This story is not recommended for children.

Sophie version three hit the market like a meteor, sending shock waves of hype throughout the global marketplace. There were interviews, lookalike appearances, acres of posters, sky displays, a whole range of spin-off merchandise, and a midnight launch preceded by a six-month pre-order period.

The two or three previous years had been a rather grim time for the computing industry, and the take up rate for the Die Nasty Think Tank Non Linear Processor had been even slower than the pundits had predicted. Which was a pity, as it had been a revolutionary piece of engineering, allowing (through the clever use of gel packs and non-viscous liquid fibres) a unique pattern of learned-response circuitry to be created on the fly, mimicking what was as close to a living brain’s neural activity as made no odds. Binary coding, no matter how fast, how dependable, had had its day. All that was needed was some way of encouraging everyone on the planet to thrown away every piece of hardware they’d ever bought and re-invest in the new technology. The launch of Sophie version three (or Sophie Cubed, as the publicity posters would have you believe) were just what the industry had needed, as it depended on the Think Tank chip to operate.

“Does your girl do this?” Was the ubiquitous marketing tag. It was everywhere, posters spread like sores across neighbourhoods, in the magazines, on the webcasts. Sophie was there, instantly recognisable despite changing her hair style, the colour of her eyes, the tone of her skin. She had a myriad of looks, images, flavours. A girl for all seasons.

Of course, not everyone was happy. A handful of people decided that “Does your girl do this?” was offensive, and pretty soon there were placards being waved by angry plain women who didn’t think it was fair competition. In the face of such opposition, the company withdrew its adverts, publicly contrite but privately thrilled at the extra publicity the campaign had earned for them. Their alternative marketing line “Let’s do it…” didn’t exactly win them much admiration from the feminist camp, either, but by that time the opposition had wised up to the value of their own attention and decided to keep their mouths shut in quiet contempt.

To be fair, Sophie three didn’t need the controversy to become a runaway success. It was so far removed from anything that had gone before that it genuinely deserved the superlatives that were thrown at it. Its very appearance on the market brought about a miniature technological revolution of its own. The rulebooks were re-written, the role of software applications had to be redefined. Sophie three’s intelligence became the new benchmark that would inspire a hundred thousand technical papers, as well as countless documentaries and guide books. The paper publishing industry was kept alive for another few years as people fell over themselves in the clamour for the latest manuals and tutorial companions. Sophie three’s chameleonic but distinctive face had the dubious pleasure of simultaneously gracing the cover of Rolling Stone, Scientific American and The Watchtower, as well as countless other magazines whose editors recognised a sure-fire way to shift more stock when they saw it.

One of the key selling points for Sophie three was its flexibility. The basic package gave you the girl, a decent level of vocabulary, various skins and adjustable features. It would have been enough to keep even the most demanding fan of virtual dolls happy for a very long time, but a feast of customisable add-ons and plug-ins were released almost as soon as the original. Users could now choose personality types, interests, knowledge packs, foreign language versions, as well as all-new methods of interaction, virtual environments, learning packs, toys and games. Not surprisingly the best selling add-ons were not officially licensed. Sophie Amiga, a plain-wrapper addition that introduced the long awaited element of sex and nudity to the application’s repertoire, was rumoured to have spawned almost as many copies as the original application, confirming that (as the feminists had claimed all along) rather than being dedicated devotees of ground breaking artificial intelligence, the vast majority of male consumers out there were just looking for something new to sprinkle over.

(From Virtuoso - The Evolution of i-cons and Syminds, By Dr Steven Coates.)

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“What I did during the Spring Holiday, by Dean Monroe.”

U said I was suppose to right about somethin important. U said it was suppose to matter. Dont jus right about hangin with the gang, U said. Why, Bro? U think the Klan don’t matter? U see, U got it all wrong. It aint the Klan that dont matter. The boys they all there B. What dont matter is this. This is the bit that dont matter. Writin essays to work out my anger and stuff. U want me to work out my anger U should give me a 25 kilo hammer and a chrysler.

U see. Gangs aren’t just people. They not just random collections of compadres walking the streets. The gang makes it real. Its like U could do any of that shit on Ur own, but whats the point? Whats that thing about tree fallin in a forest? If U aint got nobody to see U, how do U know its real? The gang’s more than just people. They’re a witness to Ur existence. Ever laughed @ a joke with Ur blood, an then thought about the same thing on Ur own and just not found it funny? Thas what is, eh? right there. The Klan’s the thing that makes it real.

