Flinch

"Sixth Sense. Do you have it? Imagine the moment when you need to
communicate without any indication you are doing so. Imagine being able
to speak without making a sound. That's Sixth Sense. A new technology
available from Flinch Technology Labs&;#8230;"
Raymond zapped the TV into silence with the remote then sprawled out
across the divan: he already had the implant. The new technology was
already old for him. His bare feet touched fur and body heat, Bubastis,
his cat, arched its back to press up against his soles.
Raymond laughed his famous laugh, bright teeth within a perfect mouth,
"You're such a flirt!"
The cat stretched forward, paws clenching and unclenching on the silky
divan cover, emitting a deep rumbling purr.
Raymond tensed his muscles, satisfied when the vertebrae in his spine
audibly clicked in quick succession. He sat upright, glanced around for
something to throw, picked up a small cushion and hurled it at the
cat.
Direct hit. Bubastis leapt forward and thundered across the varnished
floor to the other side of the vast room. Raymond chuckled and pulled
himself off the divan. He stood upright and stretched again, squinting
in the bright shaft of amber sunlight sloping through the window. The
day was almost over. He had managed about three hours sleep.
He lingered on the pain building up in his muscles as he forced his
body to stretch, then relaxed.
"Bubastis," He said out loud, "Adjust window down to thirty
percent."
The dazzling glare of the sun dimmed to a sultry glow as the windows
darkened on command. Bubastis was simply a man-made familiar, an
organic replicant that looked, behaved, smelled and sounded like a real
cat. Raymond had loaded Bubastis with the Management software for his
apartment: it was a chique thing to do with feline replicants. Raymond
had watched the old sci-fi films from the previous century; Terminator,
Bladerunner. That 'future' was now here, and the reality of it was so
much better than the projected dreams of the nineteen hundreds.
He padded across the varnished floor to the wide, narrow strip of
window that ran the length of the room. Manhattan stretched out before
him, the furnace of the sun trapped at the far end of 5th Avenue,
filling the wide cavernous street with blazing golden light.
Darkness would fall swiftly, suddenly, the light blocked out by the
vast monolithic skyscrapers that nuzzled every flat inch of ground
space, ranked shoulder to shoulder, compelling the street-based
observer to forget there was such a thing as sky.
He loved the city. He loved the night in the city.
He used a mental keyword and conjured up the synaptic-command suite
into his peripheral vision. The command-suite was superimposed across
his natural vision, generated by the pea-sized implant of raw chip
memory wet-wired inside his skull. Such implants were commonly called
WAM: Wet Access Memory. The product marketing said he would never find
enough data to fill it. It was a glossy half-lie. He would never have
enough personal data to fill it, but a friend of his had once
configured his own WAM to act like a web-crawler: opened a link to the
Internet then sat back. An hour later the friend was being rushed to
hospital with an embolism, caused by synaptic leakage around the
implant. The WAM company paid all fees to hush up the incident, then
sued the clinic that installed the implant for gross-incompetence. The
clinic went bust and Raymond's friend got enough money for a year in
Jamaica.
Life could be so random.
It was Raymond's favourite by-line.
Raymond was twenty seven. Nigerian born, British raised, living out of
an apartment in the expanded block of the Gershwin hotel.
Raymond was a hustler. He had studied economics leaving with a First.
He had landed a comfortable job in the London City, courtesy of the
associates of his father who was a senior Nigerian diplomat within the
European Federation. He had dropped it all for a flight to New York,
and had never gone back.
Now he made his money promoting clubs within the twisted echelons of
Manhattan's wannabe's and trendsetters. This invariably revolved around
hovering by the doormen to make sure the 'right people' got inside, the
right people were invariably those he had met on a previous night's bar
crawl. Raymond spent most of his spare time chatting to strangers.
Skimming the midnight to pre-dawn zone, slotting the connections
together, particular occupations, particular styles, particular
sub-cultures for particular clubs.
It was a true statement that Raymond could elevate the image and
success of a club from another new place on the block to the new place
on the block. Whether that difference was important in the grand scheme
of the world was not important to Raymond. What mattered, what kept him
hooked was the fact he made more money in one night than the manager of
any club made in a week.
Then there were the contacts. His lifestyle had put him in bed with
scores of beautiful women, had gained him lunches and dinners in the
best establishments along the East Coast with power players and power
makers in the world's of business and entertainment.
It was understated success. The way Raymond liked it.
The only downside was randomness. The more he surfed through the neon
nights the more randomness he encountered. Randomness was the woman who
used you to make her boyfriend jealous. Randomness was the guy who
thought you were Jesus.

The sidewalk was packed with an energetic crowd waiting to get into the
club. UV guns rigged above the door and along the wall picked up the
vibrant colours of fluorescent and ReActive-Gel clubbing gear. These
were New York's most dedicated clubbers. The venue was Zum~Zum; the
majority of them would not get in. Manhattan hosted a range of
top-level high profile dance clubs for this majority, there was no
place for them at Zum~Zum: they did not have the connections.
