Next of Kin

Chapter Sixteen: 36%

Sixteen, 36%

Crimson Heron was set up in a thoroughly modern building, by which I mean every ridiculous accoutrement they could piss money away on, they did. The glass walls inside the lobby were all covered in film screens- the same tech as my lenses, but several stories high- covered with lush custom programming with production values to rival a feature film. The top of the screen was taken up by a black bar that showed the stock value of Crimson Heron, as well as its affiliates and Sontem's other subsidiary's. If profligacy were a religion, I was standing in the middle of its Vatican.

I walked up to the reception desk. “My brother was here the other day,” I said to the receptionist, sharing John's ID. “I'm going to need to talk to whoever he met with.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but that's not how we work here.”

“It will be today,” I said. “My brother's dead, and I'm looking into his death- deputized to that end.”

“One moment,” she said. She placed a call through her interface, and the red telephone symbol appeared over her face. “I have an advocate here, demanding to speak to one of our executives. His brother was murdered.” She was speaking with legal, or whoever else in their hierarchy was supposed to shield their top people from the outside world. She let out a sigh, then turned back towards me. The phone icon disappeared from her face. “All right,” she said. “I'll find out who your brother met with, and call them down. It will take a few minutes, if you'd like to take a seat.”

She gestured to some leather couches facing the film walls, and I sat down. The moment I did I got another message. “Investigator Tip: Check your chat. Right fucking now.”

As soon as I did, a new user made her first statement. “SanJeneldeClaws: Just found out something interesting. FartGobbler/ShartGurgler/TurdGargler is in the same building as you right now. I'm sending you GPS coordinates.”

A loading bar appeared at the bottom of my screen, but unlike normal, there wasn't any option to cancel the installation. When it was done, I had a new GPS marker, both on my location map, and physically floating at the position where FG was. He was a couple of floors above mine.

Damnit, Jenel. The chat erupted, demanding blood. Some wanted Jenel's, but the rest wanted the troll's. I wanted both. I called up my input, and typed out a private message. “Why do that publicly? You've signed my death warrant.” I sent it.

Her reply was almost instantaneous. “I know. It'll be fun to watch.”

I started another. “If he sees me coming, he'll just have security throw me out.”

“Not at all. I hid that message from his interface. He saw a spambot hocking a penis enlarging cream.”

A man with curly hair exited the elevators. He was sweating like he'd just finished a six minute mile, but his suit was heavy enough you could only see it in his face.

“Conrad?” he asked, as if he didn't know it was me. “Parker.”

“You want to talk here?” I asked.

He pondered it. “No. There's an executive conference room on my floor. More private. More comfortable. And you don't have to go blind from the light show,” he nodded at the film on the wall. “Follow me.”

We got into the elevator. I glanced at the pad, and a red message flashed across my interface, “No access.” A small percentage of the population couldn't use lens tech, mostly because of allergies to nano or the specific alloys used in the designs. Pads in elevators weren't legally required, but companies that wanted to appear progressive installed them, anyway.