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Description
Chapter Two

The rain thundered down from the heavens like the beat of a thousand hooves upon the pavement, but not without first clawing at the weathered overcoat draped around the frame of a forgotten man. All around, the soft glow of the holovid displays flickered up and down the streets, reflecting the droplets that fought for space in reality among a world of information overload and attention deficit.

In the distance, the faint sound of sirens rolled through the alleyways falling off at the detective's feet like the depression of water off his coat. Countless drops nearly indistinguishable from each other plummeted down relentlessly from above yet, as the detective mused, none would claim responsibility for the flood. So, too, it would seem that he was in search of the indistinguishable from the crowd... a ghost in plain sight. But long before he would find that specter, he was certain he would find a glass of bourbon.

Finding temporary refuge under the awning of the Colony, detective O'Brien let out a deep sigh. Lighting a cigarette, he felt the rush of nicotine enter into his lungs as a few more minutes of his life were traded for the exchange. The bouncer in front of the Colony eyed him suspiciously, likely sizing him up in case there was trouble. O'Brien looked like trouble and he knew it, but it wasn’t yet determined if the bouncer knew that fact and O'Brien was hoping that particular LED wouldn’t shed light in the bouncer’s mind until at least he had made it inside. More to the point, he knew full well that walking into this joint was going to put a damper on his evening one way or another, but with a little perspective he decided that whatever awaited him inside was far more interesting than the downward fall of perpetual depression outside.

Taking one final drag, he crushed the butt into the sidewalk and made his approach.

“Lovely evening for a pub crawl...” O'Brien smiled innocently at the bouncer. The detective did his best impression of being friendly, a look he often employed to set people at ease despite his normal look of cold apathy.

“Welcome to the Colony.” the bouncer paused momentarily as a look of unknowing slid across his face. O’Brien began to muse that this was a normal occurrence for this gentleman and so, from here on out, he’d try to use small words.

“You must be a local. I don’t register your sig in the stream... you got some tangible, old timer?” the bouncer scowled in the most pleasant way possible.

“Actually, I was hoping you could do me a favor tonight...”

The bouncer tipped his hat forward a bit and narrowed his eyes on the man before him who, (to the untrained eye), looked precisely like the sort of low-life he was trained to keep out of this club. Soaking wet, wearing an old trench coat, looked like he hadn’t shaved or bathed in days... yes, the profile fit and the bouncer knew exactly what to do. He didn’t graduate from three months of training to blow it now.

The job didn’t pay much, but for a guy with no educational accolades it was a decent living standing in front of a nightclub and babysitting the door. It required no skillset most of the time as the customers were usually the simspace tech crowd who automatically checked out through their sigs. To be honest, the job was boring as hell. But occasionally a local would show up and things got interesting... this was exactly the sort of thing the bouncer was hoping for to break up the monotony and he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity.

Usually, jobs like this could have been automated. Maybe a computer A.I. and a friendly looking robot. But what this position required was a bit beyond the capabilities of automation, and while the robot would definitely have been a lot more intelligent, it lacked something that only this human bouncer could offer to the position: discretion and context. O’Brien mused internally about the irony of the most coveted characteristic of humanity being relegated to credentials for a low skill job. Sure, the position could be automated, but society still needed a reason to give people like this bouncer a purpose in life that seemed meaningful.

Standing about six foot and change, the bouncer overshadowed the entrance. Short dark hair and a scowl that must have long since been etched into his face permanently, he looked maybe of middle eastern descent. Whether the demeanor was due to his sunny disposition or whether it was the result of a life full of bad decisions and regret, the detective did not care. A glyph tattoo adorned the back of his right hand in the shape of some symbol O’Brien couldn’t decipher, but he did know that the bouncer had excellent taste in electronic ink as the animation on his skin danced mindlessly under the shade of the awning.

Noticing the blank look on the detective’s face, the bouncer roughly cleared his throat and broke the silence, “We don’t do favors here... You’re looking for one of the girls on the corner, bub. Move along.”

O'Brien let the situation roll through his mind for a few moments before an appropriate answer formulated. What he would liked to have done is just show this thug how far he was capable of deep throating the barrel of the pulse-op carry under his jacket, but while that would be satisfying, the detective conceded in his mind that he didn’t have time to clean up the paperwork required nor the piss and shit on the sidewalk.

He could see the bouncer was getting impatient, and so he decided the best course of action was merely to comply. Letting his shoulders slump, he feigned defeat momentarily. He always liked giving them a bit of false hope before snatching victory back from them. It was the little things that allowed him to keep his sanity.

“You asked for ID, right?” O'Brien smiled the infectious gleam he reserved only for certain occasions when he was forced to impress the dimmest of intellect.

The bouncer folded his arms, “Yeah... you got your tangible to get in or are ya jerking me around?”

O'Brien calmly nodded. Reaching into his inner jacket pocket he pulled out a badge and held it up to the light so the bouncer could get a clear look.

“Why it appears that I do have my ID for this club...” the bouncer’s smirk fell flat as the words began to register, ”But if you would like me to jerk you around a bit, we can start by taking you down to the station for questioning.”

