The mainland didn't feel like a real place. Out on the bustling street, Deji was swallowed by the relentless rhythm of Lagos in 2076. Hover-buses weaved between the crumbling colonial-era buildings, their repulsor fields kicking up dust and discarded synth-wrappers. Neon advertisements in every ethnic language, English, and Pidgin were holographically splashed across the facades, hawking everything from neural-link upgrades to, car insurance or the latest OmniSoft immersive experience.
The air was a layered symphony of sizzling suya spice, diesel fumes, and the low thrum of a metropolis perpetually on the verge of combustion. She wove through the crowd, a stream of humanity in vibrant, patterned athleisure wear.
She descended into the subway.
The tunnels were the pressurized arteries of the organ called, city. The train that arrived was a graffiti-scarred bullet, its windows flickering with public service announcements about engrammatic rights. Deji found a sliver of space, holding onto a strap as the train lurched forward, hurtling through the tunnels.
Around her, lives were compartmentalized; some commuters stared into the middle distance, their ocular implants displaying private feeds, while others argued loudly over the merits of the latest Patternfall delay.
It was a city of digital ghosts and very present struggles.
When the train stopped, Deji alighted deftly.
She climbing up back to the city surface (describe this better), when her comm back buzzed at her ear.
She picked the call listening as she wove through the crowds, her comm back at her ear.
"Aminu, I'm five minutes out. I swear."
"I didn't call regarding your absence this time. This is just an update so you know what you're walking into," Aminu's voice was grim, very different from the calm care he had greeted her with that morning. all business now. Hearing that tone Deji was acutely aware that something must have gone wrong.
Very wrong.
"Give it to me then,"
Static at first, "We've just had a flag from Counter-Terrorism. They've noticed a string of recent activities – bombings, chemical dispersals – all tied to a new cell. The profile on your subject, Abbasi, has been elevated. His signature is all over the last incident, doctor."
Deji could feel the weight of his words by now, "This isn't just a post-mortem inquiry anymore. We need to know what he knows, how he knows it, and where to stop it. And we need it yesterday."
~
She arrived at the Central Directorate, bypassing the public entrance for a secure elevator that descended into the fortified sub-levels reserved for High-Risk Engrammatic Interrogation. The atmosphere here was different from the chaotic streets above – less vibrant, more tense.
The air smelled of stale coffee, antiseptic, and good old-fashioned cynicism.
"You're here."
Aminu, his tall frame leaning against the wall by the observation room door, pushed off as she approached. "The others were getting restless."
"I'm so sorry about this, there were so many pieces to fit back together so the assembly this morning took longer than expected."
"Its fine. Just…brace yourself."
He opened the door, and the entire room on the other side glanced back.
Inside, two other detectives were watching a dormant Mnemonic Rig; a shimmering, data containing sphere through the one-way glass.
"Ah, the ghost-whisperer is finally here," said the younger one, Bello.
He was all sharp angles and sharper suits, a rising star who believed old-school methods trumped gimmicky new tech. "We were just placing bets. I said he'd demand full personhood rights and a one-way ticket to a synthetic body. Chidi here thought he'd just recite religious scripture for an hour."
The older detective, Chidi, sighed, not taking his eyes off the Rig. "The budget for this... séance... could have funded my department's new patrol hover-rafts for a year. And for what? To hear a terrorist's ghost call us infidels?" He queried brow raised. "These fanatics never talk. Their engrams are more stubborn than they were in life."
Deji placed her kit on a console.
"An engram is a pattern, Detective Chidi. And every pattern has a flaw. You just have to find the right pressure point."
"Pressure point?" Bello snorted. "With all due respect, Doc, his pressure point was a bullet. Six months ago. We need actionable intel on a live cell, not post-mortem psychotherapy. The Archivists should just keep this one in the digital catacombs where he belongs."
"The 'Soul Archivists' are data clerks," Deji replied calmly, powering up the Mnemonic Rig. "They preserve. I interrogate. There's a difference."
"And the Directorate pays a paleopsychiatrist's hefty fee for that difference," Bello countered. "It's hard to justify when traditional detective work – the kind done with living sources and forensic sweeps – gets results for a fraction of the cost."
Aminu finally spoke, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut through the bickering. "Traditional detective work didn't predict the Surulere market attack. It didn't find the secondary target in the Broad Street bank. Doctor Fadare's 'hefty fee' has saved hundreds of lives. That's the only justification I need." He gave Deji a curt nod. "Proceed, Doctor."
Grateful, Deji turned to the Rig.
It was a beautiful, terrifying piece of technology. A central pillar of obsidian-like material was surrounded by a constellation of floating, crystalline lenses that hummed with latent energy. This was the intermediary, the translator between the digital ghost and the physical world.
An engram was a memory, a complex recording; without a Rig, it was a song with no speaker.
Crossing into the other room, she slotted the soul-catcher containing Abbasi's engram into the base of the pillar. The room darkened. The crystalline lenses flared to life, spinning around the core, weaving strands of solid light together in a complex, mesmerizing dance. It was like watching a galaxy being born in fast-forward.
Beams of coherent photons interlaced, building a form from the feet up, defining muscle, clothing, and finally, features.
In moments, Abbasi stood before them, a perfect, solid-light construct.
He looked around the sterile room, his new eyes – simulated, but unnervingly aware – taking in his surroundings before settling on Deji.
"Who are you?" he asked.
~