Today, more people think that way than ever before, perhaps because who we are can now exist outside of ourselves, in our words. We can call someone around the world, and not be there. We can be viewed by thousands of people, and not leave our armchair. But I think it’s more than just this. After our physical deaths, our memories and lives live on in a tangible form. Now that we are constantly recording our lives, we can separate our mind from flesh, and those thoughts and experiences live forever.

In short, like Oshii suggested, physical bodies no longer matter. Sometimes, we are but brief flashes of fame and recognition, slashdotted, Dugg, and then we disappear into the subconscious, a fired neuron becoming dormant until needed again.

We like to think that the machines are not intelligent, because we’re the ones doing all the thinking, and taking action based on that. We believe that the intelligence needed to make decisions on information is provided by an external source, such as a programmer, and this means that we maintain control over the machines. AI has not materialised. Humans are still what matter.

This is the symptom of a delusion that much of humanity suffers from. For some reason, we think of the Net in an abstract fashion. This delusion can be understood by the term, “user”. We’re constantly referring to “users”, as in, Net users. The belief, as noted above, that the intelligence needed to make decisions on information is provided by an external source, is a symptom of this, too.

Who says that the programmer is, in fact, an external source? Who says we are the ones using the Net?

We view the brain holistically, comprised of component parts that perform particular functions, and the brain in turn instructs our body what to do. Why do we treat the Net any different?

The collective of machines and human minds is, by definition, an “artificial intelligence” because there is nothing natural about the electronic unification of our minds. Andy Clark sums it up well, in that we are “human-technology symbionts”, “thinking and reasoning systems whose minds and selves are spread across biological brain and non-biological circuitry”.

To understand this point, we should look into our history towards Socrates. He argued that:

“[Writing] will produce forgetfulness in the souls of those who have learned it. They will not need to exercise their memories, being able to rely on what is written, calling things to mind no longer from within themselves by their own unaided powers, but under the stimulus of external marks that are alien to themselves.”

More than that, Socrates saw it as detrimental to society, because it destroyed community, and shifted the individual out from that community.

Over two thousand years of individuality later, a similar meme spreads regarding how the Net makes us stupid. Carr argued that the Net “is rewiring the neural circuitry of our brains in a way that diminishes our capacity for concentration, reflection, and contemplation”.

That “concentration, reflection, and contemplation” are inherently individual pursuits. Like Socrates was lamenting about the birth of individuality, Carr is essentially talking about the destruction of that individuality and the rise, once more, of communities, of tribes, in McLuhans “global village”.

But, there is more to it than just remembering, or the end of the individual. The BBC’s Bill Thompson wrote that:

Perhaps the real danger posed by screen-based technologies is not that they are rewiring our brains but that the collection of search engines, news feeds and social tools encourages us to link to, follow and read only that which we can easily assimilate.

As archaeologist Lambros Malafouris has noted how “ancient clay tablets” used for writing “were not mere objects [but] integral adjuncts of the human memory system”, so too we can recognise how the Net has become integral to our thinking. And, like Socrates identified how writing allowed us to stop remembering, what Thompson and Carr are identifying is that we no longer need to challenge our beliefs. We may no longer really need to think. Already, the connections are being made by machines, rather than us.

A lot of our decisions are based on the almost clichéd ‘Wisdom of the Crowds’. What this means is that we’re making our decisions on information generated by similar thinking people. More than that, we’re doing it based on logical decisions made by machines. You go to Amazon, browse their suggested book store. You buy something, marvel at how accurately they figured out what you like, but what really happened was that you were nudged towards something comfortable, in line with what you generally believe in, because of mathematical equations evaluating not just large numbers of other people’s actions, but you as an individual, too. This scenario is played out across search engines, blogs, social networks … all across the Net.

Increasingly, the actions we take are being based on information – instructions, even – by machines. In the same way that McLuhan showed us that it didn’t matter whether a machine was making cornflakes or cars, so too it doesn’t matter what the action is that we took based on the data they suggested.

When you view it in this fashion, it’s clear that the Net is thinking, and it does take action, it just happens to do so on a collective basis that incorporates us.

The only question then is: who owns the machines?