“On what? Your badge is retired... it don’t mean shit to me.”

The detective knew full well the bouncer was right. He was retired years ago and his badge was about as useful as the memories it represented. That is, until about week ago when the police force reinstated and reactivated his privs. O’Brien thought about this for a few minutes and realized that the force hadn’t made his reactivation public, nor would they likely want to given the circumstances. Nonetheless, he had full privs as an officer of the law, even if it seemed as though he was now just accessing them illegally.

O'Brien slowly put his badge back into his coat pocket, “Oh, I’m sure at any given time there are at least hundreds of open cases ongoing and...” the detective paused for a moment. Looking down at his tablet, the INFOSOC system ran the heuristics match on the dim-witted goliath blocking the door and returned a rap sheet a mile long for the detective to relish over, “It would appear, Clarence... that there are at least three of them that the boys downtown would like to chat with you about.”

The detective lit another cigarette and flashed the bouncer a knowing grin. “But I’m feeling generous this evening... How about I pretend I didn’t see you tonight, and you pretend you didn’t see me walk through that door?” O'Brien pointed the lit end of the cigarette toward the entrance with the bouncer in between like a magic wand about to make a problem disappear.

The detective knew he was to keep a low profile, as with anything requiring the chasing of ghosts you had to be one yourself.

Clarence shifted uneasily on his feet, the tough guy persona melting away by the moment as he realized he wasn’t dealing with some off the street trenchcoat pervert. This guy was the real deal, and he was wired.

“And what say I don’t let you through these doors and you never make it back to the station? Maybe some accident may befall you on this dark and stormy night. It would be a shame, ya know... a nice guy like you.” the bouncer smiled again. Clearly he was impressed with his ability to negotiate at this juncture and thought for certain that his boss would give him a raise for handling the situation so well.

Detective O’Brien smiled broadly at the bouncer. “Of course, my safety is of utmost concern to you, Clarence. However, what would you do if you found yourself at the end of a pulse-op being wielded by a guy in a trenchcoat in these dark alleys?”

The detective slid his coat open momentarily to reveal the peacemaker firearm on his side and the bouncer’s smile immediately vanished once and for all.

“After all, you said it yourself. In this dark alley and stormy weather, you never know what kind of nutjobs are waiting in the shadows to jump out at you. I’m just concerned for your wellbeing is all, you understand... right?”

Begrudgingly weighing his options, the bouncer stepped aside and courteously invited O'Brien inside. He immediately knew that he was outgunned both figuratively and literally. His disposition turned sunny in the pouring rain as the strain of the revelation was evidence enough that he understood full well he was being jacked.

“Have a wonderful evening, sir.” the bouncer could barely contain his rage. “Please enjoy the accommodations here at the Colony.”

“Why, thank you for the hospitality, Clarence...” the detective smirked.

“I don’t talk to ghosts. Ya get my drift, stripe?” the bouncer scowled.

O'Brien understood completely. If he pushed his luck any further tonight he was liable to end up on the wrong side of a eulogy. His pulse-op wasn’t loaded, and he wasn’t interested in finding out what this golem was like when he found out.

Inside, the pale blue light of neon runners illuminated the room with an ethereal and unworldly glow, highlighting the patrons sitting solemnly at the bar like a drunken funeral procession for a recently drowned comrade. In the corners, shadows danced and flickered unseen in the form of unmistakable dealings from simspace techs waving invisible information around the room. This was the Colony, named for the hive mind usually exhibited by the clientele.

The decor was minimal at best. The trademark of a simspace permeated throughout, manifesting as a grid-like pattern on the floors and walls. Everything in this establishment was on-demand, dissolving into the surfaces when no longer in use which is just as a simspace tech would appreciate.

But for the locals, old-timers who weren’t augmented to the simspace but still wanted a drink, there was the traditional looking bar up front and stools. Locals being a play on words where a traditional bar would have its local crowd, but in this case it referred to unconnected “local” users in computer terms.

It was at this traditional bar that the golden hue of O’Brien’s drink summoned the promise of liquid sanity as it slid calmly into his shaking hand. Had the bouncer been slightly more acute in his reasoning, he determined, he probably wouldn’t be around to get a final request. In this age of digital connectedness, it became a dead man’s gambit trying to bluff anyone at all... and yet he still hadn’t lost his nerve. That still didn’t negate the fact that he was shaken from the experience, but it wasn’t anything that a couple of drinks wouldn’t fix.

Forty or so years on the force brought him plenty of accolades, he thought, and his recent retirement a few years back should have been the seal on his career. Most famously, he was the detective responsible for solving the unsolvable on the force. In all of his years, he resisted the hype of being augmented like the techs and instead opted for external devices like his tablet. The officers used to joke about him being a dinosaur among the modern civilization but they found, (more often than not), that it was specifically because he wasn’t augmented that he was able to shed light on those cold cases. Cases that had long since gone dark, the police force found that it was he who had just the right book of matches to shed light upon it.

But not this time.

All of his matches were struck and he found himself now at the receiving end of a conversation that refused to make any sense.

