Next of Kin

Next of Kin

Nicolas Wilson

Published by Nicolas Wilson, 2016.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

NEXT OF KIN

First edition. December 4, 2016.

Copyright © 2016 Nicolas Wilson.

Written by Nicolas Wilson.

Also by Nicolas Wilson

Sontem Trilogy

Nexus

Nexus 2: Sins of the Past

Octopied

The Gambit

The Necromancer's Gambit

Kindred Spirits

Blood Moon

Standalone

Selected Short Stories Featuring New Corpse Smell

Selected Short Stories Featuring Cockfight

Dag

Whores

Selected Short Stories Featuring Cry Wolf

Banksters

Selected Short Stories Featuring Analog Memory

Selected Short Stories Featuring Cinderella Shoes

Selected Short Stories Featuring Save As

Homeless

Dogs of War

Euphoria/Dysphoria

Diversity Is Coming

The Singularity

Twist

Next of Kin

Watch for more at Nicolas Wilson’s site.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By Nicolas Wilson

One

Two, 32%

Three, 27%

Four, 22%

Five, 36%

Six, 49%

Seven, 41%

Eight, 37%

Nine, 29%

Ten, 27%

Eleven, 26%

Twelve, 46%

Thirteen, 43%

Fourteen, 56%

Fifteen, 43%

Sixteen, 36%

Seventeen, 27%

Eighteen, 38%

Nineteen, 47%

Twenty, 56%

Twenty-One, 63%

Twenty-Two, 41%

Twenty-Three, 31%

Twenty-Four, 44%

Twenty-Five, 38%

Twenty-Six, 32%

Twenty-Seven, 27%

Twenty-Eight, 58%

Twenty-Nine, 78%

Epilogue, 87%

Dedication

Other Works by Nic

Coming Soon

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Also By Nicolas Wilson

One

I woke with the words visual data share pending legible in glowing blue on the backs of my eyelids. I made the mistake of trying to rub the tired out of my eyes. My OLED contacts scratched, and I whimpered; they were still first-gen, not like the fancy implants most people got today. I was trying to save up for my upgrade, but on a tutor’s salary, it was taking time.

The share was a message notification, marked official from the city, set to alert me as soon as I woke up. I opened the note.

We regret to inform you of your brother’s death. The cause would appear to be violence. You have our condolences.

God. I'd worried about this note happening for half his life, but if I hadn't been lying down I think it would it have floored me. I winced, when I realized I was going to have to call mom. She was going to be a wreck.

I didn’t want to talk to her—but it wasn’t the kind of thing you did over email. And worse, it probably wasn’t enough to do voicechat—I was going to have to include video.

But before I could so much as look for a shirt, I got another message notification, high priority, this one marked as official.

"In accordance with the Law Enforcement Corruption and Citizen Responsibility Act (LECCRA), law enforcement officials’s mandate to investigate law-breaking was scaled back to include only crimes in progress, or police corruption. Per the LECCRA, nonprogressive crimes are investigated by a deputized citizen advocate, a.k.a., the victim of the crime. If the victim is incapable, due to death, injury or other handicap, of investigating the crime, their next of kin will be deputized in their stead. Investigation of a reported crime is mandatory. Failure to investigate to the satisfaction of an audience of your peers will result in a charge of obstruction of justice, and potentially render you an accomplice after the fact to the crime under investigation.

For your convenience, law enforcement professionals have prepared a handbook to familiarize the advocate with investigative best practices and techniques. The handbook will progressively unlock, allowing you to peruse information applicable to your investigation as it becomes necessary, without overwhelming the advocate. We regret the circumstances that have rendered you an advocate, but wish you a pleasant day.

The message overlaid across my vision changed from pending a visual data share to achieved.  A semi-transparent popup window anchored to the right side of my vision, labeled audience rating. It was marked 0.00% with an asterisk attached to note that data was pending.

A message flashed in blue at the bottom of my vision, Investigator Tip: Witnesses are more cooperative with an advocate who presents him or herself cleanly and professionally. Like a Pavlovian dog, I sniffed myself, without raising my arms.

Yep, I said, definitely ripe.

I walked into the bathroom, and dropped my shorts. Since I was going to take a shower, anyway, I didn't need them, so I kicked them into the hall. Then I looked down, to aim while I peed. There was a ding in my ear, vibrating from my jaw, and my rating flickered, and updated. The background flashed from light blue to red, and stopped at 37%.

Another message flashed on the screen. Investigator Tip: Audiences hate to see an advocate’s genitals. To prevent audience dissatisfaction, you can temporarily halt the video stream while going to the bathroom, or try the new privacy auto-censoring app (beta).

Crap, I said, and my rating dropped a few more points.

Investigator Tip: Audiences do not appreciate profanity, up to and including 'soft profanity' like nuts, crap, and heck. They will be more tolerant of third-party profanity, but excessive swearing by individuals in proximity to an advocate has been shown to lower an audience’s overall approval of the advocate by association.

That was timely, I said, annoyed at the information coming after it might have been helpful.

I stepped under the shower, and water poured from the ceiling. Through the water I could also see my genitals, so I focused in the bottom left corner of my vision, to activate my interface options. There was a new interface related to deputized citizen advocacy under the heading DCA. I activated the privacy function. Then I closed my eyes and dunked my head in the water to start washing myself.

