The Noise Within

by Ian Whates

  A shiver ran through his body, quite unexpectedly, and he felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. At the same instant, the windscreen in front of him turned opaque; it was only for a second, but that was long enough for Philip to slam on the brakes with a squeeze of his index finger, as he found himself driving blind.

  The screen cleared again, the darkness withdrawing rapidly to the edges before disappearing completely. But a large hole, roughly the size of his head, now punctured the screen, just left of centre, as if that section had simply melted away - reinforced or not.

  A quick check confirmed that the back of the car now sported a similar hole. A shock of fear coursed through Philip's body as he realised just how near a miss that had been and how close he had come to dying.

  He made no effort to see where the two black-clad figures might be, his only concern was to get away from here, to run as quickly as he could. Already the attacker might be adjusting his aim, ready for another shot.

  Philip jammed the accelerator down until his thumb hurt. The car shot forward again, jolting him back in his seat, but almost immediately the power died and the vehicle started coasting towards a halt.

  Horrified, Philip pressed again and again, while the car continued to slow. "Come on, you bastard," he yelled, "come on!"

  But there was no response. The power had simply gone. Phil was trying to tell him something, but the partial's words didn't register. The car came to a complete halt. Philip knew with a horrible certainty that he was about to die, without ever knowing who had killed him or why. Somehow these anonymous attackers had immobilised his car and they were now coming to finish him off.

  Even as he thought that, the seam of a door appeared beside him, where none had a right to be without his say so. It widened to become a door and Philip found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. He shrank away, waiting for the end.

  Yet seconds passed and he was still alive. The man behind the gun was yelling, and gesturing with the barrel for Philip to come out. Perhaps they wanted to take him alive. Renewed hope energised his limbs and he started to comply, undoing straps and moving his feet towards the door, but the man evidently lost patience and reached in to pull him out.

  Belatedly, Philip registered the uniform; not the black matts of his attackers at all but rather the dark blues and black of the police. Men were shouting and a cruiser hovered above his head, lights blazing down despite the daylight, while other uniformed figures swarmed around. Sanity began to return. He stood still, pressed against the side of his car while a scanner was traced with steady proficiency across every contour of his body, presumably checking for weapons or other concealed equipment.

  Philip didn't care.

  "Thank God," he murmured, too relieved to be ashamed of his fear, reckoning he had every right to be afraid.

  The police must have thought him either mad or intoxicated, because as he stood there, with their glowers and at least one weapon still trained upon him, all he could do was smile.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The police and the hospital seemed to want to fight over him, but in the end his lawyers ensured that neither got their wish and he was permitted to return home. Not before having pain killers administered and a sub-dermis neck brace inserted - one which he'd hardly know was there until it dissolved in a few days' time. Extricating himself from the police proved to be a little harder, primarily because at least one of the officers involved refused to accept that Philip wasn't somehow responsible for the whole thing, despite all evidence to the contrary. Presumably the prospect of arresting