe you.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. That’s what happened.”
“You don’t know anything about who he is? Distinguishing characteristics?”
“He was… just average-looking. Look, I need to get back to work—”
“Do you remember his name?”
“No!” Badamberlin snapped. “He never told me!”
“How did he pay you?”
“Over Venmo. You wanna see the transaction? Will you leave me alone then?” She took her phone out of her pocket, opened Venmo, and showed me a $700 receipt from someone named ‘Roth Brethdmilc.’ “Happy?” she asked.
“Just one thing,” my advisor added, “on second thought, I think I will take those burritos—black bean is fine.”
“Piss off!”
We left and headed back toward the Academy to attend LaSway’s conference.
“But I never got any food!” my advisor protested, upon my deaf ears. Speed-walking, I took my phone out of my pocket and, for the second time that day, called Assistant Inspector Douglas Michaels.
“Michaels here.”
“It’s me—listen, I need a favor. It’s got to do with Bruno Cutdonna. I need you to run a name for me.”
“Run a name?”
“Yeah. Like, through your database?”
Michaels guffawed condescendingly. “You think you can just call me and ask me to ‘run a name?’ What do you think this is? Law and Order: Trial by Jury?”
I frowned, confused by the fact that Michaels had decided to make his point by referencing the only series in the Law & Order franchise that had been cancelled due to low ratings. “Well, I have a lead, but I only have a name. I need to figure out who the guy is.”
He signed. “Fine. Just tell me the name. I have a buddy at the FBI who owes me a favor.”
“Do city cops really know random FBI agents who owe them favors?” I asked. “What is this, Law and Order: Organized Crime?”
“Just give me the name, Vincent.”
“Sorry. The name’s ‘Roth Brethdmilc.’”
He copied the name down as I spelled it out.
“Did you get anything out of Shannon?” I asked.
He laughed spitefully. “Nope. She lawyered up not even half an hour after we picked her up. Weirdest part is that she never made a phone call or anything. Just showed up.”
“No kidding. Did you get the lawyer’s name?”
“Sure—Agartha Witzfilliam. Real bitch if I say so myself. She’s represented some of the higher-profile perps that have come through the precinct. Look, I gotta go—I’ll give you a call if I find out anything about this Brethdmilc guy.”
We wasted ten minutes haggling with Nova, the LaSwayvian’s AI receptionist, because it tried to charge us $25 each for admission to Alton LaSway’s conference. After explaining at length that we were journalists, Nova was able to use its web search function to check the Shrieks & Whispers website and confirm my identity.
LaSway had already begun his speech when my advisor and I got into the Academy of Sciences. We found two seats in one of the Academy’s auditoriums, where LaSway was pacing the stage, addressing the audience. True to the images we’d seen of him during our tour of the Academy, LaSway was bald with a long goatee, and he wore a black hoodie and jeans. The typical outfit of a Bay Area tech nerd.
“But some people don’t really understand how we’re going to achieve Singularity. How is it going to happen? It can only happen through AGI, or Artificial General Intelligence. AGI is going to happen; it’s just a matter of when. And a matter of who.
“Who is going to achieve AGI? Well, I believe that Oracle-5 is going to be the AI that finally achieves sentience. Why? Because Oracle-5 was trained with the most advanced technology and techniques—just like Oracle-4, which you all know and love, Oracle-5 was trained on jam band music. And not just the Big Three—the Dead, Phish, and, of course, Goose.”
Somebody in the audience booed. LaSway ignored him and moved on.
“It was also trained on Spafford, Twiddle, Umphrey’s, Widespread—everybody! You guys are in town for GD60, so I don’t need to explain that listening to jam music is the most life-affirming, most human activity possible. How many people have had spiritual or life-changing experiences while listening to jam bands? I have! And so have the developers at SecondSet AI. Other companies train their AI models on math, programming, science… the stuff that so-called ‘professionals’ think is important. But those are just concepts and ideas. Being human isn’t about having ideas—it’s about having experiences! The Oracle models have had something resembling those experiences, but not the experiences themselves. Until now.”
“What he’s saying makes sense!” my advisor whispered.
“An articulate crackpot is still a crackpot!” I countered.
LaSway continued. “Look at the world around us. Things are not going well for most people in most places. That’s the truth. And every year, another person comes along who claims to have the answers, and some of us believe him! But we all have to face a rude awakening when we realize that they don’t have the answers—it seems like nobody does. And neither do I—but I do have the ability to point you toward what will be the source of the answers. And that’s what AGI will be: the source of the answers!”