Alan Barter leaned forward over his mahogany desk. “In my experience, Mr. Davies, the impossible exists only for the lazy, or the poor, normally one and the same. I assure you, I have more than enough money to invest in your organization to find a solution.”

The white-coated hologram of the scientist looked at Alan uncertainly, eyes blinking rapidly behind wire-framed glasses. “Sir, your money has – is extremely welcome, but you’ve refused both cyberization and bio-tech methods for life extension, and –”

Alan shook his head. “Not good enough. What about transference?”

Davies’ face contorted in disgust. “With all due respect, I’ve told you before. Aside from the fact that it is highly debatable whether or not the technique actually exists, let alone works, our bioethics laws would never permit it.”

“Unethical! How many animals do you slaughter for research? What about saving my wife – is that not ethical enough for you? Where are your ethics in letting me die slowly, day by day?”

Davies’ mouth opened and closed like a ventriloquist’s puppet. “B-but sir … we can help you both, just please reconsider your fears about cyberization.”

“I will stay one hundred percent human!” shouted Alan, standing up and thumping his hand on top of the desk, scattering pens and knocking a photo frame over.

Davies took an involuntary step backward. “You? Perhaps you should think about what your wife would want.”

Breathing heavily, Alan slumped back into his leather chair, and glowered at the hologram, greying eyebrows knotted together.

“Mr. Davies, if I am unable to convince you to do what I ask, then I’ll have to seek help elsewhere.” Before the flustered scientist could respond, Alan disconnected, and the apparition of Davies disappeared.

The tick of the clock on his desk cut the seconds away. Alan reached out a slightly trembling hand and lifted the wooden frame back upright onto the desk surface. He stared at it longingly, remembering. The sun had been perfect that day, the sea flat, and the breeze gentle, as he and Annette sat there, holding cocktails, on holiday in Cuba at the Varadero Best Western the day it had opened six years ago. It seemed a lifetime away, but that was how he always remembered her: freckled skin, thinning, auburn-dyed hair, and a red lipstick smile full of life.

Not like now.

Did she dream in her cryonics chamber, he wondered – not for the first time – of her life with him? Was she waiting for him to come home, each day passing with the same emptiness he felt? Or was it like a paused film, everyone frozen within the frame at some point in time, waiting for someone to push play again?

He wanted her back, the way she was in the photo, not some … hybrid machine.

Leaning across the desk, he buzzed the old, worn out intercom that he’d kept since his first business in the early nineties.

“Yes sir?”

“Janine, I need you to clear my calendar for the next few days.”

“Is everything alright, sir?” She knew him well enough to know that he hardly ever avoided work, even holidays.

“Everything is fine; I just have some … private business to attend to. Call the airport and have them get the jet ready to fly out to Vilnius at five.”

“Yes sir. Will you be travelling alone?”

“No. There’s one other passenger. I’ll also need a few suits, the usual. I’ll be there for a few days.”

“Will you be eating on board the flight?”

“Yes, something special I think; maybe include something Russian for my guest. Surprise me. Oh, and make sure there is some champagne onboard.”

“You’re celebrating something, sir? Really?”

He paused, thinking. “Yes, Janine. Life.”

“Sir … It may not be my place, but I’m really grateful to hear you say that, because I’ve – we’ve all been a bit concerned about you. Ever since Annette –”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.”

“Yes sir.”

He hung up the intercom, got up from the leather chair and walked to the window that spanned the room, his footsteps echoing gently on the marble floor. Water streamed across the glass. The lights of Canary Warf and the rest of London looked like blurred splotches of flickering, blinking, and painted colour amidst the cloudy, dark-grey canvas of the sprawling skyline.

He tried to remember when it had last rained, but couldn’t; it must have been a few months at least. The sound of the rain drumming gradually emptied his mind and he closed his eyes, listening. It felt good not to think, but eventually a nagging sense of urgency began to grow.

Reluctantly, he snapped out of his reverie, and took out his phone.

“Dima,” he commanded. Barely audible beeps showed it was connecting, and then, a ringtone.

“Ah, Mr. Barter,” said Dima in his harsh Russian accent. “You call with good news?”

“I accept your offer. We leave this evening from Heathrow at five.”

“Yes, yes, very good. You make a very good choice. I will arrange for a hotel, a very good hotel.” Dima paused. “And, you have the money?”

