The tanned, well dressed couple in my office had plenty of Time. The maglift sports car out front, with supporting SUV, and the security detail positioned outside my office, spoke of more wealth than a freelance gum-shoe like me could accumulate in one lifetime.
These people were from the upper deck. When cities stopped expanding horizontally, they grew towards the sky. Mega blocks became foundations for a whole new level of the city. The rest of us, those too poor to move into the sunlight, now lived in a world of perpetual twilight and eternally dripping moisture.
The gentleman shifted uneasily in his seat. “We don't often come to the underworld."
His choice of words and the excessive security spoke volumes. Of course, if they hadn't come down here flashing their wealth about they would feel more secure.
As potential clients, I kept my thoughts to myself, but doubled my fees on the spot. “How may I help?”
The lady launched into a story about her teenage daughter, Poppy, who had disappeared. They hired an expensive top-deck detective to trace her last movements, but the trail went cold in the underworld.
“So how may I help?"
“God dammit," the husband snapped, “we need someone who knows this rat infested maze like the back of their hand."
My fee doubled again.
Poppy began sneaking off to the under-deck, sometimes for days at a time. They suspected a boyfriend, particularly when she started jogging and took lessons in parkour - urban running.
The husband looked smug. “A last fling before she settles down and looks for a serious partner no doubt.”
I jacked up my fees again, but not because of his smugness. I didn’t believe the boyfriend story, even if he did; I suspected something far more sinister. However, for someone from the upper-decks to take that sort of risk was highly unusual. That occupation is only taken by those most desperate for Time - where lifespans are literally measured in weeks. But if you have Time to spare, why take such risks? Something didn’t add up; bribes would need to be offered.
I took the case. If nothing else, it would pay well.
Blockchain trading is totally transparent. So anyone wanting to make a dodgy deal must do so off the blockchain, which spawned a who new industry: Time running.
Money is withdrawn from the blockchain, loaded into a mobile Time wallet, and handed to a runner to deliver to a third-party. Deal done, no financial trace on the blockchain.
Except Time running is very competitive. A good runner can earn vast amounts, but most die young.
Criminal gangs run bots, watching for large Time withdrawals. As soon as Time is taken from the blockchain, every gang in the area of the withdrawal tries to guess where the Time wallet will go.
They run in teams, each runner taking a different route, and possibly traveling to a different destination. No one in the team knows the identity of the client or who has the real Time. Rival gangs lay in wait and set ambushes, hoping to capture the illicit Time.
Specialist coders, attached to the gangs, simulate model routes to possible clients and select optimum sites for ambushes. Time runners have their own modelers running counter-simulations, to avoid likely ambushes. The whole thing can become very complicated with fake runs, dummy wallets, double crosses, and everyone trying to outguess each other. It was not unusual, in the lower deck, to find young runners, Timed down and bleeding to death in the street.
Tracking the signal from Poppy’s com would prove if she were Time running, but to get that information, I needed to bribe a Time cop - off the blockchain, of course.
When I received the com data, it showed exactly what I expected. Poppy’s signal often blanked out for long periods, disappearing in one location and appearing again somewhere else. In between she was running.
Poppy’s com blackouts defined the area she ran, which pointed me towards likely gangs. Penetrating the close-knit community of the runners was not easy, so I brought in a friend.
Naz was a skip-jacker, but he had also worked simulations for several running gangs in the past. Surprisingly, Naz knew Ava. “She’s another skip-jacker, amigo, and a good one at that. And you thought she was a hooker.” He fell about laughing as though it were the funniest joke he’d heard that year. “Poor you.”
Naz’s contacts had contacts, but all enquiries came up blank. Sure, everyone recognized her as a fellow runner, but no one knew who ran her. More importantly, no one claimed any knowledge of her elimination – normally a cause for boasting.
Incredibly, Poppy appeared to have been that most elusive of creatures: a freelance runner. However, her com signal definitely blinked out on the 63rd floor of Breitbart Tower, two weeks previous, and no one had seen her since. I was sure Poppy was dead, I just couldn’t prove it.
I scouted out Breitbat 63, and realized it was the same block and floor where George’s friend William De Laney had lived. I looked up the old man, but he had not returned.
I flashed round Poppy’s photo and eventually a kid owned up to seeing her. “The Time Keepers is what got her, sir. Took her away two ago. Led her off in cuffs.”
I tipped the kid generously and offered more Time to keep an eye on William’s place and contact me if anyone showed up.
A week later, Poppy’s parents were back in my office, complete with security detail. I presented and explained everything I had discovered, billed exorbitantly, and saved the worst until last.
The father paid up without a second thought - perhaps I should have charged more. “So did you find the scummy boyfriend?”
Unbelievable. “There was no boyfriend. Time Keepers took your daughter. If that top-deck detective of yours has contacts with the Time Keeper office, you could make enquiries, but I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”
Both parents blanched, not at the news of their daughter’s demise, but at my mention of Time Keepers.
“But why? What would the Time Keepers want with Poppy?”
“She was running Time.” Everyone knew what that meant, a cardinal sin, and the Time Keepers weren't known for their forgiveness.
Except Poppy wasn’t running Time - whatever she ran, it was far more dangerous than Time.
Remember: If you are reading this, you are the resistance.
Previous posts:
If you are reading this, you are the resistance
Save the whales, save the world
Nomad on the blockchain
Sleepers