“I’m looking for a woman...” he began to the bartender.

“Aren’t we all?” the bartender quipped in return.

“C’mon, Ray... work with me here. You know what I mean.”

The bartender shifted weight onto his good leg, running his fingers through a tussle of short wavy hair. O’Brien could see he was uncomfortable in answering the question, but it wasn’t for lack of answers. More so, he surmised, it was that the answers he had didn’t make any sense when spoken out loud. This was a familiar look to him as he followed the trail of surreal reaction across the city.

“Aren’t you retired, Kelly?” the bartender nervously asked.

“I was until about a week ago. The department is losing their mind on this case so they pulled me in as a consulting detective to try and figure it out.”

Ray’s face winced in confusion for a moment, and then settled on an idea that had come upon him like a ten watt bulb. “What... you mean like Sherlock Holmes?”

“Something like that, Ray. I’m back on the force, but just for this case. Look, do you know anything or not?”

Kelly took a sip of his whiskey and stared blankly at the bartender. He could tell he was still wrestling with information that didn’t add up and he knew it. He was only on this case for a week now and nothing made any damned sense even to him. There was this girl (or girls), a bunch of fried out sim-tech geeks, and the fate of the entire grid in the balance. Every time he got on the trail it went cold or he ended up with conflicting information.

“Look... Kelly... All I’ve actually got on this is that she was in here the other night during that New Year’s party. Some woman about five foot five and dark hair. Slender asian girl wearing a very revealing mini with slits in all the right places... if you know what I mean.”

The detective winced.

“Ray, that isn’t the girl I’m lookin’ for. She’s five-eight with blond hair, about a hundred and eighty.”

“I’m tellin’ ya she is, Kelly. I dunno if she had some sort of neurogen recon or something, but it was definitely her.”

Kelly leaned back into the chair with his drink. Another sighting, another girl... but everyone insists she’s the same. Nobody can afford that many neurogen jobs and he flatly told the bartender as much.

“How do you know it’s the same girl?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s easy... you can change your appearance and even your DNA these days with some modifiers. Neuogen is good for that and it’s painless. But the one thing you can’t change is your neuro-synaptic signature. That’s why we all use the synapse configuration as a sort of universal identity system. Ya know... your sig?”

“Bullshit. I don’t trust that thing. I learn new stuff all the time and forget other things just the same. My brain patterns must always be changing.”

The detective set his glass on the bar for a much needed refill. The promise of clarity had not yet been delivered through this golden elixir and it occurred to him that maybe it was because he hadn’t reached the recommended dosage yet.

“Well yes... but when you’re a tech, you’re always connected into the system so your synaptic patterns are always monitored. That’s what makes it so secure. You see... the ever changing nature of your experiences is unique and so your synaptic pattern becomes a polymorphic fingerprint that can’t be duplicated.”

O’Brien slid the glass forward a bit and swiveled the chair around to mentally dive into the room. It was almost dead silent, save for the occasional burst of laughter from an unheard punchline. An eerie atmosphere of total silence among the crowd permeated as if one were located at the seediest library in town. No music played over loudspeakers, and no video screens flashed the news or sports.

It was as if O’Brien were alone, save the bartender and a hundred or so customers in this dimly lit corridor of consumption. Any conversation that was transpiring did so on an invisible wavelength undetectable by local senses, a broadband deluge of communication unseen or heard like passing specters through a wall.

The Colony was unlike any pub he had ever been in when he was younger, and it resembled a disconcerting future where the lights were on but nobody was home.

“Whatever happened to the good ‘ol days, Ray?”

“What do you mean, Kelly?”

“You know... where people went out to actually enjoy the company of others and get away from the technology for a bit.”

O’Brien added some whiskey to his evening diet as he scanned the room. Motioning through the pale blue neon light he continued, “Nowadays, people leave their sim-space to come out and use the sim-space. What the hell is the point?”

The bartender pressed a glass into the bar, dissolving it back into the matter repository. Usually he’d go through the motions of pretending to clean it and put it away, but he felt no need to continue the charade so long as the only local was the detective.

“It’s a whole different mentality these days, detective. In a lot of ways we’re worse for the wear. Despite all the connection, we’re all just as isolated in a crowd as we ever were.”

O’Brien turned to face the bartender, and raising his glass offered a toast.

“To the future... may god have mercy on our souls.”

Later that evening, detective O’Brien shuffled out the door and into the night air not entirely certain if he’d learned anything new about this case or if the world was testing his sanity. For a moment, it occurred to him that the universe might instead be playing some sort of practical joke, but the thought passed just as quickly as the evening transportation pulled up beside him.

Stepping into the automated vehicle, he leaned back into the seating and took a deep breath to clear his thoughts before deciding to pay a visit to his favorite simspace geek across town. The car waited patiently for his directions, and as the rain began to fall across the windshield again, Kelly O’Brien watched the other vehicles quietly drive by.

“One girl... many girls... all the same.” he thought.

Staring out into the night as the car shuffled to the apartments across town, Kelly continued to run the case through his mind over and over again.

