The Blue Line Maglev whizzed through dark tunnels vibrating with holoverts pulsing down from grime-covered display units. Caldwell was wedged tightly between a middle-aged ese lady with an unfortunately placed mole on her upper lip and a rabbi muttering quietly to himself. The knapsack was on his lap, led in the crook of his arm like a mother nursing a tender new born. He spent a few moments rapt in thought. Then it hit him. They were after the sole. It was the only thing that made sehe only loose end that ying up. But how would Glyph know about that? Kenzo Yamamoto. The HUB. It was all starting to make sense.
The goon on the platform would be on the rain. Luckily the Maglevs came through in two-miervals. His assailant wouldn』t know at which statio off, unless of course they had access to a system that was monit the Cetworks. He would be fine once he hit the Isle of Dogs station. Caldwell tried to put his current dilemma out of his mind ahe impl sounds of advertising wash over him.
He watched with disdain the flickering hologram of some cyberspace manufactured star float through the carriage, her lithe body speckled with missing pixels. Now that was advertising in its rawest form. And following behind it, a group of teenage boys, weird haircuts and painted up, pag wireless personal jukebox implants and singing along to the music. He noticed that most of them had bar codes tattooed on the insides of their wrists. They were the new peion, slaves to the digital mae.
Caldwell didn』t reize the newfangled celebrity and didn』t care. In an age of surgically aronically created media personalities, fifteen minutes was as long a time as aayed famous. If you were lucky, your fifteen minutes got you enough moo retire from the rat race, having barely made a dent on the collective sciousness. He did not sider these Warholian idols worthy of his memory space. Did something happen to him that caused his partial amnesia? Do the headaches have anything to do with it? These questioched themselves in his mind over and ain like a laser creating the intricate circuitry of a microchip.
The rest of the passengers were equally nonchalant as the hologram disappeared into the partment with a shudder as the holographic displays switched over. The transition of her adolest fans into the partment was a lot more seamless.
The good citizens of the Union were so mesmerized by the persuasive power of media and its hybrids that they scarcely made any choices that weren』t advertising driven. Caldwell could barely trol his disdain for the medium of advertising aed media. The passivity of it drove him to distra. Caldwell could go as far as to claim that he was anti-media, at least the kind that wasn』t free-flowing like cyberspace.
Like your typical spiracy theorist, he strongly believed that media was the collective effect of powerful glomerates imposing their will, through the relentless sacrilege of advertising, on a public that had somehow lost the ability to think for themselves. In cyberspace their power was severely curtailed and they had to try much harder to work their evil. Caldwell liked that status quo just fine.
The Isle of Dogs station platform shifted into view. It was time to make his move. He stepped off the driver-less train as the doors swished open and sed the crowds. Wedged between an ample Eastern Bloc lady with a faint moustache and a young gothik revivalist with surgically painted makeup, he let himself m