The Raven-Haired Rogue: A Novella Read online

  THE RAVEN HAIRED ROGUE

  THE RAVEN HAIRED ROGUE

  A NOVELLA

  John M. Zakour

  Copyright © 2015 Serealities

  John Dallaire – Cover Illustration

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0692444378

  ISBN 13: 9780692444375

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015907359

  Serealities Press, Birmingham, AL

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  EPILOGUE

  1

  My name is Zachary Nixon Johnson. My beat is New Frisco. It’s the year 2057, and I’m the last freelance private investigator on Earth. Yeah, I know that might sound a little ominous to some and kind of cool to others, but truthfully it’s not ominous at all. No catastrophe killed off the other freelance PIs. It’s just that these days, everything is wired to everything else. Information is readily available for just the cost of a few seconds of time on a search engine and a surcharge of a few credits. Your average first grader can dig up more information in a nanosecond than the best-connected PI could have done just a few decades ago.

  That doesn’t mean people still don’t need PIs. After all, some information can be especially tricky to obtain. You know, the type of information that needs a special kind of extra poking and prodding around. The type of prodding that requires a personal touch and what I like to call extra sensitive persuasiveness. I call it that because it often requires finding a person’s sensitive spot and jarring it. So yep, even in this modern mega tech world there is still a demand for our services. In fact, being a PI can be quite profitable at times.

  That’s the other catch to being a freelance PI. If there’s a nice profit to be made, you can bet big business will find a way to siphon off as much of those credits as possible. Today, there are two big private investigation companies. There’s DickCo., which is run by entertainment ultra mega corporation Entercorp. And there’s EyesRUs, owned by technology giant HTech. A PI’s life can be filled with violence and danger, making it a natural fit for the entertainment industry and reality HV. HTech jumped in the game after it figured out that technology goes out of date, but lust and greed never do. Both of these big PI companies have the same MO. Potential clients contact them via their net sites. Then, if the company finds the client’s plight interesting (i.e., marketable) enough, it will send out a team—all of which is broadcast live over one of the reality HV channels. Certainly takes the private out of private investigator, but some folks eat it up. Lucky for me, some clients still like to keep things more tight-lipped—which means I do get work. And when work arrives, it’s usually quite interesting.

  Today is a slow day. I’m sitting back in my real-leather chair in my office by the bay. I’m recounting the tale of one of my early PI adventures to my holographic assistant, HARV, and my flesh-and-blood assistant, Carol.

  “There I was in the crowded theater looking for the e-blackmailer, and a mime and an android dressed as a mime were heading toward the crowd. I knew the mime was harmless, but the android had a bomb. I only had seconds to decide which one to take out…”

  “So what did you do, tió?” Carol asks. I should note that Carol is the niece of my fiancée, Dr. Electra Gevada. Carol has the same beauty, charm, and temper as her aunt.

  “I shot ’em both with a heavy electric stun charge,” I tell her. “Turns out I got more praise for stopping the actual mime than I did the android.”

  HARV looks at me and yawns. “You don’t have to be me, the most sophisticated cognitive processor on Earth, to know that mimes are truly annoying.”

  HARV may have a bit of an ego, but he was most likely correct on both accounts. Mimes can be quite annoying, and HARV was probably the most sophisticated computer around. Yeah sure, these days pretty much everybody over the age of three wears a Portable Interactive Holographic Interface Personally Optimized Device, or a P-Pod for short. And yep, these devices do allow easy access to a constant wealth of information. Sure, they even all have their own rudimentary personalities, such as the Bob, Betty, Bunny, and Bubba models.

  Thing is, none of these canned artificial personalities are a changing, constantly evolving intelligence like HARV is. Turns out most people are very uneasy about having a computer interface that has more personality than they do. Of course, it doesn’t help that HARV can be a bit sarcastic at times. Plus the fact that he loves to appear as a snobbish, balding British butler doesn’t exactly endear HARV to the average Joe or Jane Doe.

  Oh, I should mention that HARV is physically connected to my brain. Having an ultra mega supercomputer wired to my cerebral cortex lets me have constant access to pretty much all the information in the known worlds. It allows HARV to tap into my body and the underarmor I wear to let me move faster, take more damage, and punch harder than other humans. I can project holograms from my left-eye lens, which is pretty subzero. On the downside, I have a nosy supercomputer constantly critiquing my every move.

  Carol’s bright-green eyes pop open. She puts her fingers to her forehead and leans forward, her long, golden-brown hair dropping down her shoulders. I swear she starts to glow with energy. I should note that Carol is a class I level VII psi, which means she can do things with her mind that most people only dream of.

  “Zach, I’m picking up a vibe. You are about to get a call from the Kardasian Towers hotel. The vibe’s message isn’t totally clear. But I do know he, she, or it wants you to find a dog from Mars.”

  “I don’t usually find dogs, even ones from Mars,” I note.

  “From what I understand, the client wants to pay a million credits,” Carol tells me.

  “Of course, there is a first for everything,” I say.

  “Zach, you have a call coming in from Merinda-1616,” HARV tells me. “Do you wish to accept it as a hologram or on the wall screen?”