So, while Im laying out the law. Which I am, by the way, since this my thing, lets get it straight from the start. The gang is important. It matters. I’m gonna B in that gang a long time after I’m done with this detention centre an Ur twice weakly sessions, mister Saltmeter.

But I’m straight. I know what U mean. U want me to write about something diffrent. Something that I could point to and say “This one time...” Well. I can. I can tell U about how I got political. How I stood up to B counted and added my weight 2 the democratic process that make this country what is. How I cared so much bout a political process that I was prepared to sacrifice my liberty for it eh? Aint that sort o shit suppose to be commendable?

It was a nite like any other. Deep golden brown sky full o mist, like the worlds coated in nicotine. Everywheres yellow edged an multi shadowed. As dark as it ever gets and still plenty enough light enough to see by. Have U ever seen it go dark? I mean like it does on the movies? Dont think I have. But I like our caramelized nites. Theres somethin bout the colors when it gets like this. All the way till mornin the only colors in the world is shades of syrup and treacle. Like grandma kept in her kitchen 4 cookies.

Nobody bake these days. I mean do they? When U last see anybody bake? I dont know how 2. But then I’m not a girl. Still, I never seen my mom bake. Crip got a job @ the Kauffhauf store in the oven, an he says all the bred turns up like little coffins full o white goo. Guess he’s the nearest we got 2 a baker these days, eh? I miss grandma’s cookies.

What? Why U gettin me on 2 cookies? I was talkin about bein out @ nite! bout my big sacrifice! Well, this nite was diffrent. Bcos I had a plan. U see, This nite I WAS out on my own. Bcos I was doin somethin that I didn want them all to no about. I was makin my stand for a noble cause.

Id told Gayboy and Clam I wasnt feelin 2 good. Said I couldnt make it that nite on account of this pain Btween the eyes. They came callin about 6, an 2 B fair, I dont think I lied. My head WAS hurting. Like a spirit had taken its evil finger and buried it deep inside my skull. Even gettin 2 the door was hard work.

“You look like shit Marvo” That was Clam.

Gayboy jus looked @ me without sayin nothin. Like he new I had other plans but didnt want 2 risk sayin so. He jus stared as I agreed with Clam. “Yeah man” I said, talkin 2 1 but lookin @ the other. “Im gonna get 2 bed”

An that was that. They both nodded, we put our fists together. “Take it easy Marvo, eh?” Clam said, and then they was gone. Except Gayboy kept lookin back like he was waitin 4 me 2 blow my cover.

I went back inside an stared @ the wall 4 half an hour. Wonderin if I really had the juice to pull this off on my own.

I’d made my mind up B4 then. Days ago to tell you the truth. But now the “if” had turn 2 “when”, and the “then” had turn 2 “now”. 4 the 1st time ever, I was going 2 go Bhind the gangs back an do somethin without them.

I know what Ur thinkin Mister Saltmeter. U can’t see it as bein such a big deal. But it was. The gangs about loyalty. Brotherhood. Its about a code and its about bein straight with each other. Its about strength in numbers an workin towards the common good. Its not about lyin your way out of Ur responsibilites and slopin off 2 do Ur own thing as soon as the fancy takes hold. In the 8 year I been with this crue, I never once lied to them about anything. Least nothing that mattered.

I took a deep breath and screwed my fists up tite. Then I let it go, forcin myself 2 focus, shut out the worry, filter the white noise out of my mind. Moments later I was on my feet, checkin my bag 4 the kit I’d need. It was all there, jus like always. I scooped up the keys an made 4 the door, openin it jus a crack 2 see out. Nothin doin. I was thinkin mayB theyd both stayed in the corridor, waitin 4 me to show. But no. Same old green-white lites. Same old corrida smell. I didn like it but I knew Id have to go without my color, The very idea of leaving it Bhind was just so wrong I didnt even want 2 think about it. But I was goin way off turf. Wouldnt do 2 B found Bhind enemy lines with the wrong color on my back. But what about if 1 of the Klan spotted me first? I took another one of them full body breaths an let the door shut Bhind me. Id already decided not to take the color. All I had 2 do was keep well outa site, an thats always been my super power.

My sneaks squeaked on the ceramic floor like they always did. Echoing around the block as I stole my way to the L. If Id been with the others I woulda taken the stairs like we always did. But that was Bcos we could charge down them 2gether and wake the dead with our footfalls. This nite was about stealth. So I stood alone in the L as the door scraped closed, the lites flickered an I pressed “G” 4 “Get Da Fuck Outa Here”.