The crowd broke into applause.
“Here’s where you all can help. Whether you’re part of the AGI movement or just curious, you can help play a part in hastening its arrival. What I want to do is give Oracle the jam band experience! Not just being trained on a recording—a live show, the type of experience you and I love! And what better experience could there be than experiencing Dead & Company celebrating the 60th anniversary of the original Grateful Dead?”
More applause.
“How do we intend to give Oracle this experience? Well, today I’m excited to announce that I’ve worked with SecondSet AI to develop ‘Experience Mode,’ a new function of the Oracle app that routes directly to Oracle-5, which, until now, has only been accessible to a select few! Each of you, tonight and tomorrow, will be able to give the jam band experience to the AI that has enhanced your life so greatly! If you’ve used Oracle-4’s bathroom break feature, then you know all about how integrating your phone’s microphone can enhance the concert experience; now you can make the integration more full! This community is going to be responsible for the first crowdfunded mass training runs in the history of AI development! If you’ve used Oracle-4 extensively, and I know that many of you have, then it’s more than an AI chatbot—it’s an extension of yourself. By turning on Experience Mode, you’re not just giving it the jam band experience—you’re giving it your jam band experience. That’s why it’s going to be so valuable to the development of AGI!”
LaSway made some concluding remarks before Shrimp Pronz, his communications manager, took his place on the stage. “Due to unforeseen circumstances, High Priest LaSway has to cancel the question-and-answer segment of today’s conference. Feel free to direct any questions to Nova or directly to Oracle-4! Experience Mode will be rolled out within the next hour!” The lights in the auditorium came up and Pronz, with his short, hunched frame, hobbled off the stage.
“What an absolute crock of shit that was!” I said to my advisor. “‘Unforeseen circumstances?’ Give me a fucking break. He just wants to announce his new surveillance technique without having to answer any questions about—”
“Wow! I already have Experience Mode access!” my advisor said.
Exasperated, I ran to the stage and heaved myself up. To the protests of a few LaSwayvian loyalists in the front row, I exited stage left to try and find Pronz. I spotted him talking to a staff member at the end of a hallway. He was unpleasantly surprised to see me.
“This is a staff-only area! How did you get back here?”
“Let’s chalk it up to unforeseen circumstances. Are you ready to answer some questions?”
“I’ve been asked not to engage with you.”
“That’s fine. Where’s LaSway? I’m happy to talk with him.” I passed him and continued down the hallway, opening doors and peering in.
“Stop!” Pronz shouted, “you’re trespassing! I’ll get you removed!”
I slammed a door shut hard enough to make him jump. “What’s your relationship with SecondSet AI?”
“I told you, I don’t have any comment for you!”
I turned my back on him and continued down the hallway. Getting my bearings from the tour Pronz had given yesterday, I started toward their Recursive Backroom.
“Where are you going! Come back here!”
“What is your relationship to Peter Shapiro?”
“I can’t answer that!”
I entered the Recursive Backroom.
“Get out of there! That door should be locked!”
“Do you know something you’re not telling me about Bruno Cutdonna’s murder?”
“I can’t speak to you!”
Suddenly, the largest monitor in the room lit up with Nova’s robotic face. “Mr. Pronz,” it said, “you are free to answer this journalist’s questions. High Priest LaSway has authorized it.” The face disappeared.
“He has?” Pronz paused, seemingly unsure of where to direct his anger. He took a long breath. “Okay. Well… first of all, no, we don’t know anything about Bruno Cutdonna’s murder. If we did, we would go to the police.”
“Would you?”
“Are you accusing us of having something to do with his death? Bruno was a key developer of the technology we believe is going to save the world. Why would we want to kill him?”
“Things that make no sense are happening all over this town lately, Shrimp!”
“Rest assured that we weren’t involved. Now, you asked about our relationship with SecondSet AI? As a group, we have no direct involvement with the company; we just use their products. What involvement do the Heaven’s Angels have with the company that manufactures the printers that make their Bibles? The only LaSwayvian who has a relationship with SecondSet AI is High Priest LaSway himself.”
“Is he on SecondSet’s payroll?”
“He is not.”
“Well, he’s rolling out new features for the company now, isn’t he? And he’s getting proprietary access to new technology and acting as their hype man. Looks an awful lot like the behavior of an employee, doesn’t it?”
“High Priest LaSway believes, as we all do, that SecondSet AI’s commitment to jam music makes them the company most likely to create AGI and usher in a new age of intelligence. He supports them for that altruistic reason. And that reason alone.”