  This is obviously the vibe Carol had.

  I take my feet off my real-oak desk. I sit up and straighten my jacket. Even though my office is meant to look much like the typical gumshoe’s office from a hundred years ago, looks can be deceiving. I have all the modern necessities: wall screens equipped with full-room holographic projectors and a laser defense system. (Believe me, when you’re me, a laser defense system is a necessity.) I point to my left wall. “Left wall screen, please.”

  The image of a regal-looking woman with long black hair fills my left wall. Her dark hair is made more striking by her creamy-white skin. She holds her head high, and her piercing green eyes are locked on the screen, unwavering. She is probably a little older than I am, but not much.

  “Mr. Johnson, thank you for taking my call. I am Merinda-1616. I am part of the High Council of Mars.”

  A message from HARV rolls across my eyes. “Remember Zach, people from Mars, well Martians, all use numbers for last names. They believe it gives them solidarity.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Merinda. What brings you to Earth?”

  “I am here trying to negotiate a trade deal between Earth and the Mars colony. As I am sure you are aware, we on Mars make the finest handcrafted goods in the known worlds,” she tells me without batting an eyelash.

  “Yes,” I say with a nod. I point to Carol. “My assistant, Carol, has one of your scarves that she raves about.” I lean toward the screen and ask, “So to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

  “I want to hire you t
o find my dog and dearest companion, Saturn,” she tells me. “He’s a special creature.”

  I sit back in my chair and prop my hands behind my head. “Oh?”

  Merinda nods. “Yes, very special. His IQ is well over two hundred, and he can communicate telepathically.”

  “Now, that is special,” I say. “When did he go missing?”

  “A couple of hours ago. He said this hotel was too stuffy and that he needed some fresh air. He left, and that’s the last I heard from him.” She shivers a little. “I wanted to send a security person with him, but he insisted that he’s a big boy.” Her eyes plead to the screen. “Please, Zach, you have to find him. I’ll pay a hundred thousand credits in advance and another hundred thousand credits when you find him.”

  OK, not exactly the million credits Carol thought it would be, but even the best psis aren’t perfect. Besides, two hundred thousand credits to track down a dog isn’t a bad payday.

  “Sure, I’ll do it,” I tell her.

  Her eyes pop open, and her lips curl into a smile. “I’m staying on the thirteenth floor of the Kardasian Towers. Come here, and I will give you all of Saturn’s pertinent information.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say. “When tracking down a subject, it’s always helpful to see his or her last-known surroundings. I may get a clue.” I stand up from my desk. “I should be there in twenty minutes.”

  “I look forward to meeting you,” Merinda says. She nods, and my wall screen goes blank.

  I turn to Carol. “Ready for a little road trip?”

  “Sorry, I was wrong about the amount,” she says.

  I shrug. “Nobody is perfect. Not even you.”

  I walk over to my actual-wood coatrack and take my fedora off the top.

  “Why must you insist on always wearing that hat when you start a case?” HARV asks.

  “It helps set the proper tone,” I insist, walking out the door. “Being a PI is as much about attitude as anything else.”

  It’s a nice sunny day on the New Frisco pier. A few tourists dot the street, taking 3-D photos of themselves standing by the water, like that’s some great accomplishment. Three other tourists—a man, a woman, and a kid—are ogling my 1973 cherry-red Mustang. Now, these are people with taste.

  “Is this really your vehicle, sir?” the kid asks. He’s a small kid with red hair and freckles.

  “It is,” I say with a grin.

  “And you actually have to drive it yourself?” the mom asks, her hair done up in a near-perfect bun.

  “I do,” I say.

  “How quaint and archaic,” the dad says. I notice he has an old pipe in his front pocket, which is weird. Hardly anybody smokes these days, especially not from a 1950s-style pipe.

  “HARV, scan these folks,” I think. “They look too much like a 1950s sitcom family to be real.”

  HARV appears, projecting himself from my wrist communicator. “First off, the car has been modified so I can drive it if needed. Second, Zach, these people are all wearing holographic disguises.”

  The kid looks at HARV and smiles. “Wow, you really are as good as people say.”

  The three family members each touch a button on his or her respective belt. The holographic covers blur away. I am now standing face-to-face—well, face-to-chest—with three big apes in really expensive suits.

  Oh, I’m not talking dramatically here. These are three actual apes. These days if some companies have messages they want to deliver in a hard-to-ignore package, they use actual apes. Apes are big and intimidating, and they haven’t unionized like human and mutant muscle. Plus, they are easier to maintain than android muscle. And when push comes to shove, apes are scarier than androids. Still, I’m not one to scare easily.

  I lock eyes with the biggest ape, figuring he or she is the leader—my thought process being that I could stare him or her down.

  “Dude,” the ape I’m locking eyes with says. “We each outweigh you by a good one hundred kilos, and we’re freaking apes carrying heat.”

  The other two apes open their jackets to reveal very big sidearms.

  “Your point being?” I snarl.

  The lead ape points to his ear. “Plus, we’re each wearing really expensive psi blockers, so Carol can’t warp us with her mind.”