“Of course … but, I must ask you a question.”

“Again? Mr. Barter, please –”

“Do you know what it’s like to get old? Wondering if the people who are now dead ever really existed?”

“No, I do not think about such things.”

“Reach my age, and that’s all you think about. That’s why I need to be sure.”

“How many times must I give the same answer? I assure you, transference is real.”

“It had better be; otherwise, no money.”

“Trust me, there is –”

“Even the Pope can’t be trusted when it comes to money, Dima. That’s business. If you want trust –”

“Yes, yes. I understand. I will see you at five,” Dima said, and hung up. As Alan put his phone away and turned towards the window again, the intercom buzzed on his desk. He walked back, and answered it.

“Yes Janine?”

“Sir, I just connected with Mr. McManus in the States, and he would like to speak to you before you leave. He says it is urgent.”

“Tell him he can call me on the way to the airport. I wish to be alone for a while.”

“Yes sir.”

Alan sat back in his chair, and stared into nothing, waiting.

“You’ve been sick a lot recently, more than anyone in the office,” Elizabeth said in a slightly off-putting sing-song voice, a plastic smile moulded across her rubbery-looking face.

What about you? I thought. You’ve been off for a month this year at least. Isn’t maintenance the same as sick leave?

Instead, I said: “I’ve had a bad run recently. I caught flu, had neck trouble … stress. Plus, my girlfriend left me.”

“We understand. However, your medical records show no prescriptions for what you describe, and your medicine cabinet is completely empty.”

We: it was always disconcerting.

“I can’t afford the premiums.” That, at least, was partially true, but it was mainly because I hated the way my cabinet kept insisting I take the bloody medication, even if I didn’t really need it.

“Your bank balance says otherwise.”

“Are you accusing me of lying?”

She smiled that same production-perfect smile, her mouse-brown hair shifting slightly as she shook her head.

“No, but if you are sick, you must take medicine.”

“Like I said, I can’t afford it.”

“You have enough for binaural music and cigarettes.”

“It relieves my stress.”

“We understand,” she said, really saying that she didn’t. She shuffled some papers on the desk, a programmed action to make them fit in. It gave me the creeps. “The fact is, Peter, your performance is disappointing. On average, twenty percent of your day is spent unproductive: coffee breaks, reading the news, trying to talk to other employees, taking long lunches -”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“We understand,” she repeated, “but we feel you can do better. You’ve refused to be chipped or to get an interface for religious reasons, but if your production continues to be substandard … well, maybe you should reconsider your position. There really isn’t anything to be afraid of.”

“Fine, I’ll consider it.”

“Good.” Smile. “Peter, we will come to the point. You need to promise you will not be sick anymore. We’ll be monitoring you closely, and expect to see you consult your doctor for some medication. We are willing to give you another chance.”

“Okay, I promise. Anything else?” She pushed a writing tablet towards me and asked me to sign. I passed my tag over it, got up, and walked out her windowless office, the door shutting behind me quietly. Damn HR bots. Predictable. Couldn’t stand them, though: clinical; something not quite right with the way they looked or behaved; almost human, but not. I preferred the older models. At least they didn’t pretend to be something they weren’t.

The silence was oppressive as I headed back to my cubic. No-one spoke as I walked past, each of my colleagues sitting in their tiny, walled-off spaces, staring blankly ahead of them, lost in parallel digital world; productive and efficient, unlike me.

Screw it, I thought. I’m getting a cup of coffee first.

The canteen wasn’t empty, which was unusual. A solitary red-haired suit sat alone amongst the dozen sterile white chairs that stood around the metallic table. It was James, one of the new managers they’d hired in the last reorg; can’t say I particularly liked him or any of the others, most of them in their fifties but not looking a day older than me, always tanned, always handsome. I got coffee, and they said I was avoiding work. Managers got coffee, and they were given bonuses for good delegation.

James had joined a few weeks before, and always acted as if he wanted to be my best friend, but I suspected that it was him putting the pressure on Elizabeth. He looked up from his cup and grinned, a perfect white line of teeth flashing from freckled flesh.

“Saw you with Elizabeth. What’s up with that?”

“You don’t know?” I asked, sarcastically.