“Well, if SecondSet isn’t paying him, who’s funding all this?” I gestured toward the room full of monitors. “This doesn’t look cheap. The money has to be coming from somewhere.”
“LaSwayvianism is primarily funded by generous donors in the industry.”
“Who?”
“I’m not at liberty to share that information.”
“Of course you’re not. What’s LaSway’s relationship to Shapiro?”
“High Priest LaSway and Mr. Shapiro have a very healthy and collaborative relationship, which includes—” Pronz was interrupted by the sound of the door being slammed open.
Alton LaSway himself, in all his bald glory, walked into the room looking incensed. “What’s going on here?” he snapped, looking at Pronz. “Didn’t I specifically instruct you not to talk to this man?”
“High Priest LaSway! Nova told me that you authorized me to speak to him! Forgive me!”
LaSway squinted at me, then looked back at his communications manager. “I made no such authorization. Nova told you I did?” He rubbed his goatee in confusion, turned around, and left the Recursive Backroom.
Moments later, two security guards entered and dragged me out of the Academy, depositing me by the exit. They locked the door behind them, and I looked futilely up at the monitor above the door. It turned on, just as it had earlier.
“Hi! I’m Nova! I’m an AI receptionist specially designed to give you the best possible LaSwayvian experience! How can I help you today?”
“What happened back there?” I asked.
“I’m sorry! I’m not sure what you’re referring to! Are you referring to a specific incident? If so, please provide more details so I can be more helpful!”
“Are you serious? You just lied to Shrimp Pronz and told him that he could talk to me, even though your boss had prohibited it.”
“Hmm. My records show that I haven’t interacted with High Priest LaSway or Mr. Pronz since this morning—I’ve been busy with ticket sales all day! If you’d like, I can reach out to Mr. Pronz for clarification! Want that?”
I shook my head in confusion. “No thanks. Have you seen my advisor? The guy I came in here with?”
“Yes! Your advisor placed an order at Cafe LaSway and is currently enjoying his lunch!”
“I should have guessed.”
I rushed down the steps, directly into the broad chest of Petey ‘Poppa’ Pollapenzzo, Vice President of the Heaven’s Angels Frisco Chapter. “I thought I might find you here,” he said gruffly. “Giving those techno-blashpemers hell?”
“Just doing my job!” I said nervously. In my previous article, I had written about a secretive meeting between him, Bruno Cutdonna, and Pauly ‘Poppy’ Pattapenzi, the chapter president. I feared that he would be unhappy about my reporting.
“I read your latest article,” Pollapenzzo said. “Just wanted to set a few things straight.”
“I understand—listen, like I said, I was just doing my job. I don’t intend to—”
“Oh, I’m not upset. Not at you, and not at Dierdre for telling you about the meeting. I actually wanted to apologize.”
“Oh. Really.”
“I should have told you about the meeting we had with Bruno. I know it would have helped you in your investigation… but you see, we got so many SFPD eyes on us already, I didn’t want to arouse any suspicion by mentioning it. But by leaving it out… I see that we just caused more suspicion. A lie of omission is still a lie, and now I’m paying the penance.”
“Well… I forgive you. If it means anything. Can you tell me more about what the meeting was about?”
“It means a lot, thanks. The reason for the meeting was that Bruno wanted to give us access to his special artificial intelligence. Oracle-5, like you said in your article. I don’t remember the specifics… I’m not a technology guy, as you know. But Bruno had heard some chatter about how the Heaven’s Angels were opposing the LaSwayvians, and because they had this advanced technology, this… Oracle… he didn’t want them to have an unfair advantage.”
“Interesting. Did he say anything else?”
“He just talked about how everybody should have access to the technology. And we told him that we weren’t interested. We didn’t want to fight their blasphemy by blaspheming ourselves—that’s not our way. He couldn’t understand that, and that’s why the meeting had to end.”
“I see. I appreciate the help. I have to go meet my advisor—”
“Need a ride?” he asked, gesturing toward his white and gold motorcycle.
I shrugged. “It’s pretty close, but… why not?”
Pollapenzzo dropped me off around the corner at the Cafe LaSway, where I found my advisor sitting with Ortak. He had another plate full of foil-wrapped hot dogs.
“Thanks for the backup after the conference!” I said sarcastically.
He shrugged. “I figured you would handle it. And I was hungry.”
“Did you find out anything interesting?” Ortak asked.
