This story is not recommended for children.

Step into the O’Rourke Institute and you’ve crossed the threshold into a better world. You can’t walk through their gleaming chrome entrance without feeling grubby. This is how the leper feels at the altar, and this is how they want you to feel; like a swine before pearls.

Clara Jane feels it too, even if she doesn’t realise it. She notes the pristine whiteness of the floor and wishes there were somewhere to wipe her feet. She sees the dancing water of the indoor fountains and suppresses a distracted longing to wash her hands. Ahead, an impossibly blonde receptionist wearing a white tunic sits behind an equally white desk. She has her hair tied back and sports thick, black-rimmed glasses. But her lips are the colour of fresh cherries, and her neckline would look at home on a porn star. The message is clear. Here is a secretary who could explain the finer points of non linear equations whilst simultaneously fucking your brains right out.

She looks up and smiles as Clara approaches, although her expression of approval doesn’t reach as far as her eyes. “Welcome to the O’Rourke Institute. The future already happened. How may I help you?”

Voice recognition software has kicked in, and “The future already happened” is dancing and weaving through space around them, the letters streaming like little red-light fairies. Moments later the words dissolve into mist, leaving just a couple of ethereal butterflies, which flutter away to vanish discretely.

Clara tries hard not to look too impressed. After all, she’s supposed to be there on business as a representative of the country’s biggest media company, not a kid in a sweet shop. “I’m Clara Jane from Pop Sickle. I have an appointment to see Doctor Benson.”

The receptionist nods and gestures to a set of steps off to one side. “That’s fine. Doctor Benson is just on her way.”

On Queue, an Asian woman appears, dressed in sacrificial white. She wears a white headscarf and white gloves. She’s fairly short, but carries herself like a swan. She waits until she’s just a few feet away from Clara before acknowledging her presence. “How do you do, Miss Jane? I’m Doctor Benson. Would you care to accompany me?”

For want of a reason not to, Clara falls into step with her, eventually passing through a door marked “Consultation Suite” which leads to a room of beige marble and gold ornamentation, with brown leather furnishings and colourful abstracts on the wall. It’s a sumptuous riot of warmth and colour after the stark, virginal uniformity and Clara feels right at home. Score another point to the design committee.

“Are you thirsty?” The Doctor Benson asks. “I can get you a soft drink? Or coffee if you’ll sign the disclaimer.” She passes a small clip board, to which Clara adds her signature to without even bothering to read about the number of ways in which caffeine could put her at risk. “You should be more careful what you sign in a clinical institution.” The doctor says, eyes flashing with genuine amusement.

They sit on a large, leather sofa and Clara finds herself hugging a leopard skin cushion before she’s even thought about it. Soft music is playing in the background and she wishes she knew enough about the classics to tell which one it was.

Doctor Benson reaches for a large silver Tab, which is lying amongst a collection of surgery brochures. It bleeps discretely when she unlocks it with her thumbprint. “May I call you Clara? Good. I must admit I’ve been quite looking forward to meeting you. I’m sure you appreciate that you’re something of a celebrity here.”

Clara shifts uncomfortably. “I can imagine. Only it’s not something I’m used to talking about. “

“Well, don’t worry. We’re planning to be very discreet about all of this. You have my assurance that nobody outside the handful of doctors at The Institute will need to be involved, which is as much to cover our backs as yours. It wouldn’t do for the press to find out we were involved, would it?”

Clara sighs in relief.

Doctor Benson eyes Clara over her Tab, as if pricing her up. “You don’t have to answer, but I have to admit that I’m curious. How exactly did you come to have your node fitted?”

“Pushy parents, I guess.” Clara says, dismissively.

“Seriously? I mean they must be well connected. And considering the penalty for unauthorised jacking they must have been pretty determined- “

“Or simply powerful enough not to worry about getting caught.” Clara shrugs.

“So what was it? Exam success? Languages?”

Clara shakes her head. “To tell you the truth I have no idea. I’m pretty normal. Or at least I think I am. I imagine I had a fairly normal childhood, it’s just that I’ve not got much recall of my own history.”

The intensity of Doctor Benson’s stare makes Clara squirm in her seat. She grips the edges of the cushion and curls her toes.

“So you’ve been wiped?”

“No. I’ve still got a fairly good memory about events in the past. Just not ones that involve me.”

“Ah.” Doctor Benson seems almost pleased. “We call that Autobiographical Amnesia, and it’s not just a condition that affects people who’ve been modified in the same way as yourself. It also occasionally happens naturally as a result of a trauma, or a personal difficulty. What’s the last thing you remember? You know we can probably find out if you wish. We can perform a residual -”

Clara pulls her feet up “No.” She says hastily. “Check the agreement with the company if you like, but there’s to be no probe into any past programming. I’m sorted now and I don’t want to dig anything up.”