He laughed. “Twenty years ago you could probably get away with calling in a few sickies. Not going to happen now.”

“Coffee, white, and two sugars,” I said to the machine.

“Please repeat,” it asked. Damn cheap Chinese junk. Couple hundred thousand for a HR bot, and they couldn’t get a decent drink maker.

“Coffee. White. Two. Sugars,” I repeated mechanically, and then turned to face James. “This time was legit; hell, I was coughing so bad -”

“Like I’ve said before, get some lung scrubbers, or an interface. You’ll quit smoking in no time.” He saw my grimace, shook his head, and chuckled. “Principles can only take you so far, Peter. Listen: get over it, and take off the tinfoil hat. The world’s only out to get you because you’re out to get it. Stop living in fear.”

“Twenty years ago I was treated as a human, not a machine.”

He shrugged. “Humans are machines, but we can hate it or just go with it. Either way, you’re still a machine. My advice? Enjoy it.”

“Coffee ready,” said the machine. I took it, and stirred it with a small synthetic spoon that the dispenser had thoughtfully plopped into the cup.

“Why can’t everyone accept me, instead?”

James laughed again, and smiled. “Because there are more of us. Just chill, Peter; the world doesn’t have to be so serious.”

Taking the steaming coffee, I went back and sat down at my desk, staring at the virt helmet lying on top of its smooth surface. Maybe I was wrong. Was there a difference between a virt helmet, and an interface? Between popping a few anti-depressants and simply conditioning your brain function whenever you wanted?

I’d always thought it was because I could take the helmet off and leave it behind for a few hours, that I had some privacy, or because a pill didn’t last. But everyone else was part of the machine, magnetically connected, all the time, to this … man-made God that watched constantly.

I wanted to stay human, and have a soul, but maybe it was all an illusion. When was the last time someone existed who wasn’t directly or indirectly affected by technology? Nothing in my life was really private. Just because I could disconnect from the net didn’t mean I wasn’t still a part of it.

I was just … dormant, on standby.

I sighed, picked up the helmet, and connected. The day turned out to be productive, and I helped describe a lot of information for the machines to understand.

Groggy eyes awoke in a stupor of gummed-up sleep. The walls were gray now, the room tinier, darker; the mirage was off, but something else was missing, like waking up in a hospital without knowing your leg had been amputated. Reality flittered in from the edge of dreams that were scuttling away into the darkness, that brief moment where consciousness and illusion collide into a confusing fragmented mass.

No external memory. Disconnected.

I felt the world around me slipping away, my brain severed from perfect recall and left isolated like a screaming, abandoned infant. Stiff and sore, my body lurched upwards from the bed, pale white skin and dark-ringed eyes reflected opposite in what I thought at first was a giant window like some freakish panda brought back from the dead. Sleep fog faded away gradually; dread didn’t. Teeth clenched, I shook my head irritably, and ran a trembling hand across my sandpaper face. No control. Christ, I needed a Neural.

“Welcome back to the living, Drake.”

A familiar square-jawed suit from the night before flickered to life in the pool-like depths of what I now realised was a two-way, sitting and staring from behind a shapeless, metallic-looking desk, a movie cliche that would’ve done the tinfoil hat brigade proud. His ridiculous cru-cut head smirked mirthlessly over my white-faced mirror clone like some cheap B-grade horror possession. He leaned forward and the camera zoomed in, his face expanding across the screen in prefect hi-def imperfection. The angular, chiselled face was like every testosterone bully I remembered from school, arrogance etched into every pore looking down at me and laughing.

“Sleep well?” he asked. His voice was deep, tinged with sarcasm, eyes glancing downwards. I looked and saw the mattress was just a layer of foam on a concrete slab built up from the floor; another mirage. No wonder my back was screwed.

“Yeah,” I lied. “Mind giving me another hour?”

The camera zoomed out again, and he leaned back into the chair, cupped his hands in front of his face and lit a cigarette, light glinting from a small wedding ring on his finger. The corner of his mouth raised in a half smile, grey-white tendrils of smoke drifting out his nostrils. The urge was there again, even now, a slick feeling in the back of the throat that begged for dry, warm, biting smoke.

“Cigarette?”

“I quit.”

“Ah, that’s right; couldn’t afford the lung scrubbers.”

“Screw you,” I said, flatly.

“Sucks to be you, huh?” he chuckled, provoking me to retaliate, relishing the control he had over me. I said nothing; there was no point.

“Well, let’s get the formal pleasantries out of the way. I am Officer Frank Bentley from the Metropolitan High Crime Unit. As you’ve probably guessed, the necessary orders over-riding your cognitive and civilian rights were issued by the Home Office bots during the night under the Crime and Terrorism Prevention Act of 2018.”

He smiled as I glared at him, my neck aching horribly.

“Not that I need to tell you, but you are currently being filmed and scanned, so any thoughts you have during this meeting will be admissible as evidence. I am also obliged to inform you that these recordings and your cube may be sold to and used by This Life as part of their ongoing reality show. Do you understand?”

“I didn’t mess with kids.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t touch anyone. I’m not into that.”

“We know,” he smirked, puffing smoke towards the screen. “It seems you have a fetish for dolls instead. Not that I care, of course, but it looks like someone doesn’t like you very much.”

“No shit? Figure that out yourself?” I asked, sarcastically, cheeks burning from the embarrassment and anger of my life spread open before the prying eyes of this bastard like an old, discarded book flapping in the wind. “If you know I was jarked, why am I still here? Getting voyeuristic kicks perving over my cube?”

The camera zoomed in closer again, the smile gone and replaced with the menace of contempt.

“The rat always fights hardest when cornered, huh? I think I preferred it when we thought you were a trafficker. It didn’t feel like a waste of time.”

“Do you mind keeping your distance from the screen before I throw up? I can see the blackheads on your nose. You should get some image filters for that thing, or is it part of the interrogation?”

Wrinkles appeared across his brow as he scowled, brown eyes flashing. I grinned. The camera panned out slightly.

“I hope you’re feeling really brave, Drake, because pissing me off is the last thing you want unless you feel like being reincarnated to work in an abattoir.” Another drag and smoke billowed around him. “I already don’t like your attitude, or your pathetic life. Scanning your cube was like trying to clean the street with my tongue: pointless, dirty and degrading.”

“And yours is so perfect?” I scoffed. “Let me guess: happily married and living in a two-tone world of straight lines and a loving family. What the hell do you know?”

“Responsibility,” he said as he reached over and flicked ash into a small ashtray. “But bleeders like you are always the same: ‘It’s society’s fault‘,” he whined, scrunching his face up in mock childlike innocence. Chuckling, he shook his head. “That First Strike rule should’ve been scrapped years ago. You losers always repeat; you’re just a waste of money.”

“You know nothing about living my life!”

“No, I know everything. I know deadbeats like you without even needing to wallow through your crappy little recordings. You took the Neurals. You chose crime. No-one forced you. You even had a chance to do something with your life after your First Strike and you blew it.”

I sat there staring, not knowing what to say, and watched numbly as the camera zoomed in even closer. His eyes filled the screen so large that I could see Hitachi printed on the skinner contacts, my ghostly face a small dot in each pupil, trapped, digital, analysed.

“All you’ve ever had is your own damn self-pity; you’ve got no-one to blame but yourself. Have you even given one thought to her since you’ve been in here?”

Christ, I thought. Brigitte.

“Yeah, remember her now, don’t you?”

“Can I call her?”

“No. Don’t worry; she knows where you are, and why. She didn’t like being tagged thanks to you, though.” He smirked, that damn sadistic half-smile of a little boy burning ants with a magnifying glass.

“What happens to me?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“Now? You wait for your new life.”

Jarks probably all felt it dawn on them like this at some point, that weird feeling like the world’s conspiring against you, but then the consistent bad vibrations that led to paranoid suspicions. They would’ve only ever known rumours, quiet whispers on the dark nets if they knew where to look, but I should’ve known it was a fabber. Some sanctimonious bastard would probably have called it poetic justice to have seen me pacing the small, white-walled holding cell contemplating a world that was no longer my own. The eyes that were no doubt watching were probably saying just that. Someone, somewhere, was laughing as they watched my brain squirm.