  “Your point being?” I repeat.

  The lead ape opens up his arms and lifts his hands. It’s meant to be a friendly gesture. “We just want to talk…”

  “Zach, I’ve tapped into the apes’ communication devices,” HARV tells me in my mind. “They seem to be in the employment of a new reality HV network called Actual, Real Reality HV Net.”

  Now would be a good time to mention that the reality networks all want to sign me. They figure the network that reels in the last freelance PI will get a major ratings boost. In a way, it’s a bit flattering, but in practice, it’s far more annoying. I want these apes to back down. They say they just want to talk, but the thing is they are apes, and apes respect a show of power. I do wear reinforced, HARV-enhanced underarmor and keep a nifty Colt-4500 up my sleeve. I am more than capable of holding my own in a brawl, even if it’s against three apes. Still, years in the business have taught me there are times when you get more out of making the right gesture than throwing a right cross.

  I hold up my palms to the apes. It’s a friendly gesture meant to show them I mean no harm.

  “Listen, guys, I’m flattered,” I tell them. “But like I told all your competition, I am not doing reality HV.”

  The three apes look at one another and then burst out laughing. The two apes in back are actually hitting their thighs—they’re laughing so hard.

  “Ah, what’s so funny?” I ask.

  The lead ape straightens up, composing himself just a little. He adjusts his pink tie as he tells me, “Dude, we don’t want you. We’re not just the muscle here. We’re also the brains of this new HV network. We see things differently than humans. You’re old news and, well, old. What are you, forty now? We are targeting a young subzero demographic.” He points to Carol and HARV. “We want them. The girl is beautiful, so guys will dig her; yet she is powerful, so women will get behind her. Plus, she has that IT factor. The hologram—well, he’s the perfect snooty sidekick. People will love to hate him.”

  “He’s far from perfect,” I note.

  “I am not snooty. I am confident in my knowledge,” HARV remarks, head tossed back. “I am also definitely not a sidekick.”

  “I like to keep my life as private as possible,” Carol says.

  The ape nods his head. “I get it. I understand not wanting to stand out.”

  “This coming from a big ape in a pink suit,” I note.

  The ape looks me in the eyes. “Our suits and ties have interactive nano-colors that we can adjust for the circumstance. We thought the pink would be friendlier.” He shakes his head. “But that’s neither here nor there. My point is that our terms are very reasonable and generous.” He touches the P-Pod on his ear, and a holographic contract appears. “All you have to do is live your lives and let us record it.”

  HARV crosses his arms. “I’ve scanned the terms. They are reasonable, but Carol and I are not a sideshow. When you do what we do, it’s best to stay private. That’s why they call us private eyes…”

  The ape points to me. “Technically and legally, he’s the only PI. We would call the show the Last Girl Friday.”

  “Catchy title,” I admit.

  “Sorry, guys, no deal,” Carol says.

  The lead ape nods. “I understand. If you change your mind, you have our contact info.”

  The apes turn and walk away.

  “Smart choice,” I tell Carol and HARV.

  “Please, it’s a start-up company run by apes,” HARV says. “Carol and I would be better off self-recording and broadcasting our adventures over the net.”

  I look at him.

  “Not that we would do that,” HARV adds.

  “Between this and my other side job, I really cheri
sh my privacy,” Carol says.

  I should note that much to my chagrin, Carol also works as sort of an unofficial Earth spokesperson/representative to the Gladians. They are a race of aliens that made contact with Earth way back in 2022. They shared with us all sorts of their technology, and all they’ve asked from us so far is for our dirt and our chocolate chip cookies. They mostly leave us alone. In fact, today very few average Jane and John Does have even seen a Gladian. .

  I get into my car and head toward the Kardasian Towers, or the KT as people like to be called.

  2

  The KT is not all that much to look at, just two bland, side-by-side towers stretching up fifty or so stories. The only truly distinguishing features they have are the domes that dot the top of each tower. These domes give the onlooker (well, at least me) the impression that the towers have a giant butt on top of them—which is kind of fitting, since the KT is an ultra mega high-priced hotel set in what passes for the butt end of Frisco. Its motto is, “For special folks who want to mingle with the little people.” Yeah, it’s not very catchy. It’s meant to be a semi-ironic hotel—a place where people with too many credits can overspend these credits and not really get anything much back in return. To me, the most ironic thing, is with Frisco being the crown city of Earth, even the butt end is pretty shiny and fairly safe.

  Entering the KT’s main lobby, the walls and ceiling are bright white and covered with glitter. The lobby itself, though, is perfectly barren—no front desk, no bellhops, no anything.

  “The KT is an upscale, no-frills hotel,” HARV tells me. “Its clientele like to rough it…”

  “So for five thousand credits a night, they get no services?” I say.

  “Yep, part of the appeal,” HARV tells me. He points to the left. “The elevator is this way. Of course their brouchre says the elevator is only for old farts who won’t take the stairs…”

  We come to a long white hallway that has to stretch one hundred meters.

  “The elevator is at the end.” HARV says, stretching his arm down the hall.