87 lines
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87 lines
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<h1>Zk | Dr Carter Ramirez --- 2112</h1>
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<p><span class="tag">writing</span> <span class="tag">novel</span> <span class="tag">chapter</span> <span class="tag">fiction</span> <span class="tag">scifi</span> <span class="tag">post-self</span> <span class="tag">qoheleth</span></p>
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<p>That night, Carter dreamed of shadows.</p>
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<p>And through it all, there was the river. The muddy, sometimes stinking river. The Thames which only seemed to engender affection that one might call 'grudging'. When she had first moved to London, it had been her guide. The Thames was always vaguely downhill, the slope her Y-axis. And on the X-axis, the bridges. Tower, London, Southwark, Millenium II, Blackfriars Rail, Blackfriars Memorial. Tick marks along a waterline.</p>
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<p>And in her dream, she strode aimlessly along the south bank. The constant renovation of the area had led to not just one great revival, but countless smaller ones. Buildings were torn down and raised back up, plots of land chopped into ever smaller portions. Those same buildings growing higher, never quite managing to match.</p>
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<p>Strode past towers, squat pubs, some old, some new. Mostly new.</p>
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<p>Strode past people and crowds, buskers and food carts.</p>
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<p>She walked beneath bridges, along railings, past tour boats gliding silently along the surface of the water.</p>
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<p>And she passed shadows.</p>
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<p>And the shadows were like the people of the crowds. A little taller perhaps, but still just like the people. It was as though someone had cut a person-shaped hole out of space, blurred the edges, vignetted, pinched the light.</p>
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<p>And it wasn't through prolonged observation, she was just suddenly aware of the fact that the shadows were all behaving in the same way. Always following one of the people. Same pace. Same gait. Somehow more sinister for that exactness. Always just one person, never changing, never looking around at anyone else.</p>
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<p>And no one else seemed to see or notice these shadows except her.</p>
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<p>And she started tailing one of the shadows. Quietly. Unobtrusively. Followed it following a young black woman pushing a pram. Another young child walking at her side. His hand curled loosely in the fabric of her pants. Constantly in touch.</p>
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<p>And Carter struggled to keep up. The harder she tried to keep pace, the slower she seemed to go. And she tried to call out. And her voice came out only as a whisper. And the shadow reached out it's hand. And the shadow's fingers slid through the woman's hair reaching for the base of her scalp.</p>
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<p>And Carter screamed, inaudible.</p>
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<p>The dream dogged Carter through her morning routine and into her commute. She kept thinking, if she'd just been able to keep quiet, maybe she could have seen what would've happened when that young mother was touched by the shadow. Some sort of metaphor for getting lost? Or was her sleeping mind just carrying too much work-burden into the night?</p>
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<p>She was only able to dispel the lingering sense of too much meaning when she got into work and checked her email for news. No additional cases added to the research load. She realized she half expected a new one. Young, female, black, mother.</p>
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<p>Just a dream, then.</p>
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<p>After checking her mail on the rig's screen, Carter stood and stretched, making her way blearily to the coffee corner. She was one of the first in that morning. Just Avery and a few other early risers. Thankfully, Avery was the type to leave the coffee pot full rather than empty.</p>
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<p>She doctored her coffee to her specifications and ambled back to her desk, setting the mug down on the smooth surface. She spent a few minutes scrolling aimlessly through her mail list. She didn't dive in just yet, despite the workload that she knew waited. The fog of the dream had been burned away, but there were still too many thoughts that needed organizing. Couldn't yet go through the process of setting up her workspace and ordering stacks of cards.</p>
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<p>No, she corrected herself. She was <em>wary</em> of diving in.</p>
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<p>She had things she needed to do in the sim. She had things that the sim would help her do quickly, whether she needed to or not. She wanted to start a stack for this Sasha that Johansson had brought up. Wanted to find a way to start making and notating all of those connections.</p>
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<p>Working in sim was part of her job. She had gone into this research project knowing that it was only in sims that people got lost. It had never bothered her before.</p>
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<p>And yet here she was, waffling about whether or not she felt safe going in to do her work.</p>
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<p>She sighed, sipped her coffee, shook her head. Then set her hands in the cradles and rested her head against the headrest. Nothing for it.</p>
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<p>Within her spare, black space, Carter prowled through the stacks she had started on this little side project. Invisible to others, she created a private stack within the string-delineated area, next to the pendant "Possible acquaintances" card. Private cards showed up with a subtle blue tinge to her, and would only appear on her view of the workspace.</p>
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<p>On the first card in the stack, she transferred over the notes she had taken with Johansson. Then she started another card labeled "Sasha?" and added it to the stack.</p>
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<p>The whole private stack was looped up to RJ's card with a piece of cotton string. Others would be able to see that she had created the stack with the string trailing off to a faint outline of a deck, or a grayed out pack of cards, or however their view of the sim chose to represent the data.</p>
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<p>Strictly speaking, she shouldn't be doing such. They were intended to be for short notes to oneself about what one was working on, not for actual investigative work. This was something new. She wasn't supposed to have this information.</p>
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<p>Carter stepped back to look at the whole cordoned off section of data. She frowned. Never mind the information, was she even supposed to be doing investigative work? She was supposed to be utilizing the data that the hospitals and the university provided her with, not running out into the field and talking with acquaintances of the lost over pints after a show.</p>
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<p>Sanders would have a fit if he knew what she was up to.</p>
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<p>Even so, she wasn't quite sure it was only that which drove her to make the stack private. Some hunch. Some shadow lurking behind her.</p>
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<p>She needed to be more subtle about this than she had been.</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2020-04-19</p>
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