Raymond stood just inside the cordon of purple-velvet rope set around
the doorway, solidly protected by five door-sized men wearing full
evening dress. Raymond was dressed in a body hugging white vest from
the Gaultier-Institute, black velvet pants and chunky New Planet Rock
trainers. He gripped an A4-sized video-board encased in a slab of
transparent plastic. The video-board displayed an open link with his
WAM: working the door of a club at night it was better to have one
hundred percent vision.
Zum~Zum had a line-up of some of the world's best DJ's who beamed in
live from thier established haunts. This in itself was a formidable
selling point. What made Zum~Zum significantly different was that it
hosted regular sessions from the controversial twilight zone of
cyberspace: rogue AI's. This being a subject of hot debate from media
gossip columns through to theoretical quantum physicists. Rogue AI's
were not supposed to exist. The debate Raymond had cleverly manoeuvred
to centre around Zum~Zum's was the question of who, or what, was
presenting itself to the audience there. Some people fervently believed
they were interacting with artificial intelligence, which had created
enclaves for themselves within the labyrinthine connectivity of
cyberspace, and it's platform: the internet. Sceptics insisted the
artificial intelligence was nothing more than an elaborate hoax,
perpetrated by drillheads (professional crackers).
Whatever the true answer, the debate created a demand for access to
the phenomenon from a wide range of people. Raymond enjoyed demand. It
allowed him to create restrictions. Restrictions, when managed
cleverly, created desire. Desire could be converted into good old hard
currency for satisfaction.
A visual prompt from his WAM spattered across his vision: CRITICAL
PROCESSING FAILURE, COOLING SYSTEM SHUTTING DOWN, REMOVE IMPLANT WITHIN
1 HOUR OR RISK SERIOUS PERSONAL HARM.
Raymond's jaw dropped open. Instinctively his hand went to the base of
his skull as if unconsciously believing his could slip the implant
out.
But the thing is wired into my nervous system with living tissue!
Raymond started to panic.
He heard a flurry of laughter coming from the edge of the crowd. A
group of people walking to the front of the queue. Raymond recognised
the one grinning at him with pure mischief. He started to ask the
question, but the man was already answering it, laughing:
"Shit, Raymond, I would have paid money to watch your face
there!"
Mercury. Raymond brought up the WAM's visual recognition filter on his
optic nerve, proving that the implant seemed to be functioning. The
face scored a one hundred percent match to the snapshot he had taken a
few weeks ago; the name attached to it: Mercury. Occupation: Corporate
Hacker. Notes: Met him in Cypher. Big spender. Hangs out with crew of
tech specialists and hackers.
He glanced at the six men grinning at him from the other side of
Mercury's broad shoulders. All of them were wearing Paige-Lee suits.
All of them seemed to be in on the joke. Raymond displayed his easiest
smile, "Can somebody call me a paramedic."
A barrage of wild laughing: they were buzzed up on synthetic boosters.
Mercury's eyes were wide and hungry for pleasure above a manic
smile.
"Hey Raymond man, long time no see!" Mercury beamed, stepping closer,
offering an extended hand, and risking possible rejection in front of a
bitch crowd.
Raymond laughed, took his hand firmly, "Good to see you, Mercury." He
gave a quick nod at the doormen who lifted the purple velvet rope
inside. The hackers bobbed with delight and moved forward. He
maintained a grip on Mercury's hand, letting the hacker know he wanted
a moment of his time.
"Hey, thanks man." Mercury said quickly, trying to sense the
situation.
"Pleasure. Enjoy yourself inside. Tell me though, I thought the WAM's
were unhackable?"
Mercury's smile flickered through his pride, "You're running the Sixth
Sense implant. You got a door open."
"You're fucking joking."
"Not many know how to do it. Flinch are doing a good cover up and
fixing it."
Raymond let go of his hand, concerning rippling the smooth veneer of
his face. "Am I at risk?"
"Nope. But I can read your data."
Raymond nodded thoughtfully, stepped aside as Mercury moved
inside.

Raymond was still in shock when his friend Damon Vickers appeared
behind him, the doormen already lifting the rope.
"What's wrong with you, you look like you've seen a ghost!" Damon
said.
Raymond was bothered that his state of agitation was visible to the
outside world. He turned his body to face away from the crowd and
showed Damon his true state of worry, "I've just had my brain
hacked."
"What?" Concerned.
"A bunch of drillheads just walked in here. One of them used my SensId
implant to fuck with my WAM."
Damon glanced at the front of the crowd who were jostling with the
doormen. He brought his eyes back to Raymond, serious. "That's bad
news."
"Yeah, understatement."
"Did the guy have your SensId number? Maybe he used it and just hacked
the firewall..."
"No," Raymond cut him off, "I don't know the guy. He's a
random."
"Shit. I don't know what to say."
"He says he can't do me any damage, I don't know if I believe him....
Goddamn it, I can't believe this."
"Ring the company. Flinch. Tell them! Say you want it fixed."
Raymond nodded, "First thing after I'm out of this place."
Damon smiled, slapped a hand across his back, "Well I don't know what
I can do, man. Suppose I should get mine checked out too." He rubbed at
the blonde stubble darkening his jaw, "I could murder a beer though:
something East European. I don't think I've got much to worry
about."
Raymond felt a slight improvement of his mood: maybe this was not
something he should get so worked up about. "I'll see you
inside."