How can one girl be many and the same?

As the automated car continued its pace through the city, the occasional sight of passengers stepping into an automated car on the side of the road caught his attention. It was then that something peculiar began to form in his mind...

One passenger... many cars.

Of course, the thought still didn’t make sense. After all, didn’t Ray just get done telling him that their sig was unique? Everyone had their own unique configuration... that’s exactly how the synaptic identification system worked and it’s the basis of the entire grid. After years of antiquated identification systems like picture ID and biometric methods, the government simply gave up and instituted a fool proof method that was always accurate. Sure, there were still tangibles as a backup, but these days, more often than not, you would find the automatic system in place and no need for such relics in the digital age.

But what if it wasn’t?

Kelly pulled out his tablet and began taking notes. Disjointed as they were, there was something to this train of thought and he didn’t want to lose the information.

The gentle glow of the tablet screen silently reflected the detective’s ramblings for him to read back.

What if the most secure identity system in the world were hacked?

Why would somebody hack that system?

What does that person have to gain from hacking the synaptic system?

Who actually has the time to devote to an unbreakable system?

How would you even use another synaptic signature to begin with?

Kelly began racing feverishly with his notes as line after line emerged on screen raising more questions than answers. It was an excellent start, even if he were implying the impossible. After all he’s seen this week, Kelly began to understand that in order to make any sense of Wonderland, one must not enter into the rabbit hole with preconceived notions.

He didn’t know how any of this were even feasible, or even if it was at all. However, if there was somebody who knew, it would be his own personal mad hatter up in the complex. The detective would soon have his answers, (he hoped), and find enlightenment at the end of his journey.

It was about ten at night when the car reached its destination, and Kelly was relieved to find that the rain had lifted to herald his arrival. Stepping out into the night air, he noticed the stillness that this side of town offered. Due to the high level of simspace techs that lived out this way, most of the complex was insulated as to avoid noise pollution indoors. Not that there was any to be found out this way, but you can imagine that a savvy landlord knew the right features to list on an otherwise featureless apartment rental. In a sort of ironic business maneuver, it made perfect sense and was a savvy decision. To any landlord, the decision to offer less as more to their tenants seemed like a dream come true, but it was all in how you presented the marketing.

Kelly made his way up onto the curb and meandered toward the ALON doors of the complex out front. A skyscraper at least a hundred or so stories, the complex was unassuming otherwise and bland. Decorated in minimalist fashion, the exterior was mostly white with postmodernism thrown in for good measure, the sort of building you would expect from an architectural prefab job. The ALON doors were seamless and automatic, and upon sensing the arrival of the law, opened effortlessly in his presence.

“Good evening, detective O’Brien.” came the computer voice of the complex. “Is there anything I can do to be of assistance?”

Kelly always hated these automated systems. It seemed so impersonal to have an entire building running on autopilot like this. While the biometric identification system made things smoother, it did nothing to add charm to the experience.

“I’m here on personal business to see a friend, but thank-you anyway.”

The detective continued to the elevators which gladly greeted him with open doors. Stepping inside, the computer voice continued “If there is anything I can be of service with, please do not hesitate to ask, detective.” It was odd hearing the computer actually emphasize the word detective, and Kelly immediately noticed the inflection. Clearly the computer had suspicion about his presence in the complex. Even more curious, the system here somehow knew he wasn’t retired and was making it a point to let him know.

Kelly was under the impression that the precinct hadn’t made his reactivation public knowledge, as such wasn’t available to the bouncer at the club earlier. But somehow, this AI system was fully aware of the unknowable and it made him very uneasy.

“That’s former detective. I’m retired.” Kelly replied to the disembodied voice.

“My apologies, detective O’Brien.” the computer insisted. “If there is anything I can be of service to you for, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to take you up on that...” Kelly trailed off.

Riding in the elevator, Kelly realized that to an entire building full of techs, it would be obvious to the AI system as an intermediary, that he was reinstated. However, such insight would mean that somebody, (or a lot of somebodies), in the building were already keeping a tab on him. Maybe the computer wasn’t being malicious or threatening at all, he thought, but instead trying to be inconspicuous in warning him.

Kelly nervously drummed his fingers against his thigh as the electronic display above counted out the numbers for the floor. The soft glow of the LED bulbs above cast a non-threatening illumination accentuated by the soft synthesizer tones of Saved by Zero over the elevator speaker system. It never ceased to amaze him how after all this time it was still that decade which proved popular among music listeners, or maybe it was the computer system trying to accommodate his preferences and expectations along the way? The detective thought about this for a moment and remembered what it was like in the early days when technology had just began monitoring everything to accommodate their preferences. It seemed like magic at first, how seemingly everything “knew” what you wanted before you seemed to.

Aside from the frivolity of his ascent, Kelly understood full well now that this wasn’t a surprise visit by any stretch of the imagination. There was an underlying seriousness involved, and possibly life threatening. The detective was merely setting his mind at ease for what could be a hell of an encounter.

At this point, O’Brien didn’t have a lot of answers. But he knew one thing for certain; Somebody was expecting him.