Doctor Benson’s intense gaze melts into a long look of sympathy. “I understand. Don’t worry, we won’t be forcing anything on you like that. It’s just…” She rests the Tad to one side and turns to face Clara more squarely, as if she were about to embrace a lost child. “Clara, are you sure it’s what you want? If you’ve been wiped… Well, somebody must have wanted it to happen. To have a Fractal Node fitted is rare enough, but outside the military the practise is completely illegal. You’ve also had your personal memories erased. Are you sure who ever it was that did this to you has been working in your best interests? How do you know what they might have been covering up?”

Clara is shaking her head. “I don’t want to know. I get by. Okay, I mean maybe some evil genius took me and wiped my mind as part of his plot to rule the world. Maybe I’m part of an international conspiracy to stop the world turning, I don’t know. It’s just that I can’t help thinking that maybe it was me who decided to erase my past, you know?”

“And you wouldn’t rather know that for sure? You wouldn’t have to re-live the memories. All you’d have to do is let us access them for you. We could just hand you a type-written summary.”

The cushion is being strangled. “No! Look. According to the checks I’ve had done, this thing’s been in the back of my head since I was about eight years old. Eight years old! That means it was fitted well before I was old enough to give consent. In my book, that’s not just illegal, it’s blatant child abuse. What ever my past is, it’s something that’s been done to me rather than by me. I don’t care what it was. I don’t want to know. And what ever past I have, I certainly don’t want it contaminating my present. “

Doctor Benson raises her hands as Clara’s stance becomes more aggressive. “Okay, okay. My dink, Clara. I just wanted to know that you’d considered every option. Like I said, you won’t be forced into anything here.”

Clara’s cushion is becoming more regular shaped again. “It isn’t easy, you know? It’s not like I asked to have this shit done to me. I’m a living violation, for crying out loud. If anyone finds out - “

“You don’t have to worry about that. Like I said, we’ll be absolutely discreet about this”

“I’m not just talking about now. You know what they call us. Zombies, walking time bombs. Avatars, Trojan Horses. Have you any idea what it’s like to live in fear? They could jail me forever, just for existing. And who would blame them? I could be a mass murderer for all I know. Or I could be reprogrammed to become one at the drop of a hat. A handful of fractal keys, a few minutes hooked up to a bio… whatsit, thing…”

“Biokinetic.”

“Yeah. Anyway. I don’t want to know. And the less people find out the less chance I’ve got of being dragged through the streets behind the back of a cart.”

“But surely when you work with Pop Sickle, when you’re representing Cheryl, everyone will know you’re linked?”

“The press release is going to say I’m only carrying a very limited amount of keyware. They’re not going to mention the full extent of the wiring. And how could they? By rights they shouldn’t be hiring me. I should be locked up.”

They fall silent as a young man with girly cheekbones enters with a slender silver coffee pot. He senses the mood and glances furtively at Clara before setting it down wordlessly and hurrying off. Doctor Benson watches him close the door before saying, “You know, there are support groups. There must be hundreds of people just like you in the country. How many world wide?”

Clara nods. “To be honest, I think I’ll be okay with Cheryl. I know she’s not real, but she’s fun to be around. I can’t see myself getting depressed with her in my head twenty-four hours a day.”

“Well, Pop Sickle is paying very handsomely for the privilege. They’re investing quite a tidy sum into your services, Clara. Since the fitting of Fractal Nodes is illegal these days, it’s not exactly a buyer’s market. They’re lucky to have found you.” Doctor Benson takes a breath and stands. “Coffee?“ she asks, reaching for the pot.

A few moments later, Clara is holding a small, gold rimmed cup and taking in the smoky scent of the vapour with her eyes half closed.

“Right then.” Doctor Benson rests her own cup down, picks up the double sized Tab again and reads a few lines from it. “According to my instructions we’re to fit you with a direct point send-receive unit. Do you know what that will involve?”

“Surgically?”

“And practically. Has the system been explained to you at Pop Sickle?”

Clara tries hard not to look stupid. “Well, only that I’ll be Cheryl’s eyes and ears on the world. They want me to be able to represent her in negotiations and such like.”

Doctor Benson nods. “Right. It’s not an uncommon proceedure, but usually the connection is between two humans. It’s actually the main reason why the call to outlaw nodes was first raised. You can imagine the implications for espionage if everything you see can be relayed across thousands of kilometres, directly into somebody else’s head.”