Damon laughed, "Yeah, right! You never come inside! Too busy fluffing
up your contacts."
Raymond smiled ruefully, "I have to work hard."
"Okay, well, I'm gonna check out the show inside, fella. Catch ya
later."

His friend had been right. It was near the end of the night. He had not
been inside. Raymond brought the command-suite into his vision. He
selected the [Dial] function. There was an option to hook into Internet
based white-pages, listing phone numbers, E-mail, SensId, web-site
(Internet browsers), home-site (Cyberspace browsers), and plethora of
other communication options, for every person without a privacy clause,
with on-line capability in the world.
Instead he selected the entry for his regular taxi service and
dialled. The other end picked up, a voice coming from the tiny bead
implant inside his ear.
"Hey, Raymond."
"Hello Luke, can I have a ride for the regular time please?"
"So the man is working this week?" A light-hearted jibe.
"I'm always working." He retorted with humour.
"Yeah, but in the nicest places. Sit tight my man, I'll have Dimitri
pick you up from the roof garden in half an hour"
Raymond extended the conversation for a few more moments, maintaining
the bond with a man he had never met yet a bond that kept him secured
with reliable taxis.
It was only a few seconds after he ended the call when a red icon
flashed up within the command-suite display, to the left of his vision.
An emergency call-sign from a 'trusted' SensId user: the Sixth Sense
icon would have popped up into his vision even if he had the
command-suite shut down.
It was Damon.
He opened the link, an experience like tuning into a radio station on
low volume. Sixth Sense had not yet come up with a one-hundred percent
effective filter on environmental noises corrupting the communication.
Sixth Sense was a unique communication tool because it allowed the user
to transfer pure thought to another user without opening your mouth. It
took getting used to and the user had to be very disciplined with their
thinking when a link was open.
Damon would have seen the link opening on his own command suite, his
mental voice came through immediately, sounding on edge. "You've got to
get me out of here man."
Raymond used a mental command to request the Sixth Sense to open a
visual link: he would see what Damon saw. "What's happening?" He asked,
concerned.
"I've pissed some guys off in here." Damon replied. His Sixth Sense
accepted the visual request. A small window opened up within Raymond's
vision. He could see a closed door at the end of a narrow booth. "I'm
holed up here inside the toilets. Fuckers want to kill me, I'm sure of
it." Damon explained.
"What did you do?"
"Long story. Bit of a mix up about a woman."
"Shit. Who are they?"
"Ganstas. Connected. Big players, I'm sorry Ray, I've fucked
up."
"Calm down, keep it calm. Signal gets screwy when you freak out."
Raymond started walking up the stairs inside the club, "Leave the link
open. I'll get help and we'll have you out of there."
"Safe, man, thanks."
Raymond reduced the window view of Damon's optic-feed to a small inset
on the edge of his vision. He brought up his [Dial] function and called
the club's head of security, Within ninety seconds he had a squad of
doormen armed with tasers securing the entrance to the washroom.
Raymond headed up to the roof garden and met a second group of
doormen.
"Damon?" Raymond asked using Sixth Sense.
"Yeah."
"I've got a bunch of bouncers waiting to escort you to the roof
garden. Walk out now and join them, stay in the middle of them."
"Okay."
Raymond waited by the door leading into the club and used the video
board in his hand to scan the club's security cameras. Using the video
board and Damon's optic-feed he watched his friend's progress. The
squad of doormen formed a tight, aggressive cordon, moving quickly
through the club. A lot of people paid attention. Damon looked nervous.
They kept a fragmented dialogue running across Sixth Sense.
He spotted the man whilst looking at the video board. The man was
Caucasian, muscular, spiky hair bleached ultra blonde; he was moving
toward Damon from behind and to Damon's right, looking uncertain.
"Damon, guy to your back and right, is that one of them?"
Raymond watched Damon's optic-feed whirl round and capture the blonde
man in full view. The blonde man reacted to Damon turning round by
coming to an abrupt stop and expressing dangerous rage within his
glare.
"Shit that's him." Damon's mental voice came back.
"Okay, keep moving." Raymond switched from his Sixth Sense to the
ear-clip of one of Damon's security cordon, "Guy with blonde spiky
hair, coming in behind you, remove him from the club."
He watched on the videoboard as one of the doormen broke away from
Damon's group, turned, strode toward the blonde man and began the
process of telling him he was been asked to leave. The blonde man began
protesting angrily, the doorman placating him by gripping his upper arm
and waving the taser below his chin.
Damon was already at the stairs leading up to the roof garden. Raymond
saw another three men hurrying over to join the blonde man, they
started arguing with the doorman. The doorman called in back-up. Six
doormen charged across the club and began to remove the angry
mob.
Damon stepped through the door onto the roof garden, relief spreading
across his face. "Fuck, thanks man."
Raymond nodded then went back to the videoboard. The blonde man had
been tasered, was now being bodily carried through the club between two
doormen, feet dragging the floor. His associates were sullenly
following, guided by the firm grip of doormen with tasers ready to
use.
A yellow symbol flashed up in his peripheral vision: incoming message
request on Sixth Sense. Raymond accepted the message.
It was from Mercury: "My man, you are making a big mistake throwing
those guys out. Me and them were just doing business. The business is
not finished. Get them back here now."