Description
Chapter Two

The rain thundered down from the heavens like the beat of a thousand hooves upon the pavement, but not without first clawing at the weathered overcoat draped around the frame of a forgotten man. All around, the soft glow of the holovid displays flickered up and down the streets, reflecting the droplets that fought for space in reality among a world of information overload and attention deficit.

In the distance, the faint sound of sirens rolled through the alleyways falling off at the detective's feet like the depression of water off his coat. Countless drops nearly indistinguishable from each other plummeted down relentlessly from above yet, as the detective mused, none would claim responsibility for the flood. So, too, it would seem that he was in search of the indistinguishable from the crowd... a ghost in plain sight. But long before he would find that specter, he was certain he would find a glass of bourbon.

Finding temporary refuge under the awning of the Colony, detective O'Brien let out a deep sigh. Lighting a cigarette, he felt the rush of nicotine enter into his lungs as a few more minutes of his life were traded for the exchange. The bouncer in front of the Colony eyed him suspiciously, likely sizing him up in case there was trouble. O'Brien looked like trouble and he knew it, but it wasn’t yet determined if the bouncer knew that fact and O'Brien was hoping that particular LED wouldn’t shed light in the bouncer’s mind until at least he had made it inside. More to the point, he knew full well that walking into this joint was going to put a damper on his evening one way or another, but with a little perspective he decided that whatever awaited him inside was far more interesting than the downward fall of perpetual depression outside.

Taking one final drag, he crushed the butt into the sidewalk and made his approach.

“Lovely evening for a pub crawl...” O'Brien smiled innocently at the bouncer. The detective did his best impression of being friendly, a look he often employed to set people at ease despite his normal look of cold apathy.

“Welcome to the Colony.” the bouncer paused momentarily as a look of unknowing slid across his face. O’Brien began to muse that this was a normal occurrence for this gentleman and so, from here on out, he’d try to use small words.

“You must be a local. I don’t register your sig in the stream... you got some tangible, old timer?” the bouncer scowled in the most pleasant way possible.

“Actually, I was hoping you could do me a favor tonight...”

The bouncer tipped his hat forward a bit and narrowed his eyes on the man before him who, (to the untrained eye), looked precisely like the sort of low-life he was trained to keep out of this club. Soaking wet, wearing an old trench coat, looked like he hadn’t shaved or bathed in days... yes, the profile fit and the bouncer knew exactly what to do. He didn’t graduate from three months of training to blow it now.

The job didn’t pay much, but for a guy with no educational accolades it was a decent living standing in front of a nightclub and babysitting the door. It required no skillset most of the time as the customers were usually the simspace tech crowd who automatically checked out through their sigs. To be honest, the job was boring as hell. But occasionally a local would show up and things got interesting... this was exactly the sort of thing the bouncer was hoping for to break up the monotony and he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity.

Usually, jobs like this could have been automated. Maybe a computer A.I. and a friendly looking robot. But what this position required was a bit beyond the capabilities of automation, and while the robot would definitely have been a lot more intelligent, it lacked something that only this human bouncer could offer to the position: discretion and context. O’Brien mused internally about the irony of the most coveted characteristic of humanity being relegated to credentials for a low skill job. Sure, the position could be automated, but society still needed a reason to give people like this bouncer a purpose in life that seemed meaningful.

Standing about six foot and change, the bouncer overshadowed the entrance. Short dark hair and a scowl that must have long since been etched into his face permanently, he looked maybe of middle eastern descent. Whether the demeanor was due to his sunny disposition or whether it was the result of a life full of bad decisions and regret, the detective did not care. A glyph tattoo adorned the back of his right hand in the shape of some symbol O’Brien couldn’t decipher, but he did know that the bouncer had excellent taste in electronic ink as the animation on his skin danced mindlessly under the shade of the awning.

Noticing the blank look on the detective’s face, the bouncer roughly cleared his throat and broke the silence, “We don’t do favors here... You’re looking for one of the girls on the corner, bub. Move along.”

O'Brien let the situation roll through his mind for a few moments before an appropriate answer formulated. What he would liked to have done is just show this thug how far he was capable of deep throating the barrel of the pulse-op carry under his jacket, but while that would be satisfying, the detective conceded in his mind that he didn’t have time to clean up the paperwork required nor the piss and shit on the sidewalk.

He could see the bouncer was getting impatient, and so he decided the best course of action was merely to comply. Letting his shoulders slump, he feigned defeat momentarily. He always liked giving them a bit of false hope before snatching victory back from them. It was the little things that allowed him to keep his sanity.

“You asked for ID, right?” O'Brien smiled the infectious gleam he reserved only for certain occasions when he was forced to impress the dimmest of intellect.

The bouncer folded his arms, “Yeah... you got your tangible to get in or are ya jerking me around?”

O'Brien calmly nodded. Reaching into his inner jacket pocket he pulled out a badge and held it up to the light so the bouncer could get a clear look.

“Why it appears that I do have my ID for this club...” the bouncer’s smirk fell flat as the words began to register, ”But if you would like me to jerk you around a bit, we can start by taking you down to the station for questioning.”