The coffee tastes of dark oak and burnt vanilla, with delicate notes of fine liquor. It must have cost a fortune.

“In your case, though, everything you experience will be channelled into the sensory bank of the intelligent construct. And you’ll be able to hear its voice in your head just the same as you would if you were using a studphone, only with one very important difference; there will be no sound input device in your ear. The information you receive will be fed directly into your brain via the fractal keys.”

“Sounds impressive”

“Well, it is. Fractal keys make old style fibre-optic connectors look like tin cans with string. The sheer amount of simultaneous data they’re able to channel means we can finally handle a flow rate on a par with your own senses. But it’s going to take some getting used to. I hope you’re not shy, Clara, because as soon as you’re hooked up, Cheryl’s going to see, hear, taste and feel everything you do.”

Clara nods thoughtfully. “I know. I’m okay about that, as long as she can’t actually tell what I’m thinking. My thoughts will be my own, won’t they?”

“That rather depends on your definition of thought.” Doctor Benson shifts a little, reaching for the cup with her free hand. “To some extent, all sensory input is thought. Translating the vibrations of the inner ear into recognisable sounds requires an awful lot of activity in the brain. It just goes on so constantly that we don’t recognise the amount of work involved. Much of what we’d call sensory input has been subject to an awful lot of interpretation and filtering to make it intelligible and relevant. For example, when you first saw that leopard skin cushion, a part of your brain had to cross reference the visual image with other things it might have been. A real leopard, for example.”

“No. I mean… “ Clara fishes uncomfortably. “You know, my word thoughts. My opinions. My ideas. “

“I know what you mean.” Doctor Benson’s expression was kind. “What I’m trying to explain is that the process isn’t black and white. There may be some aspects of your more intense emotions that slip through. If you’re afraid of spiders, and you suddenly discover one crawling on your arm, then the person on the other end of your connection may get quite a jolt from your thalamus.”

The coffee is lasting well. Its aftertaste is reminiscent of walnuts. “But Cheryl’s an i-con. An emotional signal wouldn’t mean anything to her, would it?”

Doctor Benson sits back, mulling the question over. “You know? I have absolutely no idea.” she finally replies.

* * *

I was one of the first. I’m an original Blue Boy.

Call me Troy.

I grew up just like you, sat in the school, taking lessons on the steps, drama sessions in the mall, jamming on the mixers and spending all my cash on downloads. I wasn’t anything special to look at, just another skinny kid with a bit of a talent for athletics and a slightly subnormal attention span.

But I had a hunger. It made me different. I used to look at the others and just think, “Don’t you feel it? Don’t you want it?” You see, the world picks people to be famous. It’s not something you work for. It’s not about talent. Those who’re going to finish at the top of the pile just have to survive long enough to get there. It’s destiny. And I knew it, even then.

I remember the first time I went into Wide Ass. It took me an hour to walk up to the door. Gluteus Max had opened the store that morning and already there was a group of placard wavers outside. They were outnumbered by yellow jacketed cops but they were mad as hell. “Lock him up!” They were shouting. “Protect our kids!”

Kids like me, I guess.

I stood out there for an hour like a prick waiting for a blind date, just summoning up the courage to walk in. Have you ever wanted anything so badly that you were afraid even to ask for it? That the very act of asking might mean laying everything on the line so completely that if somebody said no, you’d never have another chance?

I knew what I wanted to be. I was driven. And all I had to do was walk in.

There was a donkey over the door in blue neon. It was stretched like a pimp’s limo with its head impossibly far from its hindquarters. The original Wide Ass logo. How many hours detention had I endured for scrawling it? It was on my arms, on my Tab, on my locker. On the mall walls.

Inside, unfamiliar smells. Rubber, leather. Sphincter loosening vapours. Hash. Blue neon everywhere. Pink strobes. And the music; oh, god, the music! This was in the days before the ticket, don’t forget. There were no biokinetic beats back then. But, fuck me if I wasn’t as stiff as a rod ten seconds after walking in there. With a sound system like theirs a ticket would have just been wasted.

That’s when I saw him. Not some flunky. Not a hired help. It was him. Gluteus Max, sitting behind a glass screen with something burning in his mouth. He was huge. I mean he was a fucking mountain. Bald head, eyes sagging like a bloodhound, jowls hanging over his neck, ripples of flesh creasing under his arms as he took a drag of his smoke.

He wore a lacy bra that must have once been part of a medieval siege weapon, into which holes had been cut to reveal his nipples. The straps cut deep furrows through the lard on his shoulders, making him look as if he’d had his arms stuck on as an afterthought.

