Brain Games (Rich Weed Book 3)

by Alex P. Berg

  I perked up. “Come in.”

  The door winked open upon my command. In its wake stood a woman of average Cetie height, about a meter sixty, with light brown shoulder length hair, soft features, and relatively little muscle tone. Pervasive genetic engineering that selected for effortless muscle growth along with our planet’s high gravitational pull made it difficult for Cetieans to avoid building lean muscle mass, but difficult was not the same as impossible as evidenced by the physiques of many Intro gamers. The woman wore a light gray tent dress that left her arms bare while hiding her waistline. A wide-brimmed hat and a pair of oversized sunglasses concealed much of her face.

  I stood. “Miss Busk?”

  She hesitated, like a wild animal caught in a beam of light.

  I kept my movements to a minimum. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite. Take your time.”

  I couldn’t see through her glasses, but her head tilted ever so slightly in my direction. Her breast rose and fell with several large breaths. After a moment, she moved her lips, but no words came out—or at least none that were audible to human ears.

  “Pardon?” I said.

  Helena tried again, a little louder. “I said, perhaps if you sat down that would help.”

  I blinked as I processed her request. Did she also think in terms of animal metaphors, making me the wolf to her rabbit? Did my bulk and height—a whopping ten centimeters greater than hers—intimidate her so?

  Just sit down, you lummox, said Paige.

  I did as I was told, but not before thinking I might regret leaving the spaceship lot for this case after all.

  Helena inched her way closer one step at a time. As she neared the empty chair in front of my desk, she reached out and latched onto it, pulling herself into its embrace. Her breast continued to rise and fall, perhaps even faster than before, but certainly not from exertion. She kept her eyes averted to the side, refusing to meet my gaze.

  I gave her a moment as I sipped my coffee. When I felt it was safe, I ventured forth. “So, Miss Busk. If I may—”

  She shot back up, lip quivering and shaking her head. “No. Sorry. Can’t do it. I can’t do it. It’s too much. I’m not ready. Maybe someday, but—”

  “Miss Busk, if I may,” said Carl in a soothing voice. “Would it help if you spoke to me instead? I’m Carl, Mr. Weed’s personal droid. You can avert your eyes from him if it makes it easier.”

  Helena paused, one foot already pointed at the door as she considered Carl’s plea. It shouldn’t have made any difference her talking to Carl instead of me, but psychology was a fickle mistress. Despite the fact that Carl looked indistinguishable from a human—albeit not one of Cetiean descent, given his lighter build—simply knowing he wasn’t a real person could make all the difference.

  She nodded and sank back into her chair, making sure not to turn her head toward me. She took a deep breath and sighed. “Very well. I think I can do that, Mr….”

  “Weatherby,” said Carl, shifting his arms and shoulders toward Helena to appear more inviting. “Carlton Weatherby. But please, call me Carl. Everyone else does. Can I get you a beverage before we begin?”

  Helena shook her head.

  “So what brings you here?”

  “Well, as I mentioned over the Brain call, I’m in search of someone. A relative. My…son, actually.”

  Helena paused and dipped her head, perhaps in contemplation. Carl wisely remained silent. I followed suit, though I might’ve slurped as I sipped my coffee.

  “We’ve…become estranged, you see,” she said. “I haven’t spoken to him in thirty years. I haven’t seen him in almost forty. And if I’m being honest, I never had any desire to during that time. I know how awful that sounds, but it’s true. Which isn’t to say I don’t regret it. In my defense, I lost contact with a number of friends and family. I couldn’t stand to see any of them, you understand. I lost myself in gaming, as I suspect my son has.”

  “Don’t punish yourself over it,” said Carl. “It’s a more common occurrence than you might think.”

  That was an understatement. I’d suffered through much the same relationship with my own mother, a severe Intro and heavy gamer who decided to have me in a late-middle age hysteria and virtually never spoke to me after the fact. Unfortunately, I’d never had a chance to reconcile with her before her passing. Even after her death, I felt indifference toward her, but I’m sure our failed relationship was responsible for some quirk of mine.

