Death Through Glass

They say that everyone has a job to do, well that’s not really the case anymore. Ever since A.I. took over and universal basic income was established, doing shit was quite optional.

As of 10 years ago all our ‘doing shit’ overachievers shipped off to Mars. I guess Earth is sorta done, so it was time to start over new somewhere else, who knows, in 20 years maybe we’ll get lucky and fuck that planet up just as good as we did here. I mean earth isn’t inhabited completely by lazy dumb fucks, but there are quite a lot.

People go one of two ways nowadays, sit back and do nothing; let A.I. keep you placid and docile like prize pigs; or find an obscure little niche that A.I. hasn’t completely made irrelevant yet and cling on to it for dear life. The only real jobs that exist for humanity are ones where empathy and intuition matters. You got cops, artists… sort of, and you got me.

You’d think private dicks would go the way of the dodo, reserved for old movies with men in fedoras and trench coats but that’s not the case. At the end of the day, having someone with boots on the ground that can skulk around places where mechanized A.I. shells can’t go is actually in high demand. Just give it time though and before we blink bots will be peeping through windows just a well as any flesh and blood human.

Now the big question is, are A.I.’s that are digital ghost of people that died still people. Elon Musk is very close to running for president, but the legality of if a digital ghost is still a person is seriously an issue. He’s been built, rebuilt, backed up, saved, and reconstructed through so many generations of tech it’s hard to say for sure if he’s that guy anymore, or an A.I. that is borrowing his memories.

“Miss Roma Glass,” came the voice of a 6 foot five man that looked like he took Frankenstein’s coat, Lurch from Addam’s family’s tan, and a morticians cheerful demeanor. “Yeah that’s me. So what brings you to my little slice of heaven?” I said to this rare bird.

I had one foot and an arm hanging out of the window so that I could smoke my cigarette in relative peace without the smoke filters in the building narcing on me. I waved away the toxic mist, blowing it out from the side of my mouth.

“My patron wishes to employ you as a private detective.” “Yeah I hope so, or I might have to change the sign outside.” Frankenstein Lurch didn’t find it funny. The man handed me a tablet. When I looked at it, I saw an older man affixing a saddle to a horse, framed from a perspective as if someone else was holding the camera.

“Miss Roma Glass?” said the man in his rich erudite voice. I didn’t particularly like him already, someone with the creds to own horses was old money, and really in this day and age the only people that could be rich were people that were already rich. In the most technical of sense the United States was still capitalist, but due to the fact jobs were harder to find then leprechauns these days it wasn’t as if you’d ever manage to truly get ahead.

“Yeah, that’s me, Misterrrr….? “Humphreys… Theodore Humphreys the fourth. No need to mince words, I can see that you are a woman that values straight talk,” Humphreys said, in a way that told me he heard the term used only in context of media over any instances in real life. He was the type of douche that said “rather” and turned up his pinky finger while drinking.

“I’d like you to find my wife. I know that Chicago is the city of her birth, I figured it best that I employ someone local to investigate all her old haunts just in case she would return.”

“So if I might ask why did she leave, or when did she go missing?” “I will leave all of the minor details to you through your J-home, and if you have any minor questions that my checklist doesn’t cover, by all means tell my attendant Mr. Buckley.”

Me and the creepy Mr. Buckley went over the basics, even before I cracked into whatever information he sent to my J-home. Ashaina was the name of the woman in question, and by the looks of it she had been a trophy wife. She had to be a black girl in her late 20’s if that. She went missing from their château in Martha’s Vineyard about three days ago. As Humphreys would tell it she was there the night before and gone in the morning, no note, no nothing. If this was a kidnapping, someone would have contacted them a while ago, giving them demands.

As a precaution Humphreys reached out to several private detectives in different cities that had sentimental value to Ashaina, and from what Mr. Frankenstein Lurch said I was to be paid, he was certainly pulling out all the stops.

With a few images loaded into my J-home, I hit the streets, black and red leather riding jacket on, my trusty Yamaha steed between my legs, and I was off. I was operating on the notion that if Ashaina did just attempt to disappear, and she wasn’t kidnapped. She’d at least try to make contact with her mom before she started her new life… wherever.

As my motorcycle hit the grid, its A.I. component asked if I wished to drive, they didn’t use to do that. Nowadays some cars don’t even come with the feature of turning off autopilot. Recently scooters, bikes, and motorcycles have been updated to give you the option to engage autopilot, they didn’t before. I suppose in a few more generations they won’t ask anymore.

