them to whatever future awaited mankind.
Or maybe it was just him.
He smiled. He was a million years old after all; maybe a little of the Weissman had rubbed off on him.
He took a handful of dust and pulled out his hand. A cloud of dust came with it that gushed into his face like a hail of meteorites, glittering particles following dead-straight lines.
He sensed acceptance. Forgiveness. He wondered how far they’d come, how long they’d travelled. What they were fleeing.
Anyhow, it was over now.
‘You weren’t alone,’ he said. ‘And neither were we.’ He pushed his hand back into the pit he’d dug, ignoring the fresh dust clouds he raised.
The light of Earth billowed around him.
‘You lied to me.’
I don’t understand.
‘You lied about the murder. Have you lied to me all my life? Is it just me, or do other Angels do this too?’
Rob, I don’t mean you any harm. My sole purpose is to serve you.
‘Because of you I don’t know what’s real any more …’
It is the year 2045. Don’t be afraid.
For Rob Morhaim, it started as just another assignment.
Morhaim checked his reflection in the Cinderella mirror on the softwall. Not that he expected to meet anybody in person today – that hardly ever happened – but it made him feel better. The mirror showed him Cary Grant circa 1935 – incongruously dressed in Metropolitan Police light armour, circa 2045 – but it was honest enough to show him any smuts on his nose, and that he needed a shave.
But the mirror was infested; Cary Grant started to sprout a ridiculous Groucho Marx moustache and cigar.
‘Goddamn viruses. Off.’
The mirror metamorphosed to a neutral view of a Thames riverscape, under a parched June sky. The view was overlaid by a tampon ad: irrelevant to Morhaim since his divorce, of course, but still counting to his ad quota.
Nothing much we can do about the viruses, murmured the Angel. Since the passing of the sentience laws –
Morhaim fixed himself a coffee and a Coca-Dopa marijuana cigarette. ‘I know, I know. But where the hell are the Goodfellows when you need them? …’
He settled in his chair.
The Room, his home, was just a softwall box, with a single office chair, and a caffeine/Dopa vending machine. Its bio equipment – a bed, a kitchen, a bathroom – folded away when he didn’t need it. He was a cop in a box, one of thousands in New New Scotland Yard: a Virtual warren of Rooms, of cops in boxes, physically separated, their softwalls linking one to another.
Nobody travelled any more …
You want to take your ads?
‘Do it.’
Morhaim stared straight ahead as a melange of graphics, letters and smiling faces blizzarded over the wall in front of him.
Most of the ads that, for statutory reasons, survived the Angel’s filtering were dominated by the big companies – Microsoft-Disney, Coke-Boeing, IG Farben. Morhaim could never see why they couldn’t do a little pooling, thus reducing the quota for everyone. Some of the images were crudely three-dimensional, popping out of the softwall in front of him, though they still hadn’t got that stuff right and the images tended to break up into pixels, light-filled boxes, around the edges. More insidious were the you-ads, ads that were tailored to him – shouting his name, for instance, or Bobby, the name of his kid.
He let his eye follow the action – the in-wall retinal scanners could tell if you closed your eyes, or even if you let yourself glaze over – and, unless your attention was caught, you wouldn’t be allowed to tally to your quota.
At last the battering of light and noise died.
When he checked the time he found he’d got through the best part of his legal duty as a consumer in a half-hour, a good performance by any standard, even if it did leave his eyes feeling like poached eggs.
And all the time, somewhere in his head, he was thinking about The Case.
With relish, he said: ‘Time to go to work, Angel.’
The softwalls dissolved, even the Cinderella mirror, and Morhaim was suspended over Tower Bridge.
When they were proven to be alive, by legal definition anyhow, you granted viruses amnesty.
Manufacturers of virus killers were shut down; even virus check software is illegal. In fact it is part of the remit of Rob Morhaim’s unit of the CID to track down breaches of those laws.
But there are supposed to be two sides to the bargain: the Robin Goodfellows, the most human-like products of virus evolution, have committed to keep their more mischievous junior companions under control. Mostly they do just that …
Possibly.
But things seem to be sliding a little right now, as most of you realize. A lot of commentators blame the approach of the Digital Millennium – 2048, the year 100000000000 in binary, requiring a whole extra digit from 2047, which was 11111111111 – when, street scuttlebutt has it, the storage problems required by that extra digit will deliver the catastrophe we managed to avoid at the 2000 date change.
Perhaps you are right. Perhaps rogue viruses, or the approach of the Digital Millennium, are indeed at the root of everything that is going wrong for you.
Perhaps not.
… And now here was Morhaim at a pov that looked down over the crime scene: two days ago, Wednesday 13 June 2045, at 10.53 a.m., five minutes before the event. The sun was bright and high, the light dripping down from a sky that was whited-out and without a shred of ozone, and the twin towers of the Bridge sparkled like a fairy castle. Further down the river he could see the city’s newest bridge, a gaudy, over-familiar M-shape curve in bright corporate yellow: an eyesore for traditionalists, but welcomed by Londoners as a painless hit against the ad quota … The view was neutrally interpreted. Evidently he was seeing through a dumb camera, a simple imager with little more sentience than a cockroach.
Tower Bridge’s road span was lowered right now, and Morhaim was looking down at a ribbon of colourfully clad pedestrians and smart-trams, weaving their complex paths across the Thames. And among those crowds – gazing up, perhaps, at the big aerostats floating across London pumping out ozone, or down at what was left of the Thames, a sluggish, carefully managed trickle a