  You want a list to choose from? said Paige.

  Be glad Carl reared me, I told her. Imagine the psyche you’d have to deal with without his nurturing influence.

  I’d rather not.

  Carl continued. “So this son of yours. His name is…?”

  “Lars Busk,” said Helena. “He’s about sixty-five years of age.”

  Carl didn’t ask her own age—not that it mattered. Thanks to extensive genetic engineering, most people stayed fresh-faced and healthy until their mid two-hundreds.

  “To your knowledge, is Lars living on Cetie?” asked Carl.

  Helena nodded. “I believe so. He’s in the public listings.”

  “He is?” Carl lifted an eyebrow. “And you’ve reached out via Brain?”

  Helena nodded again. “Yes, but he won’t answer my calls. I fear he doesn’t have any interest in reconnecting—which I understand given the circumstances, but I… I wanted to tell him. In person…”

  Carl gave her a moment. “Tell him what?”

  Helena took a slow breath. “His father and I separated many years ago, in part because of my gaming addiction. Maybe Lars resented me for it, or maybe he sought the same addiction I did for solace. Either way, I received word a couple days ago. His father passed. A freak accident during a spacecraft landing. I guess it made me…reconsider the value of my relationships.”

  Carl was slow to answer. “My condolences. Trust me, we’ll do our best to find Lars, and assuming we do, I’m sure we’ll be able to help. Act as intermediaries of sorts. If nothing else, we should be able to deliver a message.”

  Helena dipped her head again. A wet streak trickled down onto her cheek from underneath her sunglasses. “Please do. I’d appreciate your efforts.”

  “Of course,” said Carl. “Now, there’s the matter of our business arrangement. We have a standard contract—”

  Helena stood, wiping away the tear as she did so. “I’m sorry to cut you short, but I’ve had about as much as I can handle of…this. You. And…him.” She waved at me nervously. “I told myself I should give it a shot, as I’m going to have to interact with Lars should you find him, but I’m about at my wits’ end. I’m sorry. Send me the contract via Brain. I’ll look it over and return it. Goodbye…and thank you.”

  Helena whisked off toward the door, which closed behind her with a puff.

  “Well, good thing I have you here,” I said as I lifted my cup to my lips. “Otherwise, who’d run interference between me and the weirdoes?”

  Carl gave me a nose downturned look. “You’re in the service industry. Ever heard the motto, ‘The customer is always right?’”

  I took another sip of espresso and set my cup down. “You’re correct, as always. I’m simply letting unwelcome familial memories crop up. They’re clouding my judgment. Other than not being able to make eye contact, Helena seemed quite pleasant.”

  “So you’re willing to take on her case?”

  I nodded. “Why not? Sounds easy enough. It’ll serve as a distraction while I mull those spacecraft options over.”

  “So I imagine the first step is to reach out to Lars via Brain?” asked Carl.

  “The first step is to send Helena a contract,” I said. “As much as I enjoy the mental aspects of private investigation, I can’t set a bad precedent of working pro bono. But you’re spot on with the second step to take. Hopefully Lars will be more receptive of our advances than those of his mother.”

  3

  Our car sl
owed to a halt, and I leaned over to look out the window. We’d stopped in front of a ten story hunk of concrete that looked as if it had been extruded through a die. Rows of tinted windows dotted the surface at regular intervals, but they did nothing to brighten the building’s cold, sterile aura. It was the sort of place broken down low level droids went to await recycling.

  “This is the place?” I asked.

  This is it, said Paige. Seventeen twelve east Crick avenue. According to the listings, Lars should be on the fourth floor.

  I frowned as I continued to stare.

  You’re contemplating moving, I can tell.

  “No, I’m silently thanking my grandfather for the inheritance—which includes you, Carl, so don’t look so glum.” My partner sported a grim visage that hinted at Paige’s treachery regarding my droid recycling train of thought. Then again, she had told me she shared virtually everything with him, like it or not.

