Echoes of Life


Depressing the hexagonal button on the side of my chipped MultiBand caused the holographics to emit from the scratched
face for a nanosecond before spluttering back into the lens.  Shit.  The holo bat' was drained again.  Piece of shit merch.  I
extended a blade from beneath my thumbnail and used it to pry the cover off the front.  Underneath, the old digital, which
was supplied off a separate battery, lasted a few seconds before winking out, the green screen devoid of life.  The velcro
grated and fragmented as I ripped it off my wrist, the black strip of synthetic fabric and Old-Tek not even qualifying as a
watch anymore.  Vowing never to purchase from the Vic-Tech Market again, I tossed it into a dead 'cycler, its bin overflowed
with Synth-food wrappers and scraps.

The crowd on Bourke Street faded into the surrounding buildings, those left on the pavements were the usual drunk fucks
who spent every moment of their fortunately short lives verbally abusing the clientele of the various establishments.  
Occasionally one would accost a passerby and be either ignored or flattened by a well aimed Shocker to the face.  Pungent
smoke poured from wall vents, the warmth attracting some of the more sensible or sober homeless as only the prospect of
something for nothing can.

I made my way past the Royal Melbourne; the new façade was the usual Neo-Tech shit much prized by investors. It didn't
help that the surrounding area had been reduced to a giant slum - as long as the new plastic and ferrochrome walls didn't
age more than a week before being redesigned, who cared?  It was just early enough in the night, no matter what my
MultiBand had said, that groups of people were still walking in through the big shiny doors.  The stonework in the back area
of the club was held in such high esteem by the shit-rich perverts that the hotel had converted it into a private fetish club
for the gentry.  The rumor was that some younger and less decomposed homeless population were lured into the back
rooms with the promise of whatever drug they were fucking themselves up with at the time and were never seen again.  
Knowing the moral stance of most people in this city, and the rich in particular, I didn't dismiss it, though there seemed just
as many homeless.

A group of latex-clad fetishists cut me off as I walked past the door, their luxury helicopter rose above ground traffic and
sped down the street.  If it weren't for the eight foot tall bouncer standing by the doorway - fingers gleaming with the
artificial shine of steel knuckles, muscles rippling with hormone treatments - the group would have been mugged as soon as
they left the vehicle.

The bouncer held up a thin black cylinder, which he flashed in each of the patrons' eyes; the side of the device flashed
green, a verified ocular identity.  Doors opened and they hurried inside.

From within screams and the sound of leather on flesh could be heard; meaning that today was probably Friday, as the live
whippings only happened on Fridays.  It didn't eliminate the possibility that it might not have been and people were just
getting excited, but I was pretty sure of the day.

My pocket chimed some outdated tune.  I removed the 'Piece and stuck it to my earlobe – a tinny voice echoed through
the minute speaker.  "Em, where the hell are you?"  It was Sam again; she sounded tetchy, and probably would be until she
drank her own weight in alcohol.  "My dealer left me high and dry, I need some close to human company or I'll end up
breaking something."

"Shut up Sam, have another drink of something corrosive and calm the hell down. I'm almost there anyway."  Kicking a can
out of my way, I disconnected the 'Piece and dropped it in my pocket.  Accessing information through wireless brain
implants was one thing, but until they sorted out the 'Telepathy Problem', I was sticking to verbal communication.

The Telepathy Problem was one obstacle the artificial brain firmware writers hadn't yet managed to overcome; with normal
verbal communication, average people have a level of control over what they say, but no matter what is being said
something else is being thought. cCurrent wireless implants transmitted every thought when a communication line was
open, which made them a useful tool in psychoanalysis but more of a hindrance to everyday life; apparently CEOs didn't like
everything being public when they had meetings.  So it was either verbal communication or installing an upgrade that filtered
certain thoughts from being transmitted.

The little 'Piece I owned worked with the wireless com system in my brain - unfortunately years ago I had input a ringtone
and now the program was so corrupt I couldn't remove it.

My destination was a small club further along the street, the name of which had long since faded into obscurity but the
venue was still considered to be one of the local scene highlights.  Occasionally some Aus-Jap band played there, mostly it
was just a meeting spot used by frequent clubbers and drug dealers.  The door-bitch motioned towards a sign indicating
tonight's cover charge and took my credit chip when offered.  As she inserted it into the table's soiled surface I confirmed
the transaction request that appeared in one corner of my vision, the slot lit up and she handed back the fingernail-sized
chip.  Harsh electro-industrial pumped down the stairs, backed up by some obscene Japanese lyrics that were trying to incite
a violent uprising.

"Let me guess, Yuka is DJing again?" The bitch nodded, I sighed.  Yuka was a decent DJ most of the time; but whenever her
hormones acted up she insisted on playing that sort of music, the kind of tunes that made knees buckle and furniture bleed.

Sticky suctioning noises were uncomfortably loud as the rubber soles of my boots stuck to the filthy material of the stairs;
as often as they were cleaned, the floor of the club couldn't withstand an onslaught of various fluids trodden in from
outside.  Passing a mirror at the top I checked myself, leather pants and jacket as yet undamaged, bodice holding in the
accessories adequately, hair falls managing to cover up the scar tissue from all the brain work done recently.

