Mindware Issues by John Peace
Mindware Issues
By John Peace
Copyright 2012 John Peace
John Peace drip-feeds a couple of blogs at: https://johnmpeace.blogspot.ca/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
Title Page
MINDWARE ISSUES
About This Story
About The Author
Cover Art Credits
One
First thing in the morning of that day I clicked in. The abandoned office complex in Rotherhithe where I'd taken up residence was sufficiently quiet and warm that I could just prop my back against a wall and go virtual. I'd looked for somewhere like this north of the Thames, but the ganglords that way had their marks up on all the walls. I was scared, and headed over the river.
I had a feeling it wouldn't turn out to be a quiet day. When she contacted me I already had a client in the e-office. He was sitting on a gleaming fluff of cumulonimbus, looking down occasionally at the view of the wild, sprawling valley and talking fast.
By the look of his muscle-bound viking avatar, I was guessing my customer was actually an unimpressive warmbody without much legal clout. Some people do that. Online, they try to make up for what they lack in the real world. I told him I'd have to look into his case. He pressed for immediate action. Our voices boomed across the silvery air between us. Said his boss would fire him if I didn't find out who'd framed him, then he'd lose the contract on his apartment. And all he'd done was complain about the windowless cell in which he was forced to work. Of course I would have taken the case on, if I could have, and if I'd known where to start. The way he described his management made my blood boil. I've been there. He'd just done a quick search for a cheap legal investigator, and he'd come up with me.
I tried to pay attention as he kept talking, but I had so much else on my mind. My eye wandered. From my mountain-top seat I could see the western ocean. A storm purpled the horizon, and some fanciful serpents played in the deep water. I was getting to like the way I had watermarked the default sky above the mountains with:
Ghamdan Shamiri
Private Investigator
in gleaming, golden, five-kilometre-high Arial font.
Just as Viking was getting agitated, the call came from Helena - I mean, from Miss Szychter. Am I saying that right? Okay. A flashing puff of cloud with a green text tag emerged from the dormant volcano to the south. I excused myself to the Viking guy, and rotated my view. The new cloudlet swelled and approached, and there she was, regarding me thoughtfully. She hadn't even chosen an avatar. It was just her head and shoulders in a holocam: short auburn hair, discreet nose stud, pink lipstick on a pursed mouth; a severe face, like stretched; maybe pretty if she ever smiled. I decided I liked this view.
Before I could speak she asked me to examine the contract. She was in the sharpest hurry. The contract doc soared across in the form of a raven and landed next to me. Mr Dawson Jaar had only responded to my proposal the day before, at 11.12pm, and shortly after that she'd sent her persona to my cloudy office to set up this appointment. She had made it clear at once that, as his agent, she had executive power to resolve any dispute as we progressed. But she said it in the clipped tones of a professional, so it didn't sound too much like a threat: more like a routine intimidation, an implied message that put me down on the level of a poodle while she played the bulldog. She also wanted to double-check my credentials, so I passed over my P.I. certification.
She stressed that it was not a simple missing-person contract, since the person we were looking for had managed to run off and hide in a bid for his own safety. This was little more than I'd read in Mr Jaar's original request. She wouldn't say more until I'd signed the contract.
Of course, I wasn't about to turn the contract down. I put on a show of reluctance, and fed the small-print conditions to my Exec. All it could give me back were some pedantic warnings about lack of sufficient waiver definitions and indemnity clauses. I can quote verbatim all the contract and all the conditions if it's necessary: the Recaller I installed up here in my cortex is short on dorsal pre-frontal control. It's one of those bargain apps where you need to pay a monthly fee to get the full package. So I'm stuck with all these vivid details pouring through my mind's eye like a mad chariot race, and it's all I can do to keep on track. But I can always grab the files I need.
So I signed, and the raven flapped back to her cloud. When I then asked her for the full details on her escapee, she shook her head. She claimed that his safety would be compromised. She thought the e-office wasn't secure. I couldn't blame her. The freelance agency must keep records of what goes on in their domain.
So she told me to meet her in Canada Square at the old Canary Wharf site in ten minutes. I said, "On V-Map?"
She said, "No, for real." I felt a cold sweat breaking out.
Before I could reply, her cloud scudded away and vanished over the snow-capped peaks to the north. I was left wondering if there was anywhere left in the world that looked anything like this place. You know how a change of view can alter your mood? But I finally clicked out and got moving.