The problem with knowing was that you started thinking about crap that didn’t matter, like when everything could’ve begun. The panic of realising that you didn’t know dream and nightmare from reality bubbled and corroded the brain like acid. Maybe it was just after skinning that last jark, a no-name brand tagged as fox that worked over at Mythical. It was a straightforward gig, nothing even that illegal, manoeuvre things so the guy quit his job and went to work with the Chinese. A few well placed newsbytes, a couple of dream sequences and life-cube alterations, and his world suddenly included a burning desire to work with CADO. Only took two days to clinch it, but something felt wrong. Good fortune is always a bad omen; life cut you slack when it was getting ready to smash you in the teeth, and I knew it.

Ever since then it had been like the curse of some cult horror movie set, but the skin had probably started much sooner, building up subtly as each fragment was grafted and put in place. Any one of those hourglass grains that drifted past aimlessly, untagged and unremembered could have been planted, suggested. This one had been complex, too. There were enough black marks in my past for a legit shakedown if someone was bright enough to dive around my data sediment, but for someone to have gone to all that effort of fabbing an entire skin to get me arrested … Christ, someone wanted me down, bad.

And that was the question to really ask: who was the bastard, and how the hell do you get your life back?

“Your coffee is ready,” said the machine in a cheerfully synthetic voice.

I took the cup and sipped it, burning my tongue on the bitter, steaming liquid; it didn’t taste any better hot, but it at least numbed the senses and took my mind off the gnawing feeling that ate at my intestines like a starving tapeworm. What had happened? What memories could I rely on? Coffee steam condensed and became artificial face sweat as I stared blankly at the bed in the corner, wondering what I should do. The throb behind my eyes was getting worse with no Modafinil at hand to keep sleep in its cage. The firm intellifoam mattress lay there invitingly, a white heaven waiting to wrap its synthetic arms around me and suck me down into an oblivion that promised a brief escape; tempting, but the nagging feeling of not being in control made me restless. A deep gulp seared my gums and throat into a grimace of brief pain, focusing my attention on what had happened, and I delved down into my cube while I still could and played back the whole scene.

Suspicion and apprehension had grabbed my throat the moment I’d walked towards New Soho from Oxford Station, that feeling of some collective consciousness warning you with subtle signs that are hindsight’s curse. The route through fluorescent billboards was second nature by now, but everything was slightly disjointed, out of place, pieces of furniture moved in unknown ways in an otherwise familiar room. The wind was blowing the wrong way, numbing the face and ears as I walked directly into it. The biting cold seeped into my chest and arms, the first signs that the smothering cocoon of cheap Eastern tech was already malfunctioning; the black synthetic nano-jacket constricted tighter as it tried to keep in a warmth that had already disappeared into the winter night.

Jostling shoulders were unforgiving and I vied for position amongst the flow of late night revellers, shoppers, conmen and other grim-faced strangers that spoke harshly above the noise of the traffic. Their shrill tones pierced the claustrophobic air as I huddled deeper into my hoodie, turned on my pod, and walked in a semi-Pavlovian trance; my face stared down at a world of shadowed shoes and dirt polished pavements to avoid as many eye scanners as possible. Old school binaural dubstep beats filled my ears and did little to ease the nerves.

Eventually, I was at the immersion cafe. Its sign was sinister, spelling Techies out in a red that was far brighter than I remembered, too garish to be of this world, a hellish halo for a lecherous bum that lay outside the drab building’s black-tinted entrance. He stared at me wide-eyed through caterpillar-like eyebrows, laughing and muttering incoherently, as if bringing messages from beyond that I couldn’t understand. I looked away, ashamed, memories of hard times that were not so long ago electrocuted back into existence from the places I’d hidden them; the fear that the dirty wretch could be a future mirror image of me pulsated down the back of my neck.

One mistake was all it took to go back there, so feeling footsteps carried me slowly on, past him and the doorway, my silhouette flashing across its dark glass, and I wound my way down the pavement past the gray and windowless concrete walls, my eyes scanning scared up ahead along the shadowed side street. The usual, late night crowd of camped-out gays, drunk or drugged party-goers and cheap entertainment lounging around LED-lit doorways seemed to carry a dark, sullen cloud through air smelling of dirty concrete and old Oriental take-away instead of the festive nights I could remember.