As was usually the case, the club was packed.  Most of the patrons would move onto another club only to be replaced by
similar clubbers.  But there were still lots of faithful clients who, once they'd annexed a barstool and bartender, would
remain in the same seat until either the bar closed or their bladders ruptured.  One of the patrons, a young woman with
short, spiky black hair, was abusing anyone who got too close and the large glass of Synth sitting in front of her.  I stood
back and watched her cycle for a minute: bellow something at a bartender or at Yuka, who was standing at the DJ panel too
far away to hear anyway, take a drink and repeat the process.

Eventually a stool next to her opened up and I closed in, managed to sit down without having to kill someone for the seat.  
"Busy night so far?"  I raised my voice to a level where she could hear me, which meant I was shouting.

The girl looked at me; under one green eye the tattoo of a thorn-studded vine looked stark and intimidating beneath the
strobe lights. "Bloody boring night actually." She sounded just as annoyed in person "This fake vodka shit is making me feel
sick and my dealer pulled out at the last minute. So no Adrenals tonight." She slumped over the bar.

Sam was an Adren addict, which was considered one of the better class of addictions nowadays, as it didn't fuck you up
unlike most of the other stuff on the market.  Adren was artificial adrenaline that did little more than make the user more
alert and attentive, and if taken in high enough doses would put the user into an adrenaline high similar to any extreme
activity.  Although it wasn't as interesting as some of the alternatives on the market, Adren had the benefit of no side
effects save for exhaustion.

It wasn't exactly illegal to take the stuff; however the heavy tariff on stimulants forced most consumers to buy illegally
produced dermal kits and sub-dermal delivery systems.

"What was your dealer going to charge you?"  I took the half empty glass from in front of her and took a slug of the clear
liquid, and fought off the need to vomit as the fluid hit my tongue.  With the average quality of alcohol in the less thriving
areas of the city, it wasn't surprising that most people sought relief by other, more illegitimate means.

"He was offering a pair of 'Derms for fifty and a blowjob." She snatched the glass back and choked down the last of the
contents, poking her bisected tongue out at me.

I reached into my coat and peeled off a few of the sticky patches from the stack in a pocket.  Unlike Sam's, my dealer was
reliable and offered copious amounts of whatever was desired in exchange for certain services.  Saving up a nest egg in the
slums was hard enough without having to fork out for bad perk-ups.

"Sixty for three," I offered, waving the patches under her nose.  "You can keep your oral sex skills for someone who needs
them."  As attractive as I found Sam's body, nothing short of a full-frontal lobotomy would get me interested in her
personal issues... again.

The message in the corner of my vision popped up again, signalling the wireless transfer of credits from Sam's bank account
into my own.  I checked the receipt and slid the 'Derms across to her.  She snatched one and peeled the cover off - the only
visible difference between the cover and the 'Derm itself was the bluer hue to the patch.  She placed the clear patch on a
slightly paler part of her arm and thumped the back of it with the flat of her hand, and pocketed the other pair.

"How has life been?" she shouted over the music, already perking up under the onslaught of high grade artificial adrenaline.  
"Managed to get a real job yet?"

"I've been busy enough," I stated flatly.  "Wish more people would pay me in credits though.  Too many people bartering
with me these days and I'm getting a bit pissed about it."  I extruded a blade from my index finger and started to toy with
the spilled liquids on the bar, scoring deep gashes in the woodwork with very little pressure.  "To be honest, if things keep
up the way they are, I'll end doing StimU work just to pay my rent."

Sam was tapping the side of her empty glass in time with the music; this meant that the glass was close to shattering under
the resonations of her fingertips.  "I wrote some of the code they use in the StimU parlors down here.  Paid a bundle and
got to do all the 'research' I needed."  She started to giggle, something she only did when she was under the heels of two
or more types of drug at once.

She got off the stool and practically ran onto the dance floor; her black PVC pants shining under the light as she jumped
and gyrated along with the beat.

The freelance programming work Sam did had earned her enough credits to go partying whenever she felt like it and fame
enough to guarantee work.  All she really did was get hold of pirated software from overseas and rewrite just enough code
to avoid litigation and copyright infringements, which was usually more than what was asked of her by the clients.

The piece of coding she had been talking about was part of a Japanese cyber-sex program used in interactive peep shows
known as Stimulation entertainment, or simply as StimU.  Stimulate you, StimU.  Clever, huh.  This enabled StimU models to
interact with multiple clients without having to see, let alone touch them.  Somewhere imbedded in the software were long
lines of code written by Sam that not only made the whole thing work but enabled complete anonymity.

I was often jealous of Sam's talent with math and coding, but desire for those sorts of skills placed somewhat lower
compared to other desires such as those for a stable job or relationship that didn't involve conceited arseholes.  In other
words, things I would probably never have.

Getting onto the dance floor to join Sam in her gyrations proved to be more of a hassle than tracking down an empty bar
stool, but I managed to get in without having to directly assault anyone.  Around me a hundred pulsating bodies danced in
their hundred unique styles, fuelled probably by a hundred different drugs.  I simply stood in the centre of the floor; eyes
closed, using my other senses to absorb the atmosphere as best I could.

Concentration brought up my perception menu; I selected auditory and lowered the reception level until only the thudding
bass around me was audible.  The room became one giant echo, with pounding reverberations the only force I could
perceive.  Taking hold of another Adren patch from my pocket, I peeled off the cover and slipped the transparent 'Derm
under my tongue; direct contact with tissue and muscle accelerating the chemical into my blood stream.

In the room of throbbing bass and boundless life, cast in a halo of energy and warmth, I began to dance.

Stop

Something jolted me to a halt.  Barely perceptible in the ambient palpitations of life in the room was something that invaded
my zone. The Adren had perked up my other senses enough to let me notice it, a feeling of strangeness around me.

Settling into a dance pattern I cranked up my firewalls, picking up all the signals drifting around the room, hoping to find
what was out of place.  It was technically illegal according to about a dozen privacy acts but as long as nobody found out I
didn't consider it wrong.  Most of my good leads emanated from the unchecked data traffic drifting through the air like
smoke.

Sometimes a massive currency transaction would take place, or the details for some multimedia story about to break, or
even the new song of an up and coming neo-industrial band in its pre-release form.  The latter I would always sell to Yuka
as she actually gave a shit about the music and I just used it as an excuse to get high off the sensation of it all.

Most of the traffic floating was the usual mix of appointments and minor drug deals.  One of the local Asian mob factions
had set up a low level secure zone that melted under close inspection to reveal an arms deal taking place.  I tagged the
transfer details and pickup location and repaired the security before any alarms triggered.

A dozen tiny voices surrounded me, growing louder when focused on, their voices a culmination of information and secrecy.  
Without certain programming the voices were meaningless collections of static, confusing and useless, jumbled to all but
those allotted.  They weren't really voices, in no way could they speak or even have a sound of their own, they became
information absorbed by the downloading program.  Instantly learned knowledge.  Voices was really the only way I had been
able to explain it to others.  It always sounds stupid so I just told them to get the implants themselves and leave me the
hell alone.

Buzzing in the ether alerted me to the presence of what I looked for.  A subtle difference nearly too small to notice.  I
popped another Adren patch under my tongue and tried to focus, my heart beating fast, the world slowed a little more.

The static amplified, stretched around me like a web, echoing between the beats of the amplified industrial music.  Worming
my way through the tangled strands of signal I attempted to trace the source, complicated by the fact that it encompassed
the entire room.

What the fuck?

I stared across the room, through the crowd, past the bar and the walls into the underlying current of the club.  Something
was watching.  I could feel its proximity, felt the stare, knew its touch.  For some reason it was not a stranger to me
although I had never acknowledged its presence.

On the surface it felt inert, a mindless program observing the club, which was probably why I hadn't noticed it before now.  
It wore the club, peeking through invisible eyes, covering its face with everything this place was.

Flexing mental fingers I plunged an observation digit into the wall of data that surrounded me, felt the reaction as whatever
it was flow back through the link into my subconscious.  It was stupid of me to leave an open path for it to travel back.  For
some reason I didn't care.  The thing felt so natural as it traversed my neural pathways, learning, experiencing.  Violation
should have been my concern, viruses, identity theft, illegal activities discovered.  But it didn't matter anymore.

Who are you?

The wall of information parted for my probing digit, accepting the breach as willingly as I had.

Within the inactive exterior was a complex structure far beyond my imagination.  It was an intelligence without question,
without attitude or bias, without malice.  For the microscopic moment I was in its mind, I saw years of activity and life.  The
thing fed on the ambient life within this club, on its people, on its energy.

I stood awestruck.  I had glimpsed into the mind of a being created and powered inadvertently by a dozen different races
and untold cultures that only wished to survive, powered by the very same people who unknowingly invented it.

The thing was watching, that was all it did, waiting for a reaction.  It was sentient and unblinking.  It was all-seeing, endless
eyes staring at me from all angles.  Waiting for the show to continue.

It was the audience.

Dance

The moment died.  Someone nudged me from the back and I felt my heart rate slow to near-normal.  Turning I saw Sam
with her arm around a tall red-headed girl in a fishnet top that left everything on display.  Whatever it was that watched us
was sure getting its moneys worth.

"What's up Em?" she asked, nuzzling her head against the girl's shoulder.  "You look like you have stage fright or
something."

I glanced around the room: at the DJ booth where Yuka was working herself into a sweat fiddling with controls; at the
seating area where a dozen little dramas were acted out and resolved in a heartbeat; at the back of the room where
suspicious characters entangled themselves in webs of deceit and subterfuge.  The club truly had a script, written by the
actors as they performed it.  The ultimate ad-lib.
Maybe the observer had been around since the club had a name.  Maybe it didn't matter.

I gave a shrug and poked Sam in the belly, my fingernail clinking against the multiple piercing.

"Since when have you known me to have stage fright?"

Sam gave a quick chuckle and we began to dance again.  Performing for the audience.  We would put on a good show.  Even
if none of the other actors knew that the audience was watching.

Enjoy the show

Jamie Marriage