Next of Kin

Chapter Two: 32%

Two, 32%

A notification popped up in the top left of my interface, telling me that all of my scheduled meetings for the day had been cancelled, and that all participants had been auto-notified. I swore very loudly in my head, because I knew that meant I was going to get a call from Cynthia Studer in 3, 2...

The call rang through. “What in the retard-humping fuck do you think you're doing to my daughter?” she screamed. I winced, as my rating dropped four more points.

Cynthia was a helicopter parent, but not just the kind that hovered, the kind that was built for assault. Some tutors called them 'Apaches' or 'Comanches,' after military attack helicopters, but that always felt a little... problematic to me, not to mention seriously unfair to the Native people being associated with these parents.

I mean, I understood her concern. If your kid didn't get good test scores, they couldn't get into good programs, without being in good programs, they weren't eligible for the good internships, and without those they'd never have access to good jobs. Scrimping on a good tutor meant your kid's future could be over before they could count to their own age.

But putting that kind of pressure on kids only made more of them fail. And having that pressure come both from society at large and the parents, tended to crush more kids than it turned into diamonds.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Studer,” I said. “But my brother's been killed, and I've been deputized to deal with the crime.”

“Oh,” she said. It was the fastest I'd ever seen her shut down, but I could also see her wheels turning. I needed to defuse the situation, before she figured out a way to turn all of this to her advantage.

“But if you'd like, I can make up the time.” She glared at me through my lenses. “Maybe even give you time and a half, for the usual fee, for the inconvenience.” A thin smile curled over her lips.

At that moment, the chat window expanded in the bottom right of my interface, with a single message from “FartGobbler: Pussy.”

“That would be fine,” she said. “And Conrad, you kill the bastards that did this.”

I nodded. “Thanks for your understanding. I'll contact you to reschedule once I'm done with the investigation. Goodbye.” I disconnected. I hated that I was going to be doing work for that woman for free, but all told I'd probably gotten off light.

Or maybe I couldn't be as upset about it as I wanted because I was staring at the word 'Pussy' on the right side of my vision. I pulled up an input, and placed my fingers in the home position over virtual keys overlaid in front of me on my lenses. Another message popped up. “Investigator Tip: While it can be tempting to directly address your critics, research confirms that audience participants do not appreciate confrontation, and even those sympathetic to an advocate may turn on them when lashing out at even the most abusive of audience members.”

I was still weighing the stupidity of defending myself when another thought occurred to me. I opened up the DCA menu again, and brought up the questions prompt, and used my input to type in the question, “How much of my interface can the audience see?”

“Investigator Tip: Only DCA-specific programs on utilities are visible to the audience by default. This protects advocates' privacy and personal information, and protects audience members from accidental exposure to lens-based erotica.”

I got a notification there was a package at my door. Out of habit, I pulled up the camera outside the door. Delivery person must have just left it outside, which I'd gotten used to. On the off-chance somebody had left me a bomb, the police could always pull footage from a few seconds before to get an ID.

I slid my fingers over the door as I crossed the room, and it slid open. It was a standard reusable shipping crate, which meant there was a deposit on it. Sure enough, when I got close, a label popped up on my interface that told me they would debit the amount from my account, a half a day's wages, should I accept delivery, and return the funds upon receipt of the container.

I queried the sender of the package. It was from the police department, care of the DCA's Office. Which meant it was official, and probably something I was going to need. I picked up the package, and a green checkmark appeared beside the note. In red, I got a notification from my bank that the money had been debited.

The door closed automatically behind me. As soon as it was sealed, the crate lit up on one side. I realized it was scanning my fingerprints. “Recipient confirmed,” flashed on the front panel of the crate, and the top folded outward, like a plastic, cubic flower blooming. Out of the crate shot a cloud of nanites that swarmed over me. It got in my eyes, into my nose, mouth, ears, and into my throat. I knew enough to guess they were tiny cameras.

“Investigator Tip: Most advocates find it best to close their eyes and mouth, and to exhale through their nose, to prevent cameras lodging inside these important facial orifices.”

I coughed, and a piece of phlegm covered in little metal specks hit the side of the crate. Then my eyes started burn, and it was all I could do not to rub them. “I think I've got cameras in my eyes.”

I couldn't see, other than what displayed on my lenses, which included a message. “Randals10InPen15: We all do, shartbrain. They're called lenses.”

I'd read enough stories about the dangerous potential of nanotechnology, how they could deconstruct people on the molecular level. It had never happened, of course, but it was possible. More troublesome, was that even incidental exposure to nanotech increased your likelihood of cancers by 17%. Most cancers could be cured, ironically enough through surgery using thousands of nanites, but it also usually meant cutting off large amounts of flesh. And I liked my flesh where it was.