Dr. Chrono considered it a miracle that he wasn’t going grey early, with the way the people of the floating city ran him ragged. The elites that lived in the sky cities were called Meths, which was most likely short for “Methodicals,” and no one was quite sure what Methodicals referred to anymore. As might be expected of people that lived on their own islands in the sky, they were extremely biased against any outsiders and tended to cling to their specific communities and values. Calling them isolationist was a bit of an understatement.
Of course, Dr. Chrono had managed to amass enough wealth to be counted among the Meths himself, but even among the very rich, there were people who were obviously bottom-tier. Wealthy though he was, he was basically the poorest of the rich, barely making it above the threshold for acceptance into his city (which could be arbitrarily adjusted at times). As a result, the richer Meths (everyone else) used his genius against him and effectively held him hostage. He was made to handle many of the scientific upkeep tasks required for the city, and in exchange, he was allowed to live in a slightly better zone of the city than he would normally be.
Dr. Chrono viewed his inbox as essentially a free request booth for whatever whiny Meth decided they needed something today. Still, he was obliged to look through whatever came in. If he got kicked out, he doubted that the people of the surface would take kindly to him, either, regardless of how many of his inventions and advancements they were using. He sighed as he clicked through his inbox. Most of today’s requests were routine maintenance and repair requests, insofar as the gadgets requiring adjustments were routine. The other Meths were smart enough to leave simple machines and gizmos to the “lucky” servants that worked under them, so these “routine” repairs were actually for very important machinery.
Still, none of the maintenance requests was anything that would be particularly hard for Dr. Chrono. It said a lot about the nature of his intellect that the important gadgets needing tune-ups were “routine” for him. He’d go around, tweak the hardware or software, and then go on his way, simple as that. He was a glorified handyman, but at this point, he didn’t expect much better from his so-called peers.
One e-mail about two-thirds of the way down gave him pause at last. The subject line was “Who Killed Me?” Undoubtedly, it was a provocative opening, and Dr. Chrono’s interest was piqued. His cursor drifted over to the subject line, then clicked on it to open the e-mail. It read as follows:
“Dr. Chrono,
As the one who maintains the brain upload and download systems for the Meths, and by extension requests for downloads, I believe that you are the one best suited to receive this e-mail. Perhaps you know me from happening upon my file when I was re-downloaded last week? In any case, I will get to the situation at hand. I trust that you will be able to handle this professionally.
Last week, I was murdered. Perhaps due to some data loss from the way I died (the end of a long fall from being thrown out a window), I don’t remember a single thing about the incident. This troubles me, and I would like to have my assailant properly prosecuted. To this end, I would like you to download the mind of a certain notable detective from the past: Detective Leonard Riviera. I’m sure he won’t be picky about his body, so he’ll be fairly plug-and-play, so to speak. Once Detective Riviera is downloaded, arrange for him to be put on my case. I am confident that he can find the culprit.
That concludes your ‘mission brief,’ haha. Please confirm for me when the detective has been downloaded into a body. I look forward to the results.
Sincerely,
Montgomery Rasser”
One please, no thank yous. That made sense, coming from one of the pompous cases that saw fit to pull uploaded minds around to suit their needs. Brain uploads and downloads always left a bad taste in Dr. Chrono’s mouth, even if he was one of the minds behind the creation of the system. It wasn’t that he objected to his own creation; rather, he felt that Meths abused the system and took it for granted. It had gone to the point where, if someone was too useful, they would be uploaded upon their death and effectively kept around as servants for the Meths when their skills were needed.
Detective Riviera was one such case. He was famous in his time for solving many cases thought to have gone cold long ago, and being able to predict when and where a notorious phantom thief would strike next. That meant that he officially crossed the “too useful” threshold and was turned into a puppet for the Meths. Dr. Chrono felt bad for the guy, who was being forced in and out of different bodies and used for whatever silly Meth need arose. On the few occasions that he had gotten to speak with the detective, he seemed fine with the process, if a bit annoyed by not having a consistent body.
Dr. Chrono shrugged outwardly at his internal thoughts. It seemed that Detective Riviera was going to have another posthumous assignment. The upside was that these sorts of unconventional requests often carried a hefty monetary bonus with them, and while he doubted that he’d be moved up a rank, Dr. Chrono appreciated any resources with which he could close the gaps in his material life with.
After signing out of his e-mail, he made his way to the “brain bank,” the lab where most of the “worthy” minds were hosted, uploaded, and downloaded. It was time to get to work.
