Free The Pedestal by Daniel Wimberley

Viseon wall alights with his gawky likeness.
    “Any luck on locating Arthur’s next of kin?” he inquires. There’s a stain on his lapel that looks suspiciously like mustard.
    “None. I’m not finished trying, though.” He nods, but the expression on his face isn’t encouraging. “Everything okay, Doc?”
    He smiles. Now that I’ve had some time to grieve a little, I’ve lost my animosity toward him. I’m starting to view him less as an incompetent practitioner, and more of an eccentric one. “Thing is, Mr. Abby, we’re pretty well out of time on this thing.”
    My jaw clenches, and though I know exactly what he’s getting at, I feel compelled to ask anyway. “What the heck does that mean?”
    Dr. Seymore gulps and some of the blood appears to drain from his face. “I’m sorry,” he says plaintively. “You have to know that, Mr. Abby.” I suppose I do, but it’s not what I want to hear. Since I haven’t replied, he forges ahead. “But since no living will has been located, and no family members have stepped forward, the hospital is required to honor state protocols.” He pauses and swallows visibly again. “Arthur will be turned over to the city later this morning. More than likely, he’ll be recycled by the end of the day.”
    Although I’ve been expecting this all along, it hits me like a wrecking ball. I’m too stupefied—to horrified, really—to speak. This city that I thought I knew and loved is preparing to shrug off the remains of my best friend—an icon in this town—like an old ratty coat. I imagine his ashes smoldering in a back-alley garbage can.
    “Really, Mr. Abby, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I know how much he meant to you, and if I had any say in this at all, I’d—”
    “It’s fine,” I cut in. Of course, it isn’t—not by a long shot. How can this be happening?
    I disconnect and turn to leave, but I’m not hungry anymore. With a grave sigh, I return to my desk and begin making calls. After ten minutes of bouncing from office to office, I finally reach a cordial woman who explains that the city has already scheduled a pauper’s wake for Arthur this afternoon—and as Dr. Seymore has already warned me, this process can only be overridden by the formal instructions of a family member.
    I’ve got to do something.
    I head toward the server room and snatch a set of earplugs off a hook by the door. Ryan’s at lunch, but Tim’s poking around as usual on an array of terminal keyboards.
    “Hey, Wil. What’s scrappenin?”
    “Tell me you have something on Arthur’s implant.”
    “Nah, man. My guess is we may never figure that mess out.”
    I tell him about Arthur, and he’s appropriately disgruntled. Then I bring him up to speed on Mitzy and my cross-data contamination theory; he’s intrigued and immediately begins to call up her profile in the nexus. He’s smiling like a giddy schoolgirl, sifting through her purchase history—lo mein noodles from a street vendor, a scented candle from a perfume shop, underwear from Victoria’s Secret, et cetera—with the gusto of a tried-and-true stalker. Suddenly, his demeanor shifts, smile fading, eyes narrowing.
    “What is it?” I want to know, trying to wipe the fantasy of Victoria’s Secret from my mind—how I can even think about that girl with Adrian in my life is a mystery.
    “There’s an anomaly here, see?” Tim directs my attention to the screen with a bony finger. All I see is a meaningless data grid, and I tell him so. “Right here, Wil. Look at this—see the profile ID for her NanoPrint? Now look at the profile ID tied to her credits and her proximity sensors!” With the aid of his finger, I do. They don’t match.
    “I don’t get it,” I confess with a tired shrug. “That’s not supposed to happen, right?”
    “Exactly. The only way it could happen is for someone to manually alter the database.”
    “Okay, well that’s a start, isn’t it?”
    Tim gives me a poignant frown. “The thing is,