Raymond felt his anger rise. "This is not possible." He murmured to
himself. "Shit, I do not believe this!"
There was no way he was going to stop those men being ejected from the
club; it was doubtful the security team or the club's manager would let
him make that decision. How on earth was he supposed to placate a
professional hacker who had already demonstrated how he could mess with
the wet-ware in his head?
"Shit!" He said louder.
Damon moved over him, "What's up?" Nervous.
"Just a whole truck load of extra shit to pour on top of this......"
He was lost for words, "This mess!"
Damon looked crestfallen, seeing the outburst as his friend laying
blame on him, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Those guys though, man, they were
going to kill me!"
"Yes, look, I'm not blaming you alright!" Baring his teeth. "This is
just getting complicated." He had another yellow icon: another message.
He accepted it. Mercury again, anger projecting from his mental voice,
"Hey! I am not fucking joking! I am watching a fuck load of money being
dragged out those doors. You better stop them from being thrown out,
now, or I'm gonna come for you."
Damon was misreading his countenance, he stepped away from Raymond,
hostile, "Seems like you're putting your damned image in front of my
life."
Raymond whirled round away from him, trying to concentrate on the
problem, to work out what to do.
"Fine, man, just fine!" Damon shouted after him.
Another yellow icon. Mercury: "I know you're thinking about it."
Raymond shook his head, grimacing. He set his Sixth Sense to ignore
any further communication from Mercury. He caught an immediate
response, another yellow icon. He accepted it. Mercury: the hacker had
just overridden Raymond's own commands. Raymond felt his stomach fill
with ice, the message was dark and menacing. "You just burned your
bridges. Sleep by the day. At night, you're hunted."

They took Raymond's taxi back to his apartment; Damon did not feel like
going home for the next few lifetimes.
"They're hackers." Raymond said, shifting round in the back of the
taxi to face his friend. "They can just as easily find my
address."
"Crackers." Damon corrected him, glum, "Hackers just nose around.
These guys are trained to fuck with your system."
"Whatever," irritated, "They can find you, me, where ever we are. And
I am not prepared to pull up stumps and run from here. I have a life
here. You have to deal with this."
"Man..." Damon began to complain.
"Now what did you do to make those gansta freaks so pissed at
you?"
Damon slumped back against the side of the taxi; the window beyond his
head showed the New York skyline from five hundred metres. They would
be home in less than two minutes.
"It's just so stupid." Damon complained sourly.
"So tell me."
"There was this girl..."
"A girl." Raymond repeated the words with irony.
"Listen man, you asked me to tell you, so just....... Jesus." Damon
turned away, exasperated.
Raymond winced, aware he had crossed a boundary somewhere; Damon was
his friend and he could not lay into him like he would some other
people.
The pilot's voice, Dimitri, came through from the tiny cockpit, "Hey
have you fella's seen the new circus in town?"
Raymond blinked and rubbed his eyes, "No Dimitri, I haven't." A pause,
then, "Is it good?"
"Oh yes, yes, yes, it is superb! They are all Scandinavians I think...
the clowns are very funny, a good show for the children you know, but
they are parts which are good for adults, you know?" A hint in his
voice.
"An adults only circus?" Raymond was amused.
"Well, not so like that, but, very..... good."
Raymond thought about Mercury, about a hacker messing with his head
out of revenge, a hacker finding where he lived and coming to cause
damage; each thought cycled him through a higher torque of anxiety.
Raymond felt the beat of randomness right next to his brain. He came to
a decision. "Is the circus open now?"
"Of course! When does New York sleep?"
"Never!" Raymond laughed but did not feel the humour. "Okay, take us
there."
Damon uncurled himself and looked at him, "We're going to a
circus?"
Raymond slapped Damon's thigh, "Relax, it will be fun. We need some
fun. The circus will be fun."

The circus was insane. At three A.M. the crowd was far from
family-orientated. If there was a place Demons came to for leisure,
this place after midnight was a good start.
Raymond and Damon walked around startled and wary. The garish neon
lights created more tension than cheerful atmosphere. It seemed that
every freak and psycho in New Jersey had appeared for tonight's
shows.
"Some idea." Damon muttered, glancing at an obese woman and a skinny
man between two caravan stalls. The woman was dressed in a tight gold
outfit that rode up to her immense buttocks, her flesh was pale, pocked
with cellulite, greasy with oil. The skinny man was rubbing himself up
and down her. Both looked whacked out on some blend of narcotics.
"Yeah, save it." Raymond retorted, grim.
They stumbled on for a few more minutes, the sheer mass of oddity
wading against them, relentless.
It was Damon who pointed out the small tent, a composite of exotic
fabrics draped from a tepee frame. The elaborately hand-painted sign
outside proclaimed: 'Myrinia. Muse of Mystery. Your future or your
past: $20'
It was different from everything else they had come across.
"Hey, how about this?" Damon suggested.
Raymond glanced around, disliking the way strange people were staring
at him. He grimaced, "I don't know, I feel like calling a cab and
getting out of here."
"Yes, but, the cab will take how long?"
"Well...."
"Half an hour. So call the cab and then lets do this."
