The Fog Catchers 008
Up on the roof. The other crews carrying on around me. And all over Sparkletown, I knew that fog catchers worked their own nets.
But only our crew had been targeted: the only net damaged, the only flat broken into, the only one with images stolen. Why us?
Or should I ask: Why me? Was it to do with my supposed talent? Had I drawn certain images towards the net? Valuable images?
They’d first appeared about nine weeks ago. Letters, numbers. Entire symbol chains. All in the same typeface, all making little sense.
But I knew what it was. I could remember people working on this same language, when I was younger. It was code. Computer code.
I thought nothing of it. Sold some on as decoration, stored others. It just didn’t seem that important. Code was a relic. Useless.
And yet the fogware had floated in. Not every day; just now and again, without pattern. Maybe a dozen examples. And only to our net.
I thought of my father, back in the flat, still in pain. Anger flooded me. I had to find out why these fragments were so important.
I had to find that code for myself, if I could. Piece it together, and try to decipher it. What secrets did it hold? What treasure?