“On what? Your badge is retired... it don’t mean shit to me.”

The detective knew full well the bouncer was right. He was retired years ago and his badge was about as useful as the memories it represented. That is, until about week ago when the police force reinstated and reactivated his privs. O’Brien thought about this for a few minutes and realized that the force hadn’t made his reactivation public, nor would they likely want to given the circumstances. Nonetheless, he had full privs as an officer of the law, even if it seemed as though he was now just accessing them illegally.

O'Brien slowly put his badge back into his coat pocket, “Oh, I’m sure at any given time there are at least hundreds of open cases ongoing and...” the detective paused for a moment. Looking down at his tablet, the INFOSOC system ran the heuristics match on the dim-witted goliath blocking the door and returned a rap sheet a mile long for the detective to relish over, “It would appear, Clarence... that there are at least three of them that the boys downtown would like to chat with you about.”

The detective lit another cigarette and flashed the bouncer a knowing grin. “But I’m feeling generous this evening... How about I pretend I didn’t see you tonight, and you pretend you didn’t see me walk through that door?” O'Brien pointed the lit end of the cigarette toward the entrance with the bouncer in between like a magic wand about to make a problem disappear.

The detective knew he was to keep a low profile, as with anything requiring the chasing of ghosts you had to be one yourself.

Clarence shifted uneasily on his feet, the tough guy persona melting away by the moment as he realized he wasn’t dealing with some off the street trenchcoat pervert. This guy was the real deal, and he was wired.

“And what say I don’t let you through these doors and you never make it back to the station? Maybe some accident may befall you on this dark and stormy night. It would be a shame, ya know... a nice guy like you.” the bouncer smiled again. Clearly he was impressed with his ability to negotiate at this juncture and thought for certain that his boss would give him a raise for handling the situation so well.

Detective O’Brien smiled broadly at the bouncer. “Of course, my safety is of utmost concern to you, Clarence. However, what would you do if you found yourself at the end of a pulse-op being wielded by a guy in a trenchcoat in these dark alleys?”

The detective slid his coat open momentarily to reveal the peacemaker firearm on his side and the bouncer’s smile immediately vanished once and for all.

“After all, you said it yourself. In this dark alley and stormy weather, you never know what kind of nutjobs are waiting in the shadows to jump out at you. I’m just concerned for your wellbeing is all, you understand... right?”

Begrudgingly weighing his options, the bouncer stepped aside and courteously invited O'Brien inside. He immediately knew that he was outgunned both figuratively and literally. His disposition turned sunny in the pouring rain as the strain of the revelation was evidence enough that he understood full well he was being jacked.

“Have a wonderful evening, sir.” the bouncer could barely contain his rage. “Please enjoy the accommodations here at the Colony.”

“Why, thank you for the hospitality, Clarence...” the detective smirked.

“I don’t talk to ghosts. Ya get my drift, stripe?” the bouncer scowled.

O'Brien understood completely. If he pushed his luck any further tonight he was liable to end up on the wrong side of a eulogy. His pulse-op wasn’t loaded, and he wasn’t interested in finding out what this golem was like when he found out.

Inside, the pale blue light of neon runners illuminated the room with an ethereal and unworldly glow, highlighting the patrons sitting solemnly at the bar like a drunken funeral procession for a recently drowned comrade. In the corners, shadows danced and flickered unseen in the form of unmistakable dealings from simspace techs waving invisible information around the room. This was the Colony, named for the hive mind usually exhibited by the clientele.

The decor was minimal at best. The trademark of a simspace permeated throughout, manifesting as a grid-like pattern on the floors and walls. Everything in this establishment was on-demand, dissolving into the surfaces when no longer in use which is just as a simspace tech would appreciate.

But for the locals, old-timers who weren’t augmented to the simspace but still wanted a drink, there was the traditional looking bar up front and stools. Locals being a play on words where a traditional bar would have its local crowd, but in this case it referred to unconnected “local” users in computer terms.

It was at this traditional bar that the golden hue of O’Brien’s drink summoned the promise of liquid sanity as it slid calmly into his shaking hand. Had the bouncer been slightly more acute in his reasoning, he determined, he probably wouldn’t be around to get a final request. In this age of digital connectedness, it became a dead man’s gambit trying to bluff anyone at all... and yet he still hadn’t lost his nerve. That still didn’t negate the fact that he was shaken from the experience, but it wasn’t anything that a couple of drinks wouldn’t fix.

Forty or so years on the force brought him plenty of accolades, he thought, and his recent retirement a few years back should have been the seal on his career. Most famously, he was the detective responsible for solving the unsolvable on the force. In all of his years, he resisted the hype of being augmented like the techs and instead opted for external devices like his tablet. The officers used to joke about him being a dinosaur among the modern civilization but they found, (more often than not), that it was specifically because he wasn’t augmented that he was able to shed light on those cold cases. Cases that had long since gone dark, the police force found that it was he who had just the right book of matches to shed light upon it.

But not this time.

All of his matches were struck and he found himself now at the receiving end of a conversation that refused to make any sense.

