In My Memory Locked by Jim Nelson
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 2.8 MB
They hired a cybernetic detective to recover the Internet’s stolen digital history. They didn’t know his twisted past is the key to the crime.
Security expert C.F. Naroy is hired to stop hackers from destroying the only remaining preserved copy of the Old Internet—”Old” because the Internet has been replaced by the Nexternet, a technology that allows anyone anywhere to transmit instantly love, hate, outrage, joy…their very thoughts. Emotions are sent like text messages. Others’ memories are streamed like movies.
Naroy’s investigation uncovers blackmail, political intrigue, dark family secrets, and more than a few dead bodies. He also learns—the hard way—that the stolen data is so explosive, people are willing to kill for it.
Then Naroy discovers his own painful past is the key to the entire affair. He must choose between solving the crime…or burying it for good.
The noon ferry jounced over the churning bluish cream of the bay waters. Salt sprays shot up the bow and hurled themselves across the top-deck. Standing alone with my hands buried in the pockets of my mackintosh, the spray dappled my cheeks with cold saltwater pinpricks. Ahead of the ferry, the rocky island concealed itself in the sloshing bay water like a hunched man lying in wait. With every tilt and sway of the ship, we inched closer to Alcatraz Island.
The concrete fortress was precariously balanced atop the Alcatraz rocks as though a swift kick would send it down to the roiling bay waters. Its brutalist architecture suggested no stylistic period other than the incarceration-happy 20th century. Back in the day, it was armed to the teeth. That rainy morning in 2038, I doubted there was so much as an air gun kept on the island. Emptied of prisoners before I was born, converted to a tourist attraction, shuttered after the mystique faded, the deserted Alcatraz was repurposed once more in 2028. The island was no longer inhabited by murderers, bank robbers, or park rangers. Now it was inhabited by a government commission and its employees standing guard over the only remaining copy of the Old Internet.
Dry deckhands in Federal-blue peacoats emerged from the ferry’s warm hold. Barehanded, emotionless, they unwound rope as thick as zoo boas from the top deck storage holds. When the ferry nudged against the pier, they tossed the lines over to the dockworkers with nary a word shouted. Rain pelted them. Gusts sent sea spray across the deck and dock. Together, the men tamed the kicking ferry until it was tight against Alcatraz’s only serviceable dock. The ferry crew dragged out a steel gangway from below deck and bridged the gap between watercraft and dry land.
My hard-soled brogues made hollow knocks down the gangway to the dock. Before I disembarked, I gave an obligatory nod of thanks to the ruddy-cheeked deckhand holding the gangway steady. He didn’t care either way. Only one passenger that day, me, a graying raisin-faced guy in a Scotchgarded raincoat, a guy old enough to be his father and probably twice the son-of-a-bitch.
Up the path from the dock, spray-painted on a concrete wall that once kept hardened men inside this hardened place, was the most recent evidence of this continent’s aboriginal man on this soulless rock. Native Americans occupied the island for a year and a half before they were embargoed off. They left behind spray-painted reminders of their stand against the Federal government: