|Flinch (standard:horror, 8177 words)|
|Author: David J Rodger||Added: Jan 10 2002||Views/Reads: 1897/1246||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?"|
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..." 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 Click here to read the rest of this story (1024 more lines)
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