And then there were the piercings. Cruel and barbaric looking hooks hanging from his body at random, weighed down with brass weights, with chains. Some of the entry points raw and weeping, some of them just left-over scars from what had been done before.

And he was blue. Did I mention that yet?

He looked at me. I was there in my school uniform. At least I’d taken my tie off. I’d wrapped it around my wrist the way we did in those days. I didn’t dare take another step. I didn’t want to speak. I just waited for what ever was going to happen next.

“Too young.” He said. “Fuck off.”

I didn’t move. I’d expected this. Max took another drag of his fag and stubbed it out on the desk while the rest of his body slopped about in sympathy.

“Listen, bitch. Come back when you’re old enough. Fuck - Off.”

I still didn’t move. I was a thick skinned little fucker, even then, and it was time to show him just “how” thick. Without taking my eyes off him, I reached for my shirt buttons and started undoing them.

Max’s nose wrinkled. “What the fuck is this?” He spat. “You think I’m gonna fall for that trick? That’s fuckin’ sick. Who’re you workin’ for? Put your fuckin clothes back -”

And then he stopped talking. His jaw didn’t stop moving, but he stopped talking.

“Well, I’ll be buggered.” he said, eventually. “Did you do that yourself?”

I nodded.

He raised himself off his chair and leaned forward. Only a little way, as the desk pushed deep into the flesh of his gut and held him back. I could tell his breathing had quickened, but I wasn’t sure if it was just the unaccustomed exertion of movement.

“Fuck me.” He muttered. He reached out and touched a couple of switches. The music dropped in volume, and I also heard a little click in the door behind me. “Come closer. “ He said. “Let me see the rest.”

And that’s pretty much how it happened. Not overnight, you understand. It took a long time. For a start there was money. Max wasn’t exactly running Wide Ass for charity, was he? But it was a hell of a summer. I worked the store at weekends, after school too, when I got the chance. And with the wages he paid, and the decent tips the punters left, I was soon on my way to putting the look together.

But perhaps that’s not the most important part of it. Think about it. I was at the centre of Blue Boy. I was at Ground Zero of a whole new way of living. It was like being Chuck Berry’s piano tuner or Snippy Frisket’s mule. I was there. And anybody else - anybody - could have been there instead. But I was there because I was the one who wanted it the most. The whole world shifted on an axis that ran straight through the middle of that store and I saw the whole thing unfold right before my eyes.

Soon the media were wailing about the Blue Boys in apocalyptic tones. The piercings, the violence, the spikes. What ever could they do? Whole communities turned against us, refused to serve us. Not just in bars, but even in shops, in banks. I remember once I was even denied access to a library. We were outcasts. The scum of society, and we fucking loved it. Politicians met to discuss the crisis. The headlines became more and more outrageous with every new edition, but every day more and more kids would swipe cash from their grandparents’ money jars and wait in line to have their heads shaven and their bodies indelibly stained.

My parents didn’t get it, of course. Even years later, when I bought my fifth helicopter. I was disowned. I was the embodiment of shame and failure. But just as George Luton Maxwell had been reborn as Gluteus Max, and Maggie Delaney rediscovered herself as Magdalene, I too had remade myself in the image of Troy, discarding the memory of Trevor Royston like a spent condom.

I remember looking into a mirror and not wanting to leave it. Everything about me was so perfect, so “right” that I could have happily spent the whole day in a trance of narcissistic rapture. Bright blue skin, chains skewered into my skull and falling about my shoulders like dreddlocks. Naked flesh covered in neon lines, pulsing and throbbing towards my groin. I was lean and muscular, with clearly defined contours that would have made Michelangelo rush out for a chisel. I had the smallest pair of girl’s lacy briefs, which did nothing to hide my bulging blue cock, and a belt with spikes so vicious it could have killed you to hug me.

My gloves were simply class. Black leather and rubber. Enormous continents of material that swung like jack hammers, sparkling with sharp points and silver chains which were anchored deep into the flesh of my triceps.

I’ve left the best till last, of course. I had boots that would have happily slept a family of four. It took me a year to save up for them. They were studded in pewter, knee length, with dozens of two-metre chains, which danced and snaked about me wherever I strutted. I might not have been able to run in them, but I’d never have been blown over.

I wasn’t allowed to the graduation ceremony. I still have the picture from that day, holding a rolled up diploma between my fingers as if it were a spliff. Of course, we didn’t mind being barred. We thought it was only right. Besides all that, me and Maggie didn’t need their fucking ceremony. We had bigger fish to fry, and a revolution to organise.

* * *