I cruise down Lake Shore drive towards the South side. All the cars move like herky jerky cogs in a machine as I weave through the uniformed chaos. I approach a modest house in the Chatham neighborhood at a little after seven. There are a lot of people in this area that wander about aimlessly looking for purpose, that either find it at the bottom of a bottle or the barrel of a gun. I didn’t fault anyone for not knowing what to do with their time when it was unlimited, and most of what they could do was made irrelevant by A.I. I felt everyone was close to the ledge, it was all a matter of where you stepped.

When I got off my motorcycle I noticed three or four guys clocking me, I didn’t think anything of it, I’m sure it wasn’t everyday that they saw a white girl roaming around in their neighborhood. I turned my head when the glare off of the solar-paneled roofs crested off the waning sun, then rang Mrs. Carter’s doorbell.

A black woman in her 50’s answered the door. She was a looker, so it was very obvious to me this was Ashaina’s mother. “How may I help you?” she asked tentatively. “My name is Roma Glass, I’m a private detective of Mr. Theodore Humphrey’s…” She rolled her eyes in annoyance even before I finished saying his name.

“I’ll tell you what I told him, she did not come here.” “Oh, that’s fine, but you don’t seem to be all that interested in finding her if she’s missing, maybe she gave you a note, or some sort of indication she was okay?” “No she didn’t, I don’t have to talk to you anymore than I do the cops. You have a blessed day,” said Mrs. Carter, closing the door.

In my mind this felt like a mother with a clear indication that her daughter was alive, and was protecting her, not a mother that didn’t know if her daughter was dead in a ditch somewhere.

The handful of guys was still across the street watching the house. I tackled the issue head on, crossing the street to chop it up with them. I wrapped my single braid around my neck. On the off chance this went the wrong way, I didn’t want a dangling handle on my head for any asshole to yank like a dinner bell.

The three guys I approached were just standing on the sidewalk watching me. “What’s up guys,” I said. They all were slow to respond as if I were some sort of law enforcement. “What be up wit it,” said one of the men. “How long have you guys lived around here?” One guy spoke with a measure of pride, “All my life.” That was good, I just wanted to establish that they had grounds to know Ashaina. “Then you know Mrs. Carter and her daughter Ashaina”

They followed my line of questioning and were none too pleased I baited them. “Yeah, ‘ight,” some of them said with caution. “Did any of you see Ashaina in the past day or so?” “Who are you, you a cop are something?” one asked. “Or something,” I clarified without giving an answer, and unfortunately they hit me with something just as vague. “Get the fuck on wit that bullshit.” They turned away from me like that was the end of that.

“Let’s just say if I had 200 creds, would any of you had seen something?” They all turned back to me like sharks that had seen blood in the water. “You got that sorta bread on you girl?” one asked, I did, but the mood shifted. The three men subtly surrounded me.

Before I knew it one was punching me in the gut, another attempted to grab for my pockets. I’m a bit bigger than the average girl due to my earlier days of MMA, not dainty or frail, but to say a pack a day didn’t knock some of the shine off wouldn’t be an over-exaggerating.

I thought it best to create some distance so I rolled with the punch falling backwards, then pulled my heat when I hit ground. They scattered. I fired into the sky, then pointed my pistol at one, “You… what did you see, you can either talk to me or Jesus in the hereafter.”

“Yeah… she came through a couple of hours ago. She had all her shit in a car, like suitcases and shit.” “Did you talk to her?” “Yeah, but we didn’t really say shit.” “Just humor me.” “I asked her if she was ‘ight ‘cuz I heard she was married to some rich dude or something. I figured it didn’t work out. She said she was cool and just needed a change of scenery or some shit, but she didn’t get into it.”

I sheaved my sword, and let the looky look be on his way. Change of scenery, change of scenery, that sounded a lot like a trip, maybe an airport, maybe a train station. If she had luggage, she didn’t have her own car, and she didn’t want to use creds or an ID, I’d think train station over airplane.

I hopped on my steed and tore ass to Union Station. If she had a lot of luggage, and she didn’t want to use ID, she may had went bus. On my way there I made a few calls to Harlan, my tech guy, and asked him to monitor the bus and train stations for an unusually beautiful black woman.

Now were Harlan’s methods legal, who could say, I wouldn’t say, and let’s leave it at that. I don’t tend to let the A.I. infantilize me, but I did in this case. I let the digital God take the wheel while I did sleuthing on my J-Home. I entered the virtual wonderland while my A.I. navigated the twists and turns of the streets. My helmet dampened all the ambient light and my avatar went on a journey through abstract space.

