The Current towered just outside the financial district, a luxury condo second only to the Naxos Foundation offices. Every major metropolitan area was home to a Naxos satellite office and I imagined them to be the tallest structures regardless of location, a reminder to us of their importance in the new world. I stood in front of the reflective glass doors, staring at the man who returned my gaze, my mind still on the interaction with Hodge, the blood still bad after all these years. Not surprising since I, along with a dozen other officers, blew the whistle on him, lending credence to all those citizen complaints. “Crossing the thin blue line” it used to be called. A cardinal sin amongst officers. More so when one of your accusers proves to be a hypocrite.
Opium dens popped up across the city once narcotics became largely decriminalized. Most went from black market operations to state-certified safe use sites, offering a menu of narcotics and psychedelics. The one on my beat was clean, run by good people. Had the occasional disgruntled customer I’d escort out, but nothing worse than that. Or so I thought. I started spending time there after shift ended on Fridays, then Saturdays, then every evening until I could barely make it through the day. When the door crashed open one evening and uniforms started pulling customers from their pods, I watched my career end in slow motion. The owner had been trafficking girls, customers whose addictions had deteriorated to the point where loved ones wouldn’t go looking for them anymore. He claimed to have protection from the police, one of whom that was still in uniform, passed out in a rear VIP area, away from regular customers. I did a perp walk flanked by my peers, all viewing me with the resentment traditionally saved for “bad cops”. There wasn’t enough evidence to tie me to the operation, but finding an officer unresponsive, clutching a hookah hose to his chest was enough for an “official misconduct” charge. I pled to a misdemeanor, my badge and pension in exchange for walking out of the courtroom free from shackles. Free from the carbon steel type at least.
The glass doors opened to a quiet lobby absent attendants, security, or residents. A cobalt elevator chimed on the far side of the space and remained open, beckoning me to enter. I could feel the Recog cams watching me, though unsure from where. I entered the elevator, the large touch screen lit to my presence and scrolled from “L” to “200”. The doors closed before the glass and cobalt cube whisked me upward. At around fifty, the rear of the elevator lit with the brightness of the sky. I turned to see the city in a way I’d never observed before. My ears popped. The buildings of the financial district didn’t obstruct my view this high up. Capitol square shrunk and the sprawling neighborhoods became models on a hobbyist’s table. I felt ill as the cityscape appeared to change dimensions. The elevator slowed and chimed, pulling my attention back toward the doors. The cobalt blue doors separated like the sea, opening to a hall flanked by art on both sides. The images within gilded frames moved on their digital screens, faded to black, then were replaced by new images. Bored Apes, Beeple, CryptoPunks, PsychoKitties, baseball cards showing historic plays, scripts from famous films with notes from the director; all and more faded and jumped from one frame to the next as I passed.
“Most are from the early days,” a voice echoed.
“I remember a few of them. Too expensive, even back then.”
I looked up to find a man standing at the end of the hall, his visage shadowed by the natural light behind.
“Art costs,” he said.
“Always felt like a Ponzi scheme to me.”
“The masses historically prove themselves to be poor judges.”
I walked toward him and into the light.
“Why am I here?” I asked, brushing past him. The apartment was open with only glass separating us from the outside. A surveillance drone hovered by the window. From the ground, they looked like birds and most preferred that delusion. It rejoined the flock on a prescribed path through the city.
“A piece of intellectual property was stolen from the Naxos Foundation. I need it retrieved.”
I turned, appraising him and the space. He wore a wrinkled t-shirt depicting some graphical inside joke I didn’t get. His pants were tartan flannel. He kept his hands in the pockets of a black, terrycloth robe. He looked tired beneath a mop of blonde hair and gold rimmed glasses, but still ten years my junior. I could only see a living space and dining area, but the decor was that of a 1930s salon, all tufted velvet and leather. Ornate design. Gilded. Not what I expected from a tech bro.
“From Naxos or from you?”
“As Chief Technology Officer, I can assure you they are the same,” he said, annoyed at my question.
“The federal police handle real crime now. Hell, your own security force is better equipped than a Courser. Why ruin my day with this?”
He smiled.
“I find you uniquely qualified for this job.”
I didn’t appreciate the smugness in his voice. He walked to the couch in the living room, sat down, and brushed trash from a large coffee table onto the floor. Based on the paraphernalia mixed in, he was a speed freak, probably hadn’t slept since the IP was stolen. Now that I was closer, I could see his hand tremble as he placed it palm down on the wooden surface of the table. It blinked from wood grain to a digital screen. I leaned forward wondering how much more of this space wasn’t as it seemed. With a few swipes, a familiar transaction list populated, then a window of Recog footage, then another, and another. He overlaid them so I could see snippets of each. Of me. Walking into the condo. Leaving the federal building. Entering with a crowd of people. Esme carrying me into the bar. The fight with the barista. My car passing various cams last night.
“I can go back further if you like.”
The offer jolted me from the loop of videos and auto-scrolling transaction list.
“Maybe you’d like to see what Esme does while you’re sleeping it off?”
I lunged at him, shifting the table with my knees, trapping him in the process. He kept his hand on the screen as he laughed, glancing down at a new window that populated. It was me on a loop, lunging at and grabbing him.
“Careful. I don’t know who the authorities are going to believe. An executive of the largest employer in the city or a gig working junkie.”
I released my grip, pushing him backward. He readjusted the table, tapping his index finger twice. The video scrambled.
“There we go. All alone again,” he said.
“If you can track anyone you want, what the hell do you need me for?”
“As I said, you’re uniquely qualified.”
He began swiping away the windows of Recog footage.
“The stolen IP represents hundreds of millions of unrealized earnings for Naxos. For reasons we’ve already discussed, you’ll be motivated to complete this task quickly and with discretion.”
I would. With this assignment sitting open, locking me out of Courser gigs, I couldn’t afford a dose from the cheapest den in town, let alone Esme. I had about twelve hours before my body started its nightly revolt. Whether I liked it or not, this prick had me.
A perfect blend of sci-fi and crime fiction. Your descriptions put me right in the elevator and the top floor apartment. I see the guy in the tartan flannel and I want to flee immediately. I feel for your poor schmuck protagonist, he is so flawed. He can't possibly come out victorious. Can he...? I will stay around to find out.