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- Ричард Морган
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Halfway
up
the
block
,
a
bulky
automated
vehicle
rolled
past
me
,
hugging
the
kerb
.
It
looked
pretty
much
like
the
robocrawlers
that
cleaned
the
streets
of
Millsport
,
so
I
paid
no
attention
to
it
as
it
drew
level
.
Seconds
later
,
I
was
drenched
in
the
machine
’
s
image
cast
.
…
from
the
houses
from
the
houses
from
the
houses
from
the
houses
from
the
houses
from
the
houses
…
The
voices
groaned
and
murmured
,
male
,
female
,
overlaid
.
It
was
like
a
choir
in
the
throes
of
orgasm
.
The
images
were
inescapable
,
varying
across
a
broad
spectrum
of
sexual
preference
.
A
whirlwind
of
fleeting
sensory
impressions
.
Genuine
…
Uncut
…
Full
sense
repro
…
Tailored
…
As
if
to
prove
this
last
,
the
random
images
thinned
out
into
a
stream
of
heterosex
combinations
.
They
must
have
scanned
my
response
to
the
blur
of
options
and
fed
directly
back
to
the
broadcast
unit
.
Very
high
-
tech
.
Theflowendedwithaphone
numberinglowing
numerals
and
an
erect
penis
in
the
hands
of
a
woman
with
long
dark
hair
and
a
crimson
-
lipped
smile
.
She
looked
into
the
lens
.
I
could
feel
her
fingers
.
Head
in
the
Clouds
,
she
breathed
.
This
is
what
it
’
s
like
.
Maybe
you
can
’
t
afford
to
come
up
here
,
but
you
can
certainly
afford
this
.