I pulled up everything I could on Ashaina Carter, all the social media, or even the public domain knowledge I could. I asked my A.I, Hartford, to find all instances of places Ashaina had been, mentioned, or even alluded to. While he was doing his thing, I did mine. I looked through her recent history and found a bombshell.

A week before she disappeared many people on her social media began to give their condolences and thoughts and prayers. Of course, I looked into it. The headline hit me in the face. Billionaire Tech mogul Theodore Humphrey the 4th dead at 95. What the fuck was I looking at? Who was I talking to? The Humphreys I encountered was 50-something… then it hit me like a stroke of lightning.

I called Humphrey’s up and after the second ring he was gazing out of the window of what looked like his mansion, into a deeply gray overcast rainy night. “Ah, Detective Glass,” said Humphreys, “Is there any movement on your end detective?” “Why didn’t you tell me you died and you’re a digital ghost?” I said. “I did not see how it was any of your business, you can trust me when I say the creds will transfer,” said Humphreys.

When he put it that way, why did I care? What about this arrangement made a damn bit of difference? I can’t even say why I cared, but something about this felt unnatural in a way that was unique.

“Do you want to stop?” asked the dead socialite, who now half turned and stared into the face of the static city. With a heavy heart I didn’t stop, maybe it was none of my business in the end, so what if he was a digital recreation of someone that died.

“I will continue Mr. Humphreys, but before I go, have you considered that maybe she left you for a good reason?” “No I didn’t ‘consider’ that detective, and no it most likely wasn’t a good reason to flee into the night. I don’t need your uninformed musing Ms. Glass I need facts…” “Data…?” I said in the tone of a sarcastic douche bag. “My patience is wearing thin, do your job Ms. Glass. Your speculations are not appreciated, or welcomed.” I nodded and ended the communication.

It didn’t take long to get to Union Station, and with Harlan teching it out for me, he made a prediction of where Mrs Humphreys would land. Harlan’s calculations came mostly from hacking into all the travel outlets records looking for passengers with excessive amounts of luggage and minimal identification.

I on a foggy train platform bound for Sedona, Arizona half under a lazy flood light I waited for the most beautiful girl of the lot to pass. There, moving with the grace of a movie Starlet from a begone age was Ashania.

I stepped from the shadows of the flickering light stamping out my cigarette. “Off to Sedona?” I said to the crippling beauty. She looked at me with a troubled smile, welcoming, but clearly guarded. “Yes,” she said in a way as to not garner farther conversation.

“Looking to start a new life?” I asked. Ashaina sighed. Her face filled with an air of defeat, “Did he send you?”

“He did.”

“Am I to come with you?”

“No, not as such. I’m just curious, what your deal was?”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I’m formulating my opinions now.”

Ashaina looked down and breathed deeply, as if she were preparing herself for a scene. “I was 23 when I married him and he was 88. We both knew what it was. I was supposed to make the end of his life bearable, and I was supposed to be paid out at the end. Maybe it’s mercenary, but he changed the terms and decided that he was taking it with him. My contract was ‘til death do us part… and he died. So who was in the wrong, me for believing we had an arrangement, or him for flipping it on its head?”

I stomped out my cigarette and let the fire of my lighter spark another. “Have a nice trip,” I said while letting out a stream of smoke. Ashaina timidly backed away, unsure if it was an elaborate deception.

I sat on that platform for several hours in a Zen contemplation. Watching Neon tweakers swarm and talk in old leet speak, waiting for a train that went who knew where. I asked Harlan to cinch up the tactical errors Ashaina made in disappearing before I gave Mr. Humphreys my final report.

When the A.I. ghost of a man answered he was in the midst of walking through a boundless mansion, that when I thought of it now was as endless as the net was long. “Did you find my wife, Detective Glass?” “Yes I did. I spotted her at Union Station.” “Good, I will send Mr. Buckley to retrieve her.” “Well that might be a problem.” “Why is that?” he asked with trepidation.

“She’s gone.” “And you let her go?” “Yes, why wouldn’t I. I was instructed to find your wife, not return her to you.” “You will regret this, you are speaking to a man with infinite funds that cannot die. So I will give you a chance to redeem yourself. Where did she go?”

I smiled and blew out a plume of smoke before making my final revenge.

“I forget.”

Call it a failing of the human condition, or just me being difficult, but there are some things that should be sacred, life, death, and freedom. When someone tells me that money somehow entitles you to side step any of those three, well, I’m not buying whatever it is you’re selling. And if you don’t like it… take it up with your digital God.