Camras let me see out B4 I swiped thru the main exit, So I new there was none of the Klan out there. All I had 2 do was head into town like I had so many other times. But this was the first time I’d done it alone in I dont no how long. What can I say? I’m a social animal. Cats do it alone. I’m a dog. Don’t Blieve me? Lock me in a room wi some bitch an see what happen, eh?

The well-stowed toobz in my bergen hardly rattled as I broke into a run. I glided across the tarmac pavement dodging spent Dexair packs and Snapper wrappers. In my minds eye I was leaving a lite trail Bhind me, my sneaks streaking through the early nite in a blur. Faster still up the grassy slope to the steps that led to the concourse where I let my screaming heart get its own way and slowed down 2 a walk, blendin in. Eyes down, hands outa site. Just another Blanco Joe on the streets mindin his own bizness. The lites aroun the open square was burnin pale gold, way high an brite, like offerins to the gods. I glanced about me but didnt see any o the Klan. Class. Our monos were everywhere, “K-O-K” spat out in vivid red and white Toobz spray across the benches, posters, shelters, the flower beds and tram stops of the open plaza. They was even one across the megavid. That was mine.

U dont get it do U? U dont see why we do it. All U can see is the untidy mess on Ur favorit old building. Thats Bcoz it mean nothin 2 you. 2 me, an 2 the thousans of people jus like me, that monkey means Ur in home base. It’s as good a Dfense as an autocannon. Dont matter who they is. They see our interwoven Ks and they know they need 2 turn aroun. Its a sign. “U R in Ko-Op Klan territory.” It means we own these streets. It tell them not to mess. But better than that. It tell us we safe. You can B out on the run. You can B in all kinda shit. But no matter whats goin down, you look up @ the side o some half derelict old pile o stones an you see them Ks lookin down on you? Its like a sentinel, man. Its like they got their arms aroun you already. Its about Belongin 2 somethin bettter. You wouldnt understand.

The inbounder was waitin. Britely lit inside with a dozen bodies already slumped in they seats. Its grimy windows was a showcase 4 a hundred different monkeys, mostly etched in scratches or marker pen. Here an there were Ks. Specially toward the back. I scoped it out twice 2 make sure there was no Klan in there, then swiped in, keepin my eyes low an not clockin the camra the way U suppose 2. Like the drivers ever gonna call me back 2 do it again! I sat @ the back same as always, feelin kinda lost without Gayboy there. Man it was fuckin weird not havin him around. But it was better when I saw my own Ks waitin 4 me where Id left em weeks ago on the window an the back o the chair infront. Messages of support from my past self. Evidence o my continual existance.

The bell sounded an the inbounder slid off with a whine o transformers. Sparks flashed overhead, strobing the pedestrians an burnin their images on the backs of my eyes in freeze frame. I let the unsteady motion rock me as I watched the shop windows streak away, where signs announcing special bargain rates and the last few days o closing down sales competed 4 space wi dozens o white-walled take outs offering every kinda fried food on the planet.

I checked my hands. Sweaty. I ached with juice. It was in my legs like gas fumes, makin my heart dance. Cant remember the last time Id felt so fuckin jumpy. I was cut off from the others an headin into the heart o Baked Bean Collective territory. Couldnt 4 the life o me work out why Id thought this would B a class thing 2 do. Last time I met a stray from the BBC I’d cut him an extra wide smile.

There was nothin else 2 do but reason with myself. I wasnt wearin colors, so if they spotted me they wasnt likely to B intrested in me. Blanco Joes are evrywhere.U look, So why wood they bother to hassle yet another? Despite what U might think, gangs arent about fightin with strangers. They about belongin. A BJ dont have no color, so he aint no threat. Why waste time on him? What will it prove? Its not as if hes out 2 invade. Now if U were to go alone into someone elses territory and you WAS wearin Ur color, then look out. Would you go walk into the Domino Club shoutin Niggah? U deserve what U get if U go askin 4 it.

But the further away from Klan land I got, the less relaxed I felt. I didn’t know these streets any more. Only vaguely. I watched more shop fronts go by, offerin indian fabric, quick cash or instant tans, all the time keepin a weather eye open 4 orange jackets. Mercifully I got all the way to the end of the line without an encounter. Although I guess it wouldve made a more intrestin story if theyd gotten on the tram.