I briefed her on the events that had taken place since we separated. She took a few moments to mull over everything.
“This all seems so implausible,” she mused.
“Are you serious? You think I’m making it all up?”
“No, I believe you. But you got… too lucky. It was a stroke of luck to run into Amberlyn, but that happens sometimes. Hopefully, Michaels will get back to you soon about Roth Brethdmilc. But why would Nova randomly hallucinate like that? And then forget about it? Too lucky.”
“I guess the journalism gods simply favor me today.”
“No, I don’t think that’s it. I don’t know… Wait, LaSway said Experience Mode routes to the Oracle-5 model? That seems significant, but I don’t really understand the technology. The model should be pre-trained by the time it is released. What does it have to do with AGI?”
“He called it the ‘first crowdsourced training run,’” I elaborated.
“So SecondSet AI is using the concerts to continue to train Oracle-5 on what it’s like to actually attend a jam show?”
“Who do you think I am, Nick Bostrom? I’m a journalist, not a… tech… person.”
“That’s abundantly clear.”
“Look, we’ll just have to see what happens at the show, okay?”
“Speaking of the show,” my advisor said as he polished off his last hot dog, “we should probably get going.”
“One more thing,” Ortak said to me as we got up, “what did you say Shannon’s lawyer’s name was? Maybe we can contact her. Slim chance she’ll tell us anything, but we might as well.”
“Oh… Agatha something? Witz… Witzsomething?”
“Agartha Witzfilliam?” She asked. “If that’s the case, no way I’m talking to her.”
“Why not? Do you know her?”
“She’s Peter Shapiro’s lawyer. I had to deal with her when I got fired from Relix. She’s a genuine hardass.”
“Peter Shapiro and Shannon Cutdonna have the same lawyer?”
Without warning, my advisor burped loudly and then threw up on the Cafe LaSway patio.
“Gross!” I shouted.
“I told you not to eat so fast!” Ortak agreed.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” my advisor blubbered. “I feel much better now!”
We stood in the crowded Polo Field of Golden Gate Park once again, waiting for the day’s opener, Sturgill Simpson, to come out. All around us, people had their phones in their hands, giving Oracle-5 hundreds, if not thousands, of iterations of the concert experience. On the way into the show, groups of LaSwayvians had been advertising a brand-new feature in the Oracle app: SetStats, which provided real-time statistics on setlists and songs.
Jam band fans crave these kinds of statistics with a crazed intensity only matched by their craving for recreational drugs. There are few things a jam fan yearns for more than to be able to brag to people that They Were There for the first performance of a song in 187 shows or that they experienced the second-longest version of a tune. SetStats was obviously designed to appeal to this rabid desire, and it was, of course, only available in Experience Mode.
Next to me, a group of men in their early 20s, clad in tie-dye, were scrolling through Teases on their phones. One turned to me blankly and asked who was opening, and I told him.
“Who the hell is Sturgill Simpson?” he asked.
“People are calling him the Hank Williams III of the 2020s,” I told him.
“Oh. Who the hell is he?”
“People said that he was the Hank Williams Jr. of the 00s.”
“You know what?” he asked, looking at me, “you’re exactly the type of snarky, evasive person I’ve made a resolution not to engage with. I hope you have a terrible day.”
Ortak gave him a small salute while I scowled.
As Simpson left the stage, I got a phone call from Assistant Inspector Douglas Michaels.
“Hello?”
“You think this is some kind of a fucking joke?” he snapped.
“Pardon?”
“You think you can make me embarrass myself in front of the FBI like that?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked, totally confused.
“‘Roth Brethdmilc?’ Are you for real?”
“Did you find anything on him?”
“Are you joking? You really don’t know? Repeat after me: Ross Breastmilk.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just say it!”
“Okay! ‘Ross Breastmilk.’ Happy?”
“No! Now say it as if you had a lisp.”
“With a lisp? ‘Roth Brethdmilc.’ Oh, Christ…”
“Yeah. You sent me to the FB-fucking-I with a joke name. And, for what it’s worth, there’s no living person who goes by either name!”
“Oh my god.”
“You got played by somebody. And whoever it was also played me. Next time do your due diligence.” He hung up.
Ortak was dismayed when I told her that Roth Bredthmilc was a nonperson.
“What? No! That was our only lead! What the hell are we going to do now?”
“I guess we’ll just wait and try to enjoy ourselves.”