  I cracked the door and stepped into the Cetie heat. We’d given Lars a call before leaving the office, but he hadn’t responded, so I figured we’d try a more personal form of address. I had my doubts about how well we’d fare in our efforts, though.

  With Carl on my heels, I approached the residential tower’s front door and waited, but the panes of glass stubbornly refused to move.

  “What’s going on, Paige?” I asked. “Do I need a security code for entry?”

  Try the other extreme, she said. It’s manual. You’ll have to pull on the handle.

  Carl did the dirty work, holding it open for me to pass through. “No one ever said subsistence on the basic minimum income was glamorous.”

  Behind the doors, I found a small lobby, populated by a trio of ratty sofa chairs upholstered in a synthetic puke green fabric. A kiosk on the far side, possibly intended for a receptionist, stood empty. A huge pink poster featuring a smiling, greasy-haired used racer salesman sort had been plastered across the bottom of the kiosk, with the words ‘Princess Gaming—We Get Gamers!’ featured in a bold font. A musty smell hung over the space like a fine mist.

  I ignored the lot and headed down a dimly lit hallway, at the end of which I spotted an elevator intermittently illuminated by a flickering light. A panel with a set of buttons was situated on the right-hand side at hand level.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “No Brain integration?”

  What gave it away? said Paige. The twelve year coat of grime or the rave lighting?

  I punched the up button. After fifteen seconds, a rudimentary chime binged, and the doors opened. I stepped into the lift interior—miraculously free of squatters and foul odors—and queued in the fourth floor. The doors closed once more, the elevator lurched and creaked, and I feared for my life, but thanks to generous factor of safety guidelines implemented by the Cetie Board of Architectural Engineering, I made it to the fourth floor in one piece.

  I found Lars’s listed apartment under a light that actually functioned properly. Lacking any obvious doorbell, I knocked. Carl and I waited.

  I’m taking bets on whether or not he responds, said Paige. Right now they’re fifteen to one against. Better lock your wagers in soon, as those odds will only get worse with time.

  “Seriously, though,” said Carl after a minute, “our chances of success here aren’t good.”

  “I know.” I eyed a slot in the bottom of the door, roughly the width of a pizza box but three times as high. A scanner had been embedded into the door above it. A pinhead-sized indicator light shone red.

  “So why bother coming?” asked Carl.

  “Because low odds are not the same as impossible odds,” I said. “You go after low hanging fruit first, and in this case, that’s visiting Lars directly. Assuming his directory listing is current, coming here could end this case with one swift slice. And again, assuming the listing is correct, he must be here. This place is gamer heaven.”

  And by heaven, I meant a wretched hellhole, but that wouldn’t matter to a heavily introverted gaming addict. When a person spent every waking hour in a simulation, what use would they have for decently finished quarters larger than a walk-in closet, or lighting that didn’t cut out intermittently, or elevator technology from this millennium? Those would only serve to jack up rents to unreasonable levels. Here, the things that really mattered to gamers seemed to be in place, namely a stout door fitted with an electronically controlled food delivery slot. If I had to guess, should I go digging beneath the building’s crumbling concrete and steel, I’d find a fiberoptic bundle providing the lowest latency connection possible to one of the major gaming services—perhaps Princess Gaming, based on the poster downstairs.

  Carl knocked again. “I’d be nice if we knew he was here for a fact, though.”

  “I don’t suppose we could triangulate his Brain signal, could we Paige?”

  Not unless you obtained a warrant. Oh, and joined the police force first. But if he’s a gamer, then a good start would be to identify his avatar name. With that in hand, we could check his online status from the gaming servenets in question. If nothing else, finding out whether or not he’s in game would help me update the betting odds I’m offering.

  I gave the door a few more seconds. “Alright. Fair enough. Let’s see if we can find anyone who might be able to shed some light on this guy.”

  It was a next to impossible proposition given the lodging, but Carl and Paige were kind enough not to throw it back in my face. After knocking on a few neighbors’ doors and getting absolutely nowhere, I headed back to the ground level and approached the lobby kiosk.