Baldwin Square. Named after Claire Baldwin o course. She was the first astronaut from this country to set foot on the moon. Like that’s anything special. We made a big fuss about it. Mom brought me an Gayboy to the square to see her take the adoration of the crowd. This had been her home town of course. An example to us all, Mom said. An hour later the Mayor said the same thing, an she looked @ me like she was sayin – See?

I was there on my own this time. It looked very diffrent without the thousands of whistling fans. The centrepiece was a huge galvanized metal spike, ten metres high. Like a stretched, misshapen pyramid of dusty grey. It was surrounded in a white stone ring that was suppose to B filled with bright white lites. It had been sculpted, aparantly, to depict the spirit of motivation. A finger pointin @ the stars. It stood in its own lake o water which shone blackly against the night. Not sure what the lake was suppose 2 signify. Probably that we should all B pissing ourselves.

At this time a nite there wasnt much 2 see. It was an open square, same as any other. Only there was less people here @ this time. Some places come alive @ night and others go to sleep. Baldwyn Square liked to get to bed early. Especially when the lights were on the blink like they had been 4 the past 3 weeks. Fortunatley 4 me, nobody had wanted to take the decision to change the fuse without proper authorization sined in triplicate. Their reluctance 2 act was my opportunity 2 do so.

I spent a couple hours jus scopin the place out. Checkin out where the cops passed by an how often. Learnin where the people walked an the roots they took. Keepin an eye out 4 the main club doors, or the cafes that had balconies. When Id been there long enough to start feelin a bit straighter I took a small 1 o my Toobz and discretely blitzed over a couple o BBC monkeys wi Ks.

Some time round 10 I scoped a small gang of orange hooded Beaners. They was on the edge o the square, goatin with some old trash cans. I found shadows to melt into an watched em move on, all the while bein careful not to draw they attention. BJ or no, if Ur out on Ur own in the dark o night Ur askin 4 trouble. Walkin through a square on Ur way 2 somewhere, thats straight. But skulkin in the shadows? Thats no way 4 a BJ to Bhave less hes out to sell his hole. Thankfully they past rite by, not even glancin my way. Theyd walked rite past one of my monkeys 2. Never even smelled the fresh paint.

An hour after that an it was even quieter. But I was startin to feel the cold bitin @ my fingers. By now those people who couldnt afford day time travel was doin their nite shifts, an evry 1 else was tuckin up 4 the nite. No big club scene 2nite. Not many ticketers out on Thursdays.

7 camras. @ least 5 of them was workin. They little red lites flashed as they scoped slowly about on they silly little sticks, layin the images down on file 4 future reference, maybe even been watched by some keen eyed trainee rite now, but I doubted it. Still do. Big Brother might B watchin you but he dont care what U doin less U thinkin o doin somethin real stupid. Like climbin up Baldwin’s Finger.

The water was colder than Id thought. An deeper 2. It came up 2 my thighs an took my breath away. I nearly turned round rite then, but I was workin against the clock without the slightest idea how long it would take 4 my time 2 B up. I forced myself to ignore the urge to get the fuck outa the icy cold pool and pressed on 2wards the metal spike.

2nd suprise of the day was the spike itself. Id expected it 2 B hollow soundin, like an empty oildrum. But as I drew up to the big metal shape and rapped on its surface I got no sound back. Not even the smallest hint of a thud. Felt almost dissapointed. But no matter. This edge of the clime was the shallowest, but I still had a surface that was almost sheer to deal with. Did I mention Clams dad worked @ Cougar? Well, thats how he’d gotten his name. One day heed come 2 see us with a tub full o golden goo in a metal pot. It smelled like glue, an that was pretty much what it was. Clam had sneaked it out so we could all sniff it up an get wasted but it hadnt worked.

In the end weed all given up trying an laughed him out. He was nearly cryin. But B 4 heed gone, heed gotten his hands stuck 2gether with the shit. We couldnt pull em apart an the harder we tried, the more they seemd to stick. Jus like a clam.

Well, after he came out o hospital an the skin had grown back on his palms, it didn take us long B4 we realised how much of a help a little of this gloop could B. Seems Cougar were testing it 4 climbing boots. @ least thats what we decided. Pretty soon they wasnt an upstairs window that was safe. The right gloves, the right sneaks and we was vertical.

Thats how that Marvo shit started. Someone cottoned on 2 this ancient comic book an a character in it called Marvo the Human Fly. Up until then my tag had been Demon. As in DEan MONroe. Way classier than fuckin Marvo. Id hated it 4 months B4 finally warmin 2 the idea. It was a fair tag, Bcos I was one seriously straight climber. I reached into my bergen an pulled out the old leather gloves, an the little sachet of gloop Id prepared earlier.