“I’m looking for a woman...” he began to the bartender.

“Aren’t we all?” the bartender quipped in return.

“C’mon, Ray... work with me here. You know what I mean.”

The bartender shifted weight onto his good leg, running his fingers through a tussle of short wavy hair. O’Brien could see he was uncomfortable in answering the question, but it wasn’t for lack of answers. More so, he surmised, it was that the answers he had didn’t make any sense when spoken out loud. This was a familiar look to him as he followed the trail of surreal reaction across the city.

“Aren’t you retired, Kelly?” the bartender nervously asked.

“I was until about a week ago. The department is losing their mind on this case so they pulled me in as a consulting detective to try and figure it out.”

Ray’s face winced in confusion for a moment, and then settled on an idea that had come upon him like a ten watt bulb. “What... you mean like Sherlock Holmes?”

“Something like that, Ray. I’m back on the force, but just for this case. Look, do you know anything or not?”

Kelly took a sip of his whiskey and stared blankly at the bartender. He could tell he was still wrestling with information that didn’t add up and he knew it. He was only on this case for a week now and nothing made any damned sense even to him. There was this girl (or girls), a bunch of fried out sim-tech geeks, and the fate of the entire grid in the balance. Every time he got on the trail it went cold or he ended up with conflicting information.

“Look... Kelly... All I’ve actually got on this is that she was in here the other night during that New Year’s party. Some woman about five foot five and dark hair. Slender asian girl wearing a very revealing mini with slits in all the right places... if you know what I mean.”

The detective winced.

“Ray, that isn’t the girl I’m lookin’ for. She’s five-eight with blond hair, about a hundred and eighty.”

“I’m tellin’ ya she is, Kelly. I dunno if she had some sort of neurogen recon or something, but it was definitely her.”

Kelly leaned back into the chair with his drink. Another sighting, another girl... but everyone insists she’s the same. Nobody can afford that many neurogen jobs and he flatly told the bartender as much.

“How do you know it’s the same girl?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s easy... you can change your appearance and even your DNA these days with some modifiers. Neuogen is good for that and it’s painless. But the one thing you can’t change is your neuro-synaptic signature. That’s why we all use the synapse configuration as a sort of universal identity system. Ya know... your sig?”

“Bullshit. I don’t trust that thing. I learn new stuff all the time and forget other things just the same. My brain patterns must always be changing.”

The detective set his glass on the bar for a much needed refill. The promise of clarity had not yet been delivered through this golden elixir and it occurred to him that maybe it was because he hadn’t reached the recommended dosage yet.

“Well yes... but when you’re a tech, you’re always connected into the system so your synaptic patterns are always monitored. That’s what makes it so secure. You see... the ever changing nature of your experiences is unique and so your synaptic pattern becomes a polymorphic fingerprint that can’t be duplicated.”

O’Brien slid the glass forward a bit and swiveled the chair around to mentally dive into the room. It was almost dead silent, save for the occasional burst of laughter from an unheard punchline. An eerie atmosphere of total silence among the crowd permeated as if one were located at the seediest library in town. No music played over loudspeakers, and no video screens flashed the news or sports.

It was as if O’Brien were alone, save the bartender and a hundred or so customers in this dimly lit corridor of consumption. Any conversation that was transpiring did so on an invisible wavelength undetectable by local senses, a broadband deluge of communication unseen or heard like passing specters through a wall.

The Colony was unlike any pub he had ever been in when he was younger, and it resembled a disconcerting future where the lights were on but nobody was home.

“Whatever happened to the good ‘ol days, Ray?”

“What do you mean, Kelly?”

“You know... where people went out to actually enjoy the company of others and get away from the technology for a bit.”

O’Brien added some whiskey to his evening diet as he scanned the room. Motioning through the pale blue neon light he continued, “Nowadays, people leave their sim-space to come out and use the sim-space. What the hell is the point?”

The bartender pressed a glass into the bar, dissolving it back into the matter repository. Usually he’d go through the motions of pretending to clean it and put it away, but he felt no need to continue the charade so long as the only local was the detective.

“It’s a whole different mentality these days, detective. In a lot of ways we’re worse for the wear. Despite all the connection, we’re all just as isolated in a crowd as we ever were.”

O’Brien turned to face the bartender, and raising his glass offered a toast.

“To the future... may god have mercy on our souls.”

Later that evening, detective O’Brien shuffled out the door and into the night air not entirely certain if he’d learned anything new about this case or if the world was testing his sanity. For a moment, it occurred to him that the universe might instead be playing some sort of practical joke, but the thought passed just as quickly as the evening transportation pulled up beside him.

Stepping into the automated vehicle, he leaned back into the seating and took a deep breath to clear his thoughts before deciding to pay a visit to his favorite simspace geek across town. The car waited patiently for his directions, and as the rain began to fall across the windshield again, Kelly O’Brien watched the other vehicles quietly drive by.

“One girl... many girls... all the same.” he thought.

Staring out into the night as the car shuffled to the apartments across town, Kelly continued to run the case through his mind over and over again.