When I started to rinse off, I glanced down. The censoring app pixelated my penis, but to somewhat ruin the effect, overlaid the word penis over it. I looked at the wall, then put my hand in front of my genitals, and dangled my penis in front of it and looked back down. The app pixelated my hand at first, then the printed the words, not a penis over top of it, and the pixelation disappeared. There was a delay when I took my hand away from my genitals, and the program wasn't sure what it was looking at, and displayed penis? before the pixelation returned, and the question mark disappeared. I told myself it was because the app was still in beta—not that I had anything to be concerned about.

My approval rating dipped to 34% percent. 

Sorry, I said, guess that privacy app isn't ready for the big time. My rating adjusted up to 42%, though I realized that was probably because people thought I was making a dick joke.

I finished rinsing quickly, and dressed. I combed my hair, and brushed my teeth. I was stalling. I didn't want the day to start, for any of this to be real. But my brother wasn't coming back, and as I inspected my nose hair in the mirror I could watch as my approval numbers plunged deeper into the toilet.

So I connected a call to my mother, and waited for her to come on the line. Mom, I said softly.

I just paid my electricity, she said, and I'm already eating nothing but potatoes as it is this month.

That's not why I'm calling.

I can see you, she said, and blinked at me. You never video call me.

It's about John. He died, mom.

Naturally? she asked, as her eyes welled up with tears.

I swallowed. I'm investigating his homicide.

Her eyes got wide. So we're on camera. People can see me? Why would you tell me while people can see me? She hung up abruptly, and my rating dropped again, to 35%.

"Investigator Tip: You can mute the audience for thirty seconds when informing loved-ones of a crime; it gives them a moment to compose themselves, and to decline further observation if they choose. Audiences react positively to this treatment, and have described it in surveys as 'humane.'"

Always know how to kick me in the stones while I'm down, I muttered.

Two, 32%

A notification popped up in the top left of my interface, telling me that all of my scheduled meetings for the day had been canceled, and that all participants had been auto-notified. I swore very loudly in my head, because I knew that meant I was going to get a call from Cynthia Studer in 3, 2...

The call rang through. "What in the retard-humping fuck do you think you're doing to my daughter?" she screamed. I winced, as my rating dropped four more points.

Cynthia was a helicopter parent, but not just the kind that hovered, the kind that was built for assault. Some tutors called them Apaches or Comanches, after military attack helicopters, but that always felt a little... problematic to me, not to mention seriously unfair to the Native people being associated with these parents.

I mean, I understood her concern. If your kid didn't get good test scores, they couldn't get into good programs, without being in good programs, they weren't eligible for the good internships, and without those they'd never have access to good jobs. Scrimping on a good tutor meant your kid's future could be over before they could count to their own age.

But putting that kind of pressure on kids only made more of them fail. And having that pressure come both from society at large and the parents, tended to crush more kids than it turned into diamonds.

I'm sorry, Ms. Studer, I said. But my brother's been killed, and I've been deputized to deal with the crime.

Oh, she said. It was the fastest I'd ever seen her shut down, but I could also see her wheels turning. I needed to defuse the situation, before she figured out a way to turn all of this to her advantage.

But if you'd like, I can make up the time. She glared at me through my lenses. Maybe even give you time and a half, for the usual fee, for the inconvenience. A thin smile curled over her lips.

At that moment, the chat window expanded in the bottom right of my interface, with a single message from "FartGobbler: Pussy."

That would be fine, she said. And Conrad, you kill the bastards that did this.

I nodded. Thanks for your understanding. I'll contact you to reschedule once I'm done with the investigation. Goodbye. I disconnected. I hated that I was going to be doing work for that woman for free,  but all told I'd probably gotten off light.

Or maybe I couldn't be as upset about it as I wanted because I was staring at the word Pussy on the right side of my vision. I pulled up an input, and placed my fingers in the home position over virtual keys overlaid in front of me on my lenses. Another message popped up. Investigator Tip: While it can be tempting to directly address your critics, research confirms that audience participants do not appreciate confrontation, and even those sympathetic to an advocate may turn on them when lashing out at even the most abusive of audience members.

I was still weighing the stupidity of defending myself when another thought occurred to me. I opened up the DCA menu again, and brought up the questions prompt, and used my input to type in the question, How much of my interface can the audience see?

Investigator Tip: Only DCA-specific programs or utilities are visible to the audience by default. This protects advocates' privacy and personal information, and protects audience members from accidental exposure to lens-based erotica.

I got a notification there was a package at my door. Out of habit, I pulled up the camera outside the door. Delivery person must have just left it outside, which I'd gotten used to. On the off-chance somebody had left me a bomb, the police could always pull footage from a few seconds before to get an ID.

I swiped my fingers over the door as I crossed the room, and it slid open. It was a standard reusable shipping crate, which meant there was a deposit on it. Sure enough, when I got close, a label popped up on my interface that told me they would debit the amount from my account, a half a day's wages, should I accept delivery, and return the funds upon receipt of the container.

I queried the sender of the package. It was from the police department, care of the DCA's Office. Which meant it was official, and probably something I was going to need. I picked up the package, and a green checkmark appeared beside the note. In red, I got a notification from my bank that the money had been debited.

The door closed automatically behind me. As soon as it was sealed, the crate lit up on one side. I realized it was scanning my fingerprints. Recipient confirmed, flashed on the front panel of the crate, and the top folded outward, like a plastic, cubic flower blooming. Out of the crate shot a cloud of nanites that swarmed over me. It got in my eyes, into my nose, mouth, ears, and into my throat. I knew enough to guess they were tiny cameras.

Investigator Tip: Most advocates find it best to close their eyes and mouth, and to exhale through their nose, to prevent cameras lodging inside these important facial orifices.