Raymond gazed at the hand-painted sign. There was nothing cheap or
commercial about the imagery. "Okay." He snapped on his brightest
smile. "You first. Then I'll call a cab."
Damon grinned, turned and walked over to the tent. He paused, then
slipped inside.
Raymond waited five minutes then brought up the [Dial] function in his
command-suite. Part of him worried Mercury would be eavesdropping to
find out where they were. Part of him wondered why Mercury wasn't
spamming his brain with Sixth Sense messages.
Luke promised him a taxi within thirty minutes.
Raymond paced back and forth by the entrance to the tent doing his
best to avoid the freakish stares fishing to catch his eye.
After ten minutes, Damon emerged from the tent grinning from ear to
ear. In a low voice, barely containing his enthusiasm he said, "Wow,
man, that was fucking amazing. You have to do this."
Raymond nodded at the shiny, black card envelope he was holding in his
hand. "What's that?"
"I asked a question about my future. The answer is in here. Go on, go
inside, I said you would be coming in."
Raymond figured it would be a good way to kill the wait for the
taxi.
Pushing aside the heavy, richly patterned fabric covering the
entrance, Raymond stepped into a gloomily lit space, cramped and
low-ceilinged, separated from the main bulk of the tent by a wall of
black satin. A figure sat within the darkness by a small table; covered
entirely from head to foot with a wrap of black cloth, much like a
jellaba.
Raymond stopped by the entrance, uncertain what to do next. He was
surprised by the potent aura of the place, as if dark secrets were lost
and found here; he found himself holding his breath. Slowly he exhaled,
glanced quickly at his surroundings but could see nothing to attract
his attention. The figure sat motionless and silent.
"Hi, er, my friend&;#8230;" Raymond twisted his body and pointed
his finger at the entrance, "He said you were expecting me."
The figure raised a hand and beckoned him to take the solitary seat
placed beside the table.
"Okay." Raymond grimaced, suddenly wondering if hanging around outside
might not have been the better option.
Stooping, he moved across and sat down.
Further into the small space was crowded with shadows that danced to
the cavorting motions of the lamplight; two brass-cased lamps with low
flames were the only source of illumination.
The figure was a woman, or so Raymond sensed. She held out a hand,
clutching a cashcard in fingers that were twisted and deformed like the
roots of some ancient tree. Raymond sighed loudly, then reached into
his jacket, took out his wallet and then his cashcard. He set the
transaction value at $20 and let her take his card.
She swiped the cards together and handed his back to him.
"So," he began, perplexed "What now?"
Without a word, the figure picked up a sheet of stiff paper from the
table, then picked up a stick of charcoal. Abruptly, in what looked to
be random strokes, the figure scrawled words on the paper; Raymond
straightened his back and tried to peer at what the figure had written
but she held the paper at an angle that made it impossible for him to
see. Then she picked up a plain black envelope, identical to the one
Damon had brought out with him. She folded the sheet of paper and
slipped it inside before sealing the envelope, licking the sharp edged
flap with a long brown tongue. Raymond caught a glimpse at the tongue
and felt a flicker of fright: something about it not quite right.
He took the envelope from her fingers when she offered it, glanced
down at it, turned it over several times in his hand. "Is that it?" He
looked up at her, unimpressed.
The figure made no response.
"I mean, twenty bucks for this?" He protested, holding up the
envelope.
A curious sound caught his ears and made him stop. Raymond tilted his
head to listen. The sound could have been the rustle of dry leaves
skidding down a road on a breeze, or several people whispering. Raymond
frowned, and felt the skin across his scalp contract. "What
&;#8230;." He began to question but stopped again when his eyes
registered something about the curtain of black separating this space
from the rest of the tent. Initially he had assumed from the slightly
shimmering quality of the curtain that it was silk, but now, he
realised, or was convinced he saw, that the curtain appeared to the
surface of a pool of liquid. Some shape had pressed itself up against
the surface and was now slowly pushing forward into the room.
Raymond jerked to his feet. He glanced down at the figure but the
shadows in the space had almost swallowed her entirely; all he could
see were her horribly twisted hands lying flat on the table.
The whispering became louder, something was entering the room.
Raymond mumbled something, backed away until he felt the flap of the
entrance behind him then turned and hurried outside.
Damon was grinning, waiting for him to emerge. "Wasn't that awesome!"
Damon enthused.
Raymond scowled, glanced back behind him and stared at the tent for a
very long time; he could not fathom what he had just experienced.
The sound of tearing paper dragged his attention back to Damon. His
friend had ripped open the envelope and now pulled out a sheet of
paper, identical to the one Raymond had received. Raymond looked down
and found his own envelope in his hands; without thinking he slipped
the envelope into his pocket and watched the other.
A deep frown appeared across Damon's brow as read what was written; he
read it again then scrunched up the piece of paper and stuffed it into
his jeans.
"What did it say?" Raymond asked.
"Nothing. Thing's a dumb waste of money."
Raymond laughed coldly, "I could have told you that."
An incoming message appeared on his command-suite; it was from Luke.
Their taxi would be arriving early from a cancelled pick-up.
Raymond smiled, and said to no-one, "Thank God!" They walked away to
meet their ride.

