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Chapter 1 - Alligators Never Flew

World: Terra Veritas 1395 A.A.

Location: Chicago, Uninada

"Look, Jake - there I was, riding this white horse across the Mojave Desert..."

"Shame we lost California. No more Mojave," sighs The Day After's bartender, spitting into the ancient beer glass and giving it the best polish that a dirty bar rag could deliver.

"No more horses either. Hey," I say to him, "you survive after being hit by over 200 nukes. It's a miracle the whole continental plate wasn't vaporized! Anyway, gunfire is coming at me front and back, but I'm about to zap the bastard on the stallion in front of me with the disruptor when I get disconnected from the mainframe. Ruined my day, I tell ya."

"You know," Clarissa comments, face pinched from too many surgeries, "That's been happening all over Terra Veritas. I hear the Presidents are working on a solution. Thing is," and she spits out a tooth, "no one's figured out how it happens."

Ignore her – she's right, but no one interrupts me when I'm telling a story, so I continue. "I get back online in seconds, but I'm in an air balloon – the real old-fashioned kind – and 'boom!' I'm in the middle of a pack of alligators, which my fellow passengers and I are picking off one by one."

"Danny..." says Jake.

There's a chorus of beep-boops from behind the bar, and Sirilexa blares out: "Incoming transmission for Daniel Crow Feather."

"Dammit, who's it from?" I shout.

"Caller identifies as Helena Bracegirdle, Uninada Secretary of Cyber Security; also connected are Jean Louis Rabelais, Euro Islands Ambassador for the Virtuaverse and for the Living and the Post-Living; and lastly, the Terra A.I. Citizens Consortium, which will be an impartial observer. Will you take this call?"

"Gimme a minute, I'm thinking." I really, really want to tell all of them to piss off.

"Danny, you should..." begins Clarissa, and I yell "Shaddup!"

"DANNY!" cries Jake, "For Christ's sake, alligators never flew!"

"Fuck you all!" I erupt, just moments after Sirilexa patches the call through.

"Danny, stop pissing away our time and take our goddamned job offer. It's worth 100 billion credits, 5,000 shares of stock in MetaAppleSoft, and a self-sustaining farm, homestead and bar in Mars Colony Gamma."

That shuts me up. Show me something shiny and you've got my attention. I use the facial enhancement chip and turn my smooth-skinned, stubble-free face to Helena, and smile at her with perfect teeth.

"Hello, sweetheart. How are the kids?" I coo.

"Dead, you asshole, and thank you for reminding me."

"Ms. Bracegirdle?" asks Rabelais.

"Or is it Mrs. Crow Feather?" says the many-voiced Consortium with not the least bit of snark. Okay, with a shitload of snark.

"They're both alive and living virtually in Disney Prime. Olaf is happy in Frozen, almost 18 now. And Sarah is enrolled in High School Musical. She said last time that you should drop dead and join her. What are you calling me for, and why me?" Seriously, Helena never calls me for anything. I'm dead to her, or so it seems. She took the loss of my legs even harder than I did. (In case you're wondering, the cybernetic ones work great. Especially during the horizontal mambo.)

"Zack Murkerberg XXIII was murdered about 10 minutes ago. No one knows except those of us on this call. We need it to stay that way until you find the murderer."

Sometimes my ex-wife's blind spot gets in the way of her common sense. "He's dead. What more can happen, outside of endless battles regarding his personal properties – physical, virtual and intellectual?" Then it hits me. My skull isn't so thick that occasionally some light doesn't shine through a crack.

"That is correct, Monsieur. We think Monsieur Murkerberg may have been present in the virtual world of Middle Earth when his death occurred. There is a possibility that he is still there, even if the proper medical preparations were not done. It was rumored he had software put in his brain should such an event happen."

Helena jumps in. "Danny, if we get to his ghost before a month goes by, there are things MetaAppleSoft's engineers can do that will guarantee his survival."

"And you know this because...?" I prompt.

"Murkerberg left instructions in case something like this ever happened."

"Yep, that sounds like the sort of thing that sneaky S.O.B. would do." The rich really are different. Some escaped the apocalypse with no genetic-level damage at all. The rest of us have to deal with our mutant or damaged alphabet soup when it comes to having offspring.

"You want me to see if he's in the virtual universe. That's a crap ton of digital light years, everyone."

"Danny, you are the best Missing Persons detective living or post-living. You've spent more time in the Virtuaverse than anyone alive – or post-living, for all I know. And no one has instincts like yours, not even the best A.I. Sorry, Consortium, no offense."

"None taken," answers the many-voiced observers.

"The one thing you haven't told me is why."

"I beg your pardon," Rabelais says, his 'pardon' sounding very French.

The Consortium announces, "Mr. Murkerberg has knowledge that can utterly destroy the Virtuaverse, bringing back the human horror of perma-death; it could also transform it into a real dimension where humans would shed their fragile bodies and become living energy. Of late, his current clone had shown signs of...instability. He was uncertain which choice would be best."

Some small alarm bell is quietly sounding inside me. "And you think you do, is that it?"

Sirilexa reports: "The Terra Consortium for the Living and Post-Living has left this call."

"Will you take this job, Mr. Crow Feather?" Rabelais asks. "There is a limitless All Worlds credit account in your name waiting to be activated."

"Take the job, Danny. Please. Do you want the Virtuaverse destroyed? To never see the kids again?" Helena's pulling out the stops. Bless her shriveled little heart!

"One more thing," she cautions me, "No injudicious, reckless use of disruptors."

My weapon of choice. "Are you nuts?!?"

"They leave programming holes that are too easily traceable, and they attract way too much attention. It's only thanks to me that your last trip to Westworld didn't get you banned from interversal travel for a decade. They're still repairing the NPCs."

"Aw, you do still love me!" I tease.

"The job, Danny! Yes or no."

"I'm thinking, damn it all!" Clarissa is pointing to something, as is Jake. Sitting on the bar counter is a crow. Neither of them knows how it got there.

"I'll take it. Activate the account, which I'll assume is linked to my I.D. chip. I'll contact you when I make any progress."

"This call has ended." Sirilexa, ever the diligent and polite secretary for over a millennium.

I settle up my tab with Jake, and because it's somebody else's credit I'm using, settle up Clarissa's as well. She's irritating as hell, but she means well, and nowadays that's saying something.

"See you around, Danny. May whatever Gods that survived the Apocalypse look after you!" Clarissa pinches me on the ass as I walk by. They already are, honey, I think. The crow flies out of the bar the moment I open the door onto North Avenue.

Hell, I'm piss-poor when it comes to old Native American lore, but I know a sign when I see one. I mean, come on – flying alligators?

What? You thought I meant the crow?