“Wheres the little man?”
Its one of Gibsons futures. We’re on the bridge. It must be Tokyo, after the quake. We’re running, I don’t know why.
Upstairs on the lower deck, we’re in a market. The smell of diesel permeates everything, the plywood repurposed to build the stalls, the merchandise, the people. We run, stall to stall, fighting through the crowd, the hanging clothes.
He’s there, my companion, distracted by vinyl, he always said noone else understood it, how these voices from the past could be heard if you got a good scan. Noone did that any more, they were just decorative for these folk. He’s picking up handfuls of the delicate disks, hiding them in his pockets, ready to flee.
The stallholder pulls him out of the crowd as he turns to follow me. “You! Stop that” Game over. What was he thinking? Then it becomes clear, its a distraction, his terminal found the data it was looking for, hidden behind the front of a market stall.
I still don’t know what that data was, but at least the right guys have it now.
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