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- Ричард Морган
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"
Tell
me
that
when
you
’
ve
checked
the
stack
,
"
I
said
,
and
started
walking
.
I
walked
south
.
Over
my
head
,
autocabs
wove
in
and
out
of
the
traffic
with
programmed
hyper
-
efficiency
and
swooped
occasionally
to
ground
level
in
attempts
to
stimulate
custom
.
The
weather
above
the
traffic
flow
was
on
the
change
,
grey
cloud
cover
racing
in
from
the
west
and
occasional
spots
of
rain
hitting
my
cheek
when
I
looked
up
.
I
left
the
cabs
alone
.
Go
primitive
,
Virginia
Vidaura
would
have
said
.
With
an
AI
gunning
for
you
,
your
only
hope
is
to
drop
out
of
the
electronic
plane
.
Of
course
,
on
a
battlefield
that
’
s
a
lot
more
easily
done
.
Plenty
of
mud
and
chaos
to
hide
in
.
A
modern
city
—
unbombed
—
is
a
logistical
nightmare
for
this
kind
of
evasion
.
Every
building
,
every
vehicle
,
every
street
is
jacked
into
the
web
,
and
every
transaction
you
make
tags
you
for
the
datahounds
.
I
found
a
battered
-
looking
currency
dispenser
and
replenished
my
thinning
sheaf
of
plastified
notes
from
it
.
Then
I
backed
up
two
blocks
and
went
east
until
I
found
a
public
callbox
.
I
searched
through
my
pockets
,
came
up
with
a
card
,
settled
the
call
trades
on
my
head
and
dialled
.
There
was
no
image
.
No
sound
of
connection
.
This
was
an
internal
chip
.
The
voice
spoke
brusquely
out
of
a
blank
screen
.
"
Who
is
this
?
"
"
You
gave
me
your
card
,
"
I
said
,
"
in
case
of
anything
major
.
Well
,
now
it
seems
there
’
s
something
pretty
fucking
major
we
need
to
talk
about
,
doctor
.
"
There
was
an
audible
click
as
she
swallowed
,
just
once
,
and
then
her
voice
was
there
again
,
level
and
cool
.
"
We
should
meet
.
I
assume
you
don
’
t
want
to
come
to
the
facility
.
"
"
You
assume
right
.
You
know
the
red
bridge
?
"
