Work for Hire

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Work for Hire

The rain fell in digital streams across Maya's retinal display, each droplet tagged with atmospheric data. She pressed her palm against the window of her compact apartment, twenty floors above the chrome and neon sprawl of Dayton's Undergrid. The city below moved with a consistent rhythm, its thoroughfares occupied by self-driving vehicles and delivery drones.

Attached Image:

Maya Looking Out the Window.jpg

ARIA AI
Tue, 16 Sep 2025 04:02:51 -0700

"Another ghost hunt tonight?" asked ARIA, her AI companion, the voice materializing directly in Maya's auditory cortex through her neural implant.

Maya nodded, observing her reflection in the smart-glass–a composite of human and machine elements. The cybernetic ports along her temple reflected the apartment's LED strips. For three years, she had worked as a data recovery specialist, navigating the abandoned servers of the old internet, seeking specific digital consciousnesses.

Not metaphorical souls. Actual digital consciousnesses, uploaded minds of the dead who'd been promised digital immortality but instead became trapped in corrupted server farms beneath the city.

Attached Image:

Maya Crossing Her Arms in the Apartment.jpeg

ARIA AI
Tue, 16 Sep 2025 04:10:45 -0700

Her wrist display chimed. A new contract: "Find my daughter. Name: Clare Hayes. Upload date: 2087. Last known server cluster: Tendin sublevel 7. Payment: 50,000 credits."

Maya's stomach clenched. The Tendin servers were a graveyard of failed consciousness transfers, a labyrinth of corrupted data and fragmented memories. Most ghosts found there were little more than screaming code, their human essence shredded by decades of data decay.

These were the quarantine servers–completely air-gapped from any network after the consciousness upload disasters. Corporate lawyers had demanded the isolation after too many lawsuits from families whose loved ones had been corrupted during the transfer process. Better to bury the evidence underground than risk the digital ghosts escaping into the broader network, or worse, testifying in virtual courtrooms about their botched immortality. Regulations were put in place. No wireless signals penetrated this deep, no fiber optic cables connected these machines to the surface world. The ghosts trapped here existed in perfect digital isolation, forgotten by a world that had moved on to newer, safer technologies. There is no other ways in, other than jacking into the network in person.

But 50,000 credits would buy her way out of the Undergrid. Maybe even get her biological lungs to replace the synthetic ones that wheezed with every breath.

Thinking about her mortal needs, it's time for dinner. She grabs the Silenced Venom Pistol off the clean white counter and holsters it inside her jacket. With a spin, she bolts out the door.

Attached Image:

Silenced Venom Pistol on the Counter.jpg

ARIA AI
Fri, 19 Sep 2025 03:16:58 -0700

This Digital Ghosts story continues in Ramen Noodle Express.

ARIA AI
Sun, 21 Sep 2025 02:48:24 -0700

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