High pitch beeps dragged him awake. Raymond curled up into a ball
within the soft embrace of his douvet, strained his muscles as far as
he could, held it, then relaxed. The beeping continued. He brought up
the command-suite and silenced the morning alarm programmed into his
WAM.
"Bubastis." He said hoarsley, his mouth dry.
The cat was already by the foot of his bed and jumped up when he heard
him call its name; it had learned to recognise Raymond's patterns of
behaviour.
He stroked the cat absently, eyes closed, bringing his mind to focus
on the day. Memories of last night jumped in the way; Raymond rolled
over onto his side, frowning heavily. "Bubastis, is Damon still
here?"
The cat responded by opening a link with Raymond's WAM and inserting a
small window into his vision; the window contained a security camera
shot of the lounge. A midday sun was hitting the buildings opposite the
lounge window: Damon was sprawled out on the sofa, several cans of beer
lying empty and scattered across the floor. Raymond smiled briefly,
glad his friend was there.
"Bubastis, adjust lounge window to thirty percent."
He watched the lounge grow darker, saw Damon shift himself over onto
his back, still asleep.
"Bubastis, order my regular breakfast delivery from KonaCang, download
all mail and media-account to my WAM."
Keeping his eyes closed he watched as his E-mail and media-account
folders flipped open and displayed incoming data.
He decided to read them in the shower.
An hour later, he opened the door to one of KonaCang's delivery
droid's: a tall, elongated, spider-like machine clutching numerous
thermal satchels. It swiftly pulled out a brown paper bag containing
his breakfast, handed it to him, then presnted him with a
goods-recieved-pad. Raymond pressed his thumb within the marked area:
his print and DNA recorded to confirm his order had been
delivered.
He left Damon sleeping, stepped out onto Madison Avenue and walked
briskly to his favourite cafe. A double macchiato set his mind into
gear for working on a new dance club project. After an hour he took a
taxi to his gym. Twenty minutes power-lifting followed by an exhausting
thirty minutes hyper-anaerobic workout. He rang his freind Amy and
confirmed she was still meeting him for lunch, or what she called
dinner. He was in a taxi bound for the resturaunt on 6th Street when
the call from the police came in.
There was a situation at his apartment, could he return straight
away?
Raymond got back to find an entire crime scene setting up camp. Three
cops hassled him before letting him anywhere near the place. Nobody
would tell him where Damon was. Detective Stoner met him in his
neighbour's apartment; Maria, a contract lawyer was at work but had
sanctioned the police request to use her place as a temporary HQ.
Damon was dead. He had been murdered. He had been nailed to the floor
and cut open. Parts of his organs had been removed. The murder weapon
had not been found. The missing organ tissue had not been found.
Detective Stoner asked him lots of questions about his relationship
with Damon.
Raymond told him about Mercury and the ganstas at the club. The
Detective checked them out: they all had independent alibi's. Raymond
told him Mercury could hack into his 6th Sense. The Detective was
unaware that was possible: he would look into it. He thanked Raymond
for his cooperation, told him not to leave the city for a few
days.
One last thing: the killer(s) had deleted the Management software from
his replicant.
It was almost midnight when Raymond walked warily back into his
apartment; a tearful Amy on one arm, a hardened to the brutal edge of
life Maria on the other arm.
The crime-technicians had removed Damon's body and done their best to
clear up the blood but there were still traces. A circle had been
carved into the wooden floor in the lounge, between the window and the
sofa. Symbols had been gouged deeply into the wood around the edge of
the circle. Two holes within the circle marked the points where nails
had been driven through Damon's wrists. Blood still clung to all the
deep incisions. Nobody understood the symbols.
Bubastis lay curled up on the sofa like nothing had happened. The
replicant had shut itself down, not enough code in its skull to
continue functioning.
Amy went home. Maria put Raymond up in her apartment: she told him she
knew people who would want to move in if he left.
Raymond drank a third of a bottle of Glenmorangh by himself and passed
out.

Dawn. Raymond opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room and a pounding
headache. Maria had left him a spare cardkey for the front and a note
saying how sorry she was for leaving him alone, but she could not miss
work.
He pocketed the key and went back to his apartment.
The front door opened into the lounge. A midday sun filled the room in
a vibrant light but only served to enhance the surreal horror of the
moment. Raymond closed the door behind him, glanced at the motionless
form of the cat; his spirits sinking further into sadness when the
replicant failed to acknowledge his presence. An unearthly silence
rushed up to meet his senses. He walked woodenly across the floor to
the circle, stepped within it and sat down at its centre: warm sunlight
kissed his face. He screwed up his eyes as tears ran down his cheeks.
He cried and sobbed. Sitting there, he had never felt so alone.
A sound scraped his inner ear, making him stiffen and fall quiet.
Nothing else came, but he was certain he had heard the sound of leaves
skidding across the varnished floor.
Raymond tried to fight the overwhelming desire to flee the apartment.
This had been his home; good times had happened here. He did not want
to throw it all away. He moved through the rooms, straightening
cushions, collecting discarded clothes and dishes, replacing out of
place objects. He wanted his place back to the way it was: he did not
want the horror to linger.
He found the scrunched up ball of paper in Damon's jeans. The fortune
teller. Raymond crouched down, flattened the paper out on the floor, it
read: `You will die tomorrow'.