  It remained stubbornly empty. I slapped the counter and called out. “Hey! Anyone here?”

  I startled as a raspy wheeze croaked out from underneath the counter. “No need to shout.” Breathe, clank, wheeze. “I’m right here.”

  I looked down and spotted a Meertor perched upon a stool, his respirator covering his eyes, nose, and mouth and the pack that cycled his atmosphere strapped to his back. The top of his head floated several inches shy of the counter, but I doubt I would’ve noticed him even if he’d been standing. He was abnormally short, even for one of his species.

  “What do you need?” he wheezed, his voice muffled by the respirator. “Rooms require only a two hundred SEU deposit. The rest we’ll deduct automatically from your monthly government stipend. Very affordable. You’ll have plenty to spare for your Princess subscription and food. Although…” His mask shifted toward Carl. “That a droid? Not sure I have any doubles, even if you pony up the deposit.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not interested in renting,” I said. “Are you the building manager?”

  The Meertor shrugged, the skin of his bald scalp wrinkling as he did so. “Close enough. Are you from Compliance? We have the structural engineer’s report posted in front. Turns out those cracks in the foundation are nothing to worry about, like we claimed from the start.”

  I waved my hand. “I’m not with the city. I’m looking for someone. Lars Busk. Name sound familiar?”

  Clank. Wheeze. A shake of the head. “Should it?”

  “He’s a renter here. Apartment four thirty-seven, or so the personal listings claim.”

  “And you think I’d know him?”

  “You work here, don’t you?”

  The Meertor started to shake, and a gurgling whine emanated from behind his mask. I was halfway up the counter, ready to perform CPR, before I realized removing the respirator would kill him faster than the seizure he was suffering through. Luckily for me, Paige saved me from further embarrassment or any financially debilitating lawsuits.

  Relax. He’s laughing.

  The Meertor quieted and shook his head. “Oh, human. How naïve you are. You think my tenants leave their rooms?”

  “You work the front,” I said. “You might’ve remembered when he signed his lease.”

  “To revisit your previous question, no, I’m not the building manager. And I haven’t worked here that long.”

 
; “We’re getting off track,” I said. “The point is, what can you tell me about him?”

  The Meertor stood, leaned against the side of the kiosk, and eyed me with suspicion—or so I gathered from his crossed arms and less than stellar posture. I couldn’t see his eyes though the mask.

  “Who did you say you were?” he wheezed.

  “I didn’t. Rich Weed. Private investigator. I can Brain you my license.”

  He nodded, and I obliged. After a moment of what I assumed was intense perusal, he gave me another nod, more comradely this time.

  “Seems legitimate,” he said, his respirator pack hissing as a valve released. “What did you want to know?”

  “Does Lars Busk live here?”

  The Meertor settled back onto his chair. “Well, I could check, but I’d have to access the building’s servenets. They’re encrypted, of course, for our tenants’ safety. Not that bypassing it is a problem for me. I have the code, but the encryption service isn’t inexpensive. Neither are the building’s utility bills, or tax payments…”

  I think I understood his drift. “Perhaps if I made a small donation to the apartment complex—delivered to you directly for safekeeping—that would make a difference. Say…twenty SEUs?”

  The Meertor grunted. “Fifty.”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Deal.” The alien tilted his head, likely invoking his Brain. “Apparently, your friend does live here.”

  “Apartment four thirty-seven?” I asked.

  “That’s the room he’s paying for,” wheezed the Meertor.

  “Any idea if he’s in?”

  “He’s online, so I assume so.”

  I was sharp enough to figure out the next question without Paige’s prodding. “You’re a Princess Gaming affiliate, right? What’s Busk’s avatar?”

  “XXEliteForce420XX.”

  Lars sounded like a winner. “Any way you could send a message to him in game?”

  He responded with another gurgling whine, but just a taste. “As if I’d be friends with any of these hopeless Intros.”

  I didn’t let him off the hook. “I need to contact him. It’s about his family.”