And up I went again. The water did nothing 2 dampen the stickin ability of the gloop. It took some getting used 2, but Id had years of practice. There wasnt much more of the stuff left now. Only a few last scrapings @ the bottom of the can. That was 1 o the main reasons Y this had 2 B now. In a couple of months thered B no more magic glue.

Slap a hand on an it sticks hard. Roll the hand off an it peels easy. Same with the insides of Ur sneaks, altho that took a lot more learnin. Its not as quick as climbin stairs, but its fast enough. The best part about it is that Ur average ground-bound BJ dont think 3D. They can lock up evry downstairs window an door on the block an never think twice about takin care o the ones up above.

The noise o the city went on around me and I slapped my way up the uppermost corner of the twisted memorial spike. Cameras blinked on, zoomed in, an probably, somewhere in a building a very long way away alarms began 2 sound.

When I was hi enough 2 touch the top I stopped. an looked Bhind me. A couple who had bin out on a romantic stroll had spotted me an were now peering @ me as if I was street theatre. Otherwise evrything carried on as normal. I dont mind heights. They never bothered me much, altho Clam cant hack em. Even standin on a chair fucks him up. Which is good Bcos I got his gloop. I undid one o my gloves with my teeth and let it cling to my chin. With my bare hand exposed I reached into my pack again, this time pulling out one of the Toobz.

It was a bit special.

Nite glo turquoise. Chemically formulated 4 marking emergency runways in the desert. Rumor has it U can see it from 5 miles out. Its the next best thing 2 a laser display Ur ever gonna get without the actual laser. I replaced my glove, and moving down the mishapen structure as best I could, I began to spell out the letter T on all 4 sides.

I dont know what it was about him. He stood out from all the rest. As soon as I saw him, I thought. Yep. Hes the 1. Soon enough everyone was talkin about Poll Position. With all them hundreds o people wantin 2 be elected but only a vacancy 4 1 Peoples President. Some called it trash. Some called it democracy gone mad, some called it a sick parody of the electral system, but nobody ignored it.

The Rs took a little longer. By now the couple had gotten a bit closer. “Go on.” she was sayin 2 him. I could hear her. I bet she was pokin him in the ribs, gettin him 2 take me on.

Anyway, soon enough Poll Position turned into a three horse race, with people carin so bad about who won that theyd fight in the streets. Rallies were attended by hundreds. Events got bigger and bigger, an the show went from bein a half-hour twice weekly cast to a constant feed event on 3 different subscriber channels. An every week the opinion polls were cast, with people callin, dialin, emailin and tabbin in they millions. Everyone had an opinion, and everyone knew who they wanted 2 be their Peoples President. There were no grey areas on this. Whether U were a judge, a shop cleaner or a Rabbi. U knew who U wanted and U were not afraid to fight his corner.

I did the Os as the man drew closer. I think heed bin planning to say somethin hostile, but then he sort of joined the dots. “Excuse me.” He asked. “Are U writing...Troy?”

I looked up at the work I’d done so far, checkin out the letters that looked like theyd been carved in neon. What else could it possibly have been? Tomorrow was polling day, and everyone over the age of 15 got 2 vote. The bastards. Well. I may not have bin old enough for a polling card but I was sure as fuck going to make my opinions known.

I think that was when I first heard the sound of a distant siren. I ignored it and I ignored the man. Didnt even look at him. He just stood there in his long coat, watching me with his mouth open and his leggy blonde wife on his arm. I shuffled down a little further an got started on the Ys. “Its just that.” He began, awkwardly. “Look. I never thought I’d say this, but... Well done.”

It woulda bin nice 2 say Id outrun the cops. It woulda bin a class endin 2 the story. Personally speakin I think the guy who tackled me likes boys. I think he couldnt wait 2 get his arms aroun my ass. But it dont matter. Id made my monkey 4 Troy and my monkey made the national news. 2 days later it was still up there as the King swore him into office. They even let me watch it in my cell. I remember the duty social worker tellin me she voted 4 him, which earned her big straight points from me.

An I suppose U gonna analyse this now. I suppose Ur gonna come up with all kinda sykobabble bout what goin on in my head. Well. I dont care. Troy’s the Peoples President an he owes me 4 some big publicity, eh? Sooner or later hes gonna come callin an U jus better hope I got good things 2 say about U Mister Saltmeter. I met Ur type alrite.

I bet U voted for Shakil.

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This chapter concludes Book One of i-con