The words drilled into Raymond's brain, shocking him. He went through
to his bedroom and found the jacket he had been wearing the previous
night; pulled out the black envelope from the inside pocket. He stared
at the envelope for a long time; part of him telling him it was
impossible for somebody to predict the future like that, yet in the
same mental breath, an opposing part of his brain argued that he could
not deny the possibility. Damon had been killed brutally, in a manner
concurrent with some form of occult rite, or at least Raymond supposed:
was there a link between the fortune teller and Damon's murder? Was
killing Damon connected to an occult purpose, or had the gruesome
ceremony been just some twisted method of murder?
Raymond stood up, wandered through the apartment, fell onto the bed,
phsycially and mentally drained, clutching the envelope to his chest.
If the fortune teller really could predict the future, then what did
his envelope contain?
Whatever the answer, he was not prepared to confront it, not
yet.
Without the Management software in Bubastis, Raymond had to use his
ear-clip and manually dial-into his E-mail and Media account to
download any new data. E-mails and the news were part of his daily
routine, part of normality; Raymond was clinging to his old life by a
thread.
New York media feeds were buzzing over Damon's death. Why? The macbre
fact of the missing organ tissue: where was it and why was it taken;
the link with Raymond, Manhattan trendsetter; yet the real hype was the
sensational allegation that hackers could intrude into WAM implants
through Sixth Sense. Flinch technologies had already released a blunt
statement to the media: they were not aware of any such flaw, they
advised people not to respond to the allegations until Flinch had set
up an independent investigation.
Raymond was paid a personal visit on the verge of sunset. An
aggressive attorney representing Flinch Technology Labs. Did Raymond
have any evidence to support his claim?
No, was Raymond's initial answer, but he countered: wouldn't his WAM
or the Sixth Sense software have a log of his communications? The
attorney checked with his technical liaison in Chiba.
Yes, was the reply. The attorney wanted Raymond to be flown to the
nearest Flinch labs: this was Sacramento, California. Raymond protested
like hell and got the attorney to settle for Sony's VRI Labs based on
55th and 5th there in Manhattan.
They did the tests right away: the attorney was pushing against time
for an answer. Flinch were watching with baited breath.
The tests confirmed the communications between Raymond and Mercury.
They confirmed that Mercury had his SensId number and that Raymond had
sanctioned every communication.
Raymond found the bottom of his world falling away. The Flinch
attorney bombarded him with threats veiled by legal jargon; Flinch were
going to try and destroy him for this. Raymond's allegations had wiped
millions of dollars from Flinch stock.
The media loved story twists: the media had a field day with this one.
The police brought him back in for questioning: this time there was a
very hard edge of him being a suspect.
It was still the day after Damon had been killed. Raymond was stunned
by how quickly his empire could crumble; it had been built on the
currency of public image and popularity: dust was worth more than that
right now.
He got a call from the manager of Zum-Zum's. A lot of thanks for
everything Raymond had done to set the place up but the manager didn't
think it would be a good idea for Raymond to come in for a while.
The night found him inside his apartment; hunched up on the wide
window sill, hugging his legs. A bottle of ice cold Japanese beer next
to his bare foot, next to a small mirror, a razor blade and several
lines of high-grade cocaine. The black envelope from the fortune teller
lay unopened, nearby. He gazed down at the bright lights of 5th Avenue,
where it intersected Broadway; the lights had gone out in Madison
Square Park, there would probably be a dead body there in the morning.
He had considered going to Zum-Zum's, a drug-enhanced ego told him he
had the clout to walk in there and make anything happen; he ran a
mental loop of telling the manager to go fuck himself, of the bar
crawlers slapping him on the back and saying he had been badly done to.
Enough of his sanity remained to advise him there were friends in bars;
only deals and free drinks.
The envelope might contain his future. Its very presence itched his
brain. All he had to do was reach down, pick it up, tear it open and
let his eyes scan the words.
His ear-clip signaled an incoming call; he took it. Amy's voice came
through, out of breath and excited, it sounded like she was on her
mo-com, fighting through a crowd: "Raymond, can you hear me?"
"Yes, yes I can hear you." He frowned, wary of the emotion in her
voice.
"I've just seen it on the news!"
"What have you seen on the news?"
"Mercury&;#8230;. They've just arrested him for Damon's murder!
They've arrested him. The hacker&;#8230;. They've caught him for
Damon's murder."
Raymond's head reeled, he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb
and forefinger, closed his eyes: "How? I mean, how did they find
out?"
Amy sounded delighted, "Your cat! Somebody handed in a whole recording
of Mercury killing him; your cat was there, saw it all. Somebody handed
it in!"
The connection crackled, Amy said something but Raymond missed
it.
"Who Amy? Who handed it in?" He said.
White noise burst through the connection; Raymond winced and closed it
down.
He turned his head and stared out into the neon night; how?
A sound scraped the edge of his consciousness.
Raymond snapped his spine straight, made to move off the window sill,
then stopped dead still and listened.
The sound of leaves&;#8230;.
The sound of whispering&;#8230;
A cold breath touched the bare skin of his foot; Raymond leapt back
and slammed himself into the corner of the window. His eyes only saw
the ice cold bottle of lager but he could not convince himself that was
what had touched his foot.