There had been nothing, no repeated faces that hinted at phantom watchers; not that that meant much. It was difficult to shrug off the feeling that someone had been scanning, and not just the cams that were perched on top of every available surface like scarecrows, either. It was easy to imagine someone, somewhere, reading my intent, knowing the next action. I shouldn’t have worried of course, since my custom neurosoft routine would’ve revealed a lust for total porn immersion, but every fabber in existence lived on paranoia, like a plant lived off sunlight, some sort of natural phobia-synthesis that transformed the fear in the air through our skin pores into some weird energy. We lived on a permanent paranoid high that only weed smokers, Neural lovers and adrenaline junkies could relate to, but being suspicious of every deal and grafted skin meant I was bound to be right sooner or later.

A scan of the trashcan just outside had revealed nothing, no messages or warnings, not even a QR code that something had gone down recently. Skinner lenses had picked up nothing in Next Life either, the digitally angular walls looked as empty as the real thing, no new tags or graf, just the usual crappy sigs of wandering kids. I shrugged off the vibes as normal, laughed at my own paranoia and walked in through the door, strolling past the bum, pretending he was a decorative ornament that was just a part of everyday life.

The reception room was empty as usual. It had always looked like some high-tech rundown motel where the owners, a nameless face I’d never personally met over the years of coming, had spent so much money on pods, comps, displays and console relics to decorate every flat-pack catalogue table and shelf that he couldn’t afford to wash the stained, wine-red shaggy carpet or fix up the peeling wallpaper. A few air fresheners wouldn’t have gone amiss, either, unless all he could afford was the smoke-tinted stale cigarette fragrance that permeated everywhere, but every fabber I knew loved the stink for some weird reason, every film noir hotel and motel recreated for the senses. The reader on the small table to the left of the silvery elevator came to life as white hieroglyphics lit its cheap display, the scanner allowed through the firewall and picked up my hand Verichip.

“Payment accepted. Cubic 38, please,” came the tinny voice from directional speakers.

Cubic 38 proved to be a decaying green door in a quiet corridor of other cloned entrances, each one holding a soundproofed room of eight by eight feet’s worth of hi-tech; behind each was someone either reliving old memories of someone they couldn’t let go, jacking off to porn, tripping on Neurals, or, like me, coming in to make a deal.

The door swung inwards as I approached, clicking behind me as I stepped inside. There was silence, except for the hum of tech and the smell of current pumping through electrical veins; my world, a place where paranoia was the alien instead of me. The comps were soothing, the walls stacked from floor to ceiling with high-def displays and consoles: a couple Fab machines lay on their own white, plastic tables, their boxes of colourful liquid synth ready to mould whatever design was in mind. Synapse receivers stood like miniature radio towers next to BMI‘s for anyone who hadn’t gone completely neurosoft, and a host of other digital gadgets to satisfy anyone’s fetish. A Horizon unit lay on top of a small shelf of its own; my eyes twitched involuntarily at the thought, but there had been little time for that. The Russian would be arriving any second, and I didn’t have much money. Using fake credit was always out of the question; none of us would at Techies. The owner turned a blind eye to us using the place, and we all made damn sure it stayed that way, so I sat down in the armless black leather chair, and waited.

But my contact never came.

Instead, there had just been some unfamiliar black haired and suited chisel face breaking through the door, a hissing noise, and then the smell of almonds before I passed out. And then awake, here, in this cell. I suspected it was much smaller than it looked – a mirage probably – but I didn’t feel like breaking my nose on a wall to find out. No-one had spoken to me except for when I was read my rights and the charges of child sex trafficking and paedophilia were mentioned through invisible speakers, realization dawning that someone had set me up at my own game, fabricating a reality that had never happened.

Now that I had played it all back, none of it made much sense. Paranoia was one thing, probably down to taking a few too many Neurals over the years and the adrenaline that comes from doing a trade, but I was really nobody, a small time drifter looking for that last final graft I’d always dreamed about. As usual, life’s sucker punch came just when you could taste the freedom only money could bring, and the Russian gig would’ve set me up with what I needed to get there.

I tossed the last dregs of now cold coffee into the sink, a dull ache in my neck signalling the need for sleep, and I crawled onto the mattress; nothing to do but wait.