How can one girl be many and the same?

As the automated car continued its pace through the city, the occasional sight of passengers stepping into an automated car on the side of the road caught his attention. It was then that something peculiar began to form in his mind...

One passenger... many cars.

Of course, the thought still didn’t make sense. After all, didn’t Ray just get done telling him that their sig was unique? Everyone had their own unique configuration... that’s exactly how the synaptic identification system worked and it’s the basis of the entire grid. After years of antiquated identification systems like picture ID and biometric methods, the government simply gave up and instituted a fool proof method that was always accurate. Sure, there were still tangibles as a backup, but these days, more often than not, you would find the automatic system in place and no need for such relics in the digital age.

But what if it wasn’t?

Kelly pulled out his tablet and began taking notes. Disjointed as they were, there was something to this train of thought and he didn’t want to lose the information.

The gentle glow of the tablet screen silently reflected the detective’s ramblings for him to read back.

What if the most secure identity system in the world were hacked?

Why would somebody hack that system?

What does that person have to gain from hacking the synaptic system?

Who actually has the time to devote to an unbreakable system?

How would you even use another synaptic signature to begin with?

Kelly began racing feverishly with his notes as line after line emerged on screen raising more questions than answers. It was an excellent start, even if he were implying the impossible. After all he’s seen this week, Kelly began to understand that in order to make any sense of Wonderland, one must not enter into the rabbit hole with preconceived notions.

He didn’t know how any of this were even feasible, or even if it was at all. However, if there was somebody who knew, it would be his own personal mad hatter up in the complex. The detective would soon have his answers, (he hoped), and find enlightenment at the end of his journey.

It was about ten at night when the car reached its destination, and Kelly was relieved to find that the rain had lifted to herald his arrival. Stepping out into the night air, he noticed the stillness that this side of town offered. Due to the high level of simspace techs that lived out this way, most of the complex was insulated as to avoid noise pollution indoors. Not that there was any to be found out this way, but you can imagine that a savvy landlord knew the right features to list on an otherwise featureless apartment rental. In a sort of ironic business maneuver, it made perfect sense and was a savvy decision. To any landlord, the decision to offer less as more to their tenants seemed like a dream come true, but it was all in how you presented the marketing.

Kelly made his way up onto the curb and meandered toward the ALON doors of the complex out front. A skyscraper at least a hundred or so stories, the complex was unassuming otherwise and bland. Decorated in minimalist fashion, the exterior was mostly white with postmodernism thrown in for good measure, the sort of building you would expect from an architectural prefab job. The ALON doors were seamless and automatic, and upon sensing the arrival of the law, opened effortlessly in his presence.

“Good evening, detective O’Brien.” came the computer voice of the complex. “Is there anything I can do to be of assistance?”

Kelly always hated these automated systems. It seemed so impersonal to have an entire building running on autopilot like this. While the biometric identification system made things smoother, it did nothing to add charm to the experience.

“I’m here on personal business to see a friend, but thank-you anyway.”

The detective continued to the elevators which gladly greeted him with open doors. Stepping inside, the computer voice continued “If there is anything I can be of service with, please do not hesitate to ask, detective.” It was odd hearing the computer actually emphasize the word detective, and Kelly immediately noticed the inflection. Clearly the computer had suspicion about his presence in the complex. Even more curious, the system here somehow knew he wasn’t retired and was making it a point to let him know.

Kelly was under the impression that the precinct hadn’t made his reactivation public knowledge, as such wasn’t available to the bouncer at the club earlier. But somehow, this AI system was fully aware of the unknowable and it made him very uneasy.

“That’s former detective. I’m retired.” Kelly replied to the disembodied voice.

“My apologies, detective O’Brien.” the computer insisted. “If there is anything I can be of service to you for, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to take you up on that...” Kelly trailed off.

Riding in the elevator, Kelly realized that to an entire building full of techs, it would be obvious to the AI system as an intermediary, that he was reinstated. However, such insight would mean that somebody, (or a lot of somebodies), in the building were already keeping a tab on him. Maybe the computer wasn’t being malicious or threatening at all, he thought, but instead trying to be inconspicuous in warning him.

Kelly nervously drummed his fingers against his thigh as the electronic display above counted out the numbers for the floor. The soft glow of the LED bulbs above cast a non-threatening illumination accentuated by the soft synthesizer tones of Saved by Zero over the elevator speaker system. It never ceased to amaze him how after all this time it was still that decade which proved popular among music listeners, or maybe it was the computer system trying to accommodate his preferences and expectations along the way? The detective thought about this for a moment and remembered what it was like in the early days when technology had just began monitoring everything to accommodate their preferences. It seemed like magic at first, how seemingly everything “knew” what you wanted before you seemed to.

Aside from the frivolity of his ascent, Kelly understood full well now that this wasn’t a surprise visit by any stretch of the imagination. There was an underlying seriousness involved, and possibly life threatening. The detective was merely setting his mind at ease for what could be a hell of an encounter.

At this point, O’Brien didn’t have a lot of answers. But he knew one thing for certain; Somebody was expecting him.