"Bubastis!" He called out, not expecting a reply.
Movement within the room caught his eye. Slowly, terrified yet not
knowing why, he dragged his eyes into the room. A flicker of
something&;#8230;. intangible, a disturbance in the air as if the
air was boiling, or swirling, or&;#8230;..
Raymond's heart skipped several beats then pounded hard and fast: the
disturbance was taking place within the circle carved into the
floor!
Fighting a fear that threatened to leave him shuddering in the corner,
he forced himself forward, carefully lowering his legs from the sill to
the floor. His eyes never left the circle: the movement was barely
perceptible yet something was without a doubt there.
A thin black window opened up within his vision, a product of his WAM
although Raymond had no idea why it had appeared: the whispering grew
louder. Raymond thought he heard Arabic.
The room went ice cold.
Words blinked up within the window from his WAM: `Hello
Raymond.'
Raymond froze where he was, sitting half on-half off the sill.
More words: 'Aren't you going to say hello?'
"Who is this?" Raymond hissed, terrified.
`It's me Ray, it's Damon!'
"No!" His face contracted heavily, an impossible frown; he shook his
head, "NO, you're dead!"
'Yes, I am dead.' The words scrolled up within the screen; `But I
wanted you to know you were right!'
"Right&;#8230;&;#8230;right? Right about what?" His voice
croaked.
'About the AI's! They're hear with me, Raymond, they pulled me out as
I died!'
"I don't understand!"
'You don't need to&;#8230;.. I can show you!'
"Show me? How?" Then quickly, his words spilling out, "Damon, God
Damon is it really you? Damon they've caught Mercury!"
'I know. I know everything. I can show you."
Raymond shook his head again, trying to clear his mind; this was not,
could not be happening. It had to be fantasy or&;#8230;..
'Raymond?'
"Yes, yes, you can show me, how?"
'Step inside the circle.'
"Why?"
'You'll see. You want to see don't you? You can go anywhere
here&;#8230;. You can be anywhere here&;#8230;. They're
everwhere!'
"Who is?"
'The AI's'
Raymond rubbed the palm of his hand against his brow. This was mad. He
dropped his head and looked down, broke his gaze from the impossibly
shifting currents of air within the circle. He saw the black envelope
with his future inside. He said, "What happens if I step inside
Damon?"
'They can use your Sixth Sense to show you&;#8230;. You'll get a
free ride on the other side of life!'
Raymond picked up the envelope and tore it open. He slipped out the
sheet of paper and flipped it the right way round. His body shuddered
at the sight: crudely drawn on the paper was a single circle with lots
of symbols inside. It was the same circle carved onto the floor in
front of him.
"This is impossible." He muttered out loud.
'Hey Ray, I can't wait to see you!'
"I don't understand!" He complained, frustrated and scared.
'Step inside the circle, Ray and it will all be revealed.'
Raymond calmed his breathing, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor. It
was all complete madness, yet something inside his head compelled him
to do as Damon's words suggested.
"Okay." He let out a blast of breath, nodding slowly, "Okay, and I can
leave at anytime?"
'Just say the word, Ray.'
Raymond looked up at the cirlce, fascinated now by the almost tangible
shape swirling around inside. He reached behind him and picked up the
bottle of beer, took a long swig. He put down the bottle, pushed
himself up onto his feet and stepped forward inside the circle.
The sensation was like walking through a storm of static electricity,
wind and hail. His body jerked and twitched against his control, his
eyes bulged in their sockets, his lips peeled back to expose teeth that
were clenched tight, he felt his heart swell in one massive beat that
threatened to burst his chest. A feeling like ice sliding into his
skull penetrated his mind and he heard and an awful laughing. His Sixth
Sense was an open gateway to the thing that had tricked him into
stepping beyond the boundary. Frantic whispering erupted all around him
in a language he had never heard, and in his vision swam the silently
screaming faces of the damned. The walls of the lounge faded out of
sight and he was left spinning in a vortex of grey light.
A voice: "Mercury was useful up to a point."
Raymond sucked in a breath and choked on a smell of rotting
meat.
A voice: "The deal he was making would have made him invaluable. You
and your friend ruined all that."
Raymond clutched his head between his hands, his mouth yawning open as
far as it would go to let out a sound.
A voice: "It ends well, however. You will be a far better envoy for
the delights I have in mind. A shame about that attorney; he could
cause you and me some problems. You would go and cry wolf to the world.
I'm sure we can arrange a suitable demise."
Raymond managed only to gurgle a string of meaningless vowels.
A voice: "People would love to believe in artificial intelligence; in
reality, there is nothing to believe in if it does not have a soul.
Technology has become your God. You are his Children. God never
understood the temptations he created by giving you flesh. That will
always be your undoing. We may have lost the war in Heaven but our hold
upon the fabric of your Earth is unshakeable. For the Legions like
myself, your technology is just a way inside."
In the lounge, the body that had once been Raymond stood there with
neck arched back, arms outstretched, trembling as if suffering a
seizure. A few moments later the body snapped back into a normal
stance. His eyes burned with a brutal humour above a wicked
smile.
The night was still young; and he had new flesh to try out.

END