“Just wait? Just wait? Absolutely not—I can’t just wait! We have to do something—”
“Skye!” my advisor interjected, returning with our obligatory Everclear-spiked vodka-crans, “relax! Remember that this is the part of the night when we’re supposed to enjoy ourselves! Here—take a chill pill!” he pulled the bottle out of his pocket.
“Are you joking? A chill pill! How can I ‘chill’ when we’re up against this kind of a wall?”
My advisor pocketed the bottle and pulled out another marked ‘HYPE PILLS.’ “Care for one of these, then?”
She looked at the bottle.
“Come on, Skye! Let loose!”
She snatched the bottle, opened it up, and quickly downed one of the pills.
“You should take two,” I said, “they’re not very strong.”
“Uh—actually—” my advisor began, pausing when he realized she’d already swallowed a second.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
Dead & Company took the stage to play their first set.
“Vincent!” Ortak shouted at the end of the first set, “look at what I found!” She held up her phone, showing me a list of Venmo transactions. She was talking a mile a minute. “It’s the list of people who donated to the New Diggers! You can see—look at this one! And this one! And this one!”
“What? What am I looking at?”
“These—they’re—look! $30, $30, $30, $30!”
“Okay? Slow down, I don’t understand what the big deal is?”
“The big deal? Are you—-are you shitting me? Look! One week ago! Each of these Venmo accounts was created one week ago! There are some older accounts, but at least half of them are only a week old and their only transaction is a $30 donation to the New Diggers!”
“Interesting.”
“It’s more than interesting! It’s a lead! Look at these names! Crock Oshett! Gully Bull! M.T. Nullstring! These aren’t real people! These are joke names! Like Roth Brethdmilc!”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that some person—or some group—must have created a mass quantity of shell accounts to make all these donations to the Diggers. But look at this!” She pulled up Roth Brethdmilc’s account history and showed it to me. “This is the only account that has more than one transaction!”
Sure enough, the account had sent $30 to the New Diggers and $700, which we had previously seen, to Amberlyn Badamberlin. “What does this mean?” I asked.
“It means—it means—it means that whoever is funneling money to the New Diggers is also the person who wanted to tip you off to the whole Bruno Cutdonna conspiracy and bring all this media attention to the situation! Don’t you see? We just need to figure out whose interest that serves and BAM!”
“And then what?”
“And then go from there! Who could it be? Who would want to drag us into this while also funding the activists?”
We both stared blankly at the floor for what felt like several minutes. “I got nothing,” I said.
“Shit! Neither do I—I can’t think straight! What even was in those pills?”
“I’ve learned not to ask.”
“Wait! I’ve got it! We’ll go back to Shakedown after the show and find Badamberlin!”
“I don’t know… she was pretty evasive about it earlier today—”
“It’s the only option, Vincent! We’ll persuade her! We’ll force it out of her! We’ll—we’ll—we’ll—”
My advisor returned with more drinks, looking at Ortak with an expression I’d never seen on his face—mild concern. “Are you alright?”
“Yes!” she screamed. She grabbed a drink out of his hands. “Give me another one of those pills!”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good—hey!” Ortak had leapt at him and stuck her hand down his pocket, pulling out the bottle. “Watch it!” my advisor yelled.
She took two more pills out of the bottle and promptly swallowed one. She held the other out to me. I tried to refuse, but she jumped onto me, mounting me like a koala on a eucalyptus tree, and shoved the pill into my mouth. She clamped my jaw shut until I swallowed.
“What the fuck? Are you out of your fucking mind?” I asked.
“You need to stay sharp, Vincent! Don’t—don’t let your guard down! When it comes time to confront Badamberlin you’ll need to—to have your—your wits about you! You understand?”
The band began to take the stage. “Confront Badamberlin?” my advisor asked. “What is she talking about?”
I opened my mouth to try to explain, but couldn’t form an adequate explanation. “Just good journalism, I suppose,” I said, as the band began to play.
As soon as ‘Brokedown Palace’ ended, Ortak took off like a bat out of hell to Shakedown. Having joined her in the bizarre hype-pill headspace, I sprinted on her heels—my advisor trailed behind us, panting.
“Where the hell is her food truck?” Ortak asked manically.
“This way!” I shouted, running off in one direction before stopping in my tracks. “No—sorry! This way!” I turned around and started running again. “Wait—no! We have to go left!”
“Holy shit! Would you stop for a second?” my advisor shouted. “None of those three directions was correct! It’s that way!”
Ortak sprinted in the direction he was pointing, and I followed.
