LITMIR.BIZ

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supposed to be a policeman, for God’s sake. A detective. What kind of investigating are you doing? Have you been to the crime scene? Have you looked at the body yourself?’

      ‘It isn’t necessary.’

      ‘Really?’

      She turned away from the imager.

      When she came back, her face was transformed: eyes like pits of coal, hair disarrayed, mouth twisted in anger, cheeks blotchy with tears. ‘Now what do you think, Inspector?’

      Morhaim flinched from the brutal, unfiltered reality of her grief, and was relieved when the interview finished.

      

       Brutal, unfiltered reality.

       Let me tell you a story.

       In the 1970s, a President of the USA was brought down by a scandal called Watergate. One of the conspirators, a man called John Dean, came clean to the prosecutors. He gave detailed accounts of all relevant meetings and actions, to the best of his ability. Then, after his confessions were complete, tapes of those meetings made by President Nixon were uncovered.

       It became a psychological test case. For the first time it was possible to compare on an extended basis human memories with automated records – the tapes being a precursor of the much more complete recording systems in place today.

       John Dean, an intelligent man, had striven to be honest. But his accounts were at once more logical than the reality, and gave Dean himself a more prominent role. When he was confronted with the reality of the tapes, Dean argued they must have been tampered with.

       It was not simple information overload. It was much more than that.

       Your ego is – fragile. It needs reassurance.

       Your memory is not a transcript. It is constantly edited. You need logic, story, in an illogical world: this fact explains religion, and conspiracy theories, science – even most brands of insanity.

       But now, you no longer regard your own memory as the ultimate authority.

       You are the first human generation to have this power – or this curse. You see the world as it is.

       You pool memories. You supplement your memory with machines. Your identity is fragmenting. A new form of awareness is emerging, an electronic river on which floats a million nodes of consciousness, like candles. A group mind, some of you call it …

       Perhaps that is so.

       We do not comment.

       In the meantime we have to protect you. It is our function. We have to tell you the stories you once told yourselves –

       Without us, you see, you would go crazy.

      He had trouble sleeping. Something still didn’t make sense.

      Maybe something he didn’t want to face.

      In the morning, he should just sign the damn case off and forget it.

      To relax, he logged into the telesensors.

      … He moved into a different universe: a dog’s world of scents, a dolphin’s web of ultrasonic pulses, the misty planes of polarized light perceived by a bee in flight, the probing electric senses of blind, deep-ocean fish. And as he vicariously haunted his hosts, a spectrum of implanted animals all around the planet, he could sense a million other human souls riding with him, silent, clustering like ghosts.

      He slept uneasily, his reptilian hind brain processing.

      He woke up angry.

      

      ‘Show me the death again.’

      Tourists, pretty girl, Desargues and Seebeck, Desargues falling with a clatter of Pinocchio limbs.

      ‘Turn off the filter on Desargues.’

      Are you sure? You know how you –

      ‘Do it.’

      The murder became brutal.

      Her substance was splashed like lumpy red paint over Seebeck’s neat suit, and she fell like a sack of water. Utterly without dignity. It was, he thought, almost comical.

      He watched it over and over, his view prismed through the multiple eyes of the witnesses, as if he was some hovering fly.

      ‘What else are you filtering?’

       There are no other filters.

      ‘Turn them off.’

       I told you, there are no other filters. None that are important.

      ‘Turn them off, or I’ll have you discontinued.’

       I’m your Angel.

      ‘Turn them off.’

      

      … Angel technology is a natural outcrop of developments that started at the end of the last century, when information overload started to become a problem for you.

      The first significant numbers of deaths among you – mostly from suicides and neural shock – accelerated research into data filters, intelligent search agents, user query tools.

       The result was the Angels. Us. Me.

      My function is to filter out the blizzard of information that comes sweeping over Rob Morhaim, every waking moment, selecting what is relevant and – more important in human terms – what is acceptable to him personally.

       Your Angel is assigned to you at birth, and grows with you.

       After a lifetime together, through steady upgrades of technology, I – Rob Morhaim’s Virtual filter-cum-companion – know him very well.

       As your Angel knows you.

       Perhaps better than you realize.

      … At first Morhaim was overwhelmed by the new imagery: laser sparkles, leaping holograms, unlicensed ads painted over the sky and the Bridge towers, even over the clothes and faces of the tourists. And when he took a pov from a callosum dump, the extraneous mental noise from the host he haunted was clamouring, the howl of an animal within a cage of rationality.

      But still, he ran the murder over and over, until even the brutality of the death became clichéd for him.

      Piece by piece he eliminated the changes, the items his Angel had filtered out of the info-bombardment that was this summer day in England, 2045.

      Until there was only one element left.

      ‘The girl. The pretty girl. She’s gone. And what the hell is that?’

      In the tableau of the murder, where the long-legged girl had been standing, there was a boy: slight, his figure hard to make out, rendered all but invisible by Homeless-style softscreen tattoos.

      ‘Pick him out and enhance.’

       You shouldn’t see this.

      ‘Show me.’

      The boy, aged maybe fifteen, came forward from the softwall, a hologram reconstruction. Freezeframed, he held his hands up before him. His face was hard to make out, a melange of clumsily-transmitted images and black, inert softscreen patches. But somehow, Morhaim knew, or feared, what he would find underneath …

      ‘What’s he doing with his hands? Run it forward.’

      The boy came to life. He was looking up, to a Bridge tower somewhere over Morhaim’s shoulder. Just as the vanished girl had, he was making a

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