Flinch (standard:horror, 8177 words)
Author: David J Rodger	Added: Jan 10 2002	Views/Reads: 3413/2358	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Raymond works promoting clubs in Manhattan; he's an advocate of any new technology he can get his hands on. Not all technology, it seems, is meant to be good for you. Flinch - "Would you let it inside your head?"

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

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..." 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 
...." 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 signalled 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.... They've just arrested him for Damon's murder! They've
arrested him. The hacker.... 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.... 

The sound of whispering... 

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.... intangible, a disturbance in the air as if the air was 
boiling, or swirling, or..... 

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......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..... 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..... 

'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.... You
can be anywhere here.... 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.... 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 

F L I N C H - Copyright David J Rodger April 2000. 

Draft Version 2 (27/4/2000) 


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