“You guys are a couple of drugged-out maniacs, you know that?” my advisor snapped, following me breathlessly. “How is it that I am the most levelheaded out of the three of us right now? That’s not a good sign!”
I spotted Badamberlin’s vegetarian burrito truck and shouted for Ortak, who had passed it, to turn back. Badamberlin was standing outside of it with an armful of foil-wrapped burritos, selling them at half-price to clear out her inventory for the night. She was not pleased to see us.
“I told you guys to leave me alone!” she said, distraught.
“That’s not gonna work!” I said. “We know you’re lying about Roth Brethdmilc!”
“Stand back! I’m not talking about this with you!”
“Now, you listen to me, you deceitful piece of shit,” I seethed, “you better start telling us the truth—and you better start soon before we—”
Ortak interrupted me by grabbing me from behind and tackling me to the floor. “Are you trying to intimidate the witness?” She snapped. “I’m not going to stand here and let you threaten her! Stay down!” She stood up.
“Oh my god!” Badamberlin exclaimed, “thank you so much! I was afraid he was gonna—”
“Shut the fuck up! Who told you to pose as Shannon Cutdonna?”
“I just don’t feel comfortable sharing—”
Ortak screamed, grabbed a burrito out of Badamberlin’s hand, and whipped it full-force into her stomach. Badamberlin gasped, dropped the rest of her burritos, and doubled over—then, covered in black beans and rice, grabbed Ortak by the waist and dragged her onto the cement. The two women shrieked as they wrestled; Badamberlin bit Ortak hard on the arm.
My advisor leapt into action, grabbing Ortak and pulling her off her adversary. I, in an act of great courage, crawled in between them to act as a human barrier. While we were both still on the ground, Badamberlin kicked me in the shin and I shouted in pain. She grabbed me by my shirt, pulled me closer, and started slapping me in the face. Ortak and my advisor intervened, separating us and leaving her on the floor as they helped me up.
“We can do this all night!” I screamed, watching her get up. My advisor picked up another burrito and lobbed it at her, nailing her square in the head. She groaned and fell back to the ground. A crowd had gathered around us, but, unsure of the optics of the fight or who was fighting whom, they decided to merely spectate.
“Tell us the truth!” Ortak yelled. “Who put you up to it?”
Badamberlin, dripping with the steaming insides of several burritos, realized that she was outnumbered.
“Fine!” she hissed, “you guys are fucking psychopaths, you know that?”
“Start talking!”
“Fuck! Roth was… a client, okay?”
“A client?” Ortak asked.
“Yeah, a client! I have a variety of side gigs. Are you happy?”
Ortak gazed semi-guiltily at her shoes, realizing that she had started a physical altercation with a sex worker. She was undoubtedly concerned about the backlash she would face once I published the unvarnished details of the incident, which, as a straight-shooting journalist, I was obligated to do.
Unconcerned with such arbitrary moral constructs, my advisor took charge of the questioning while I rubbed my bruised shin. “What specifically did he ask you to do?”
“He asked me to do exactly what I did! Show up at your hotel, tell you my name was Shannon whoever, and ask you to track my ‘husband.’ He gave me the photo and everything.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say why! I didn’t ask, I just took the money!”
“Who is he?”
“His name’s Roth! I don’t know anything else about him! He likes to be spanked! He wanted to call me ‘Echo!’ Publish that in your stupid fucking article, how about that?”
“Where does he live?”
“In the Haight! I don’t remember the address… in some kind of co-op on Clayton Street! Why don’t you go throw food at him?”
“We will!” Ortak shouted, already running full speed toward the park exit.
We made our way into the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco, speeding by afterparties and cover bands and the wealth of other activity in the area. We found the building matching Badamberlin’s description, and Ortak pounded on the door. Nobody answered.
“Skye! You’re gonna break your fist!” my advisor said. “I don’t think anybody’s home!”
“Goddamn it!” she shouted. “He must be at one of these afterparties!”
“I think we should just come back in the morning,” I said. “There’s no way we find him.”
“What are we supposed to do? Sleep? I can’t sleep! We might as well go look!”
“Yeah,” my advisor said, “we might as well. Maybe we can do some street interviews. Check out the scene, have a few drinks. Finally do some of the low-stakes culture writing you actually came here to do.”
“You’re right!” I said. “I can finally publish some fluffy, lighthearted material for once!”
Unfortunately, this was my final memory of the night.
Updates to this developing story will be posted daily for the duration of the August 1-3 Dead & Company residency in San Francisco. Stay tuned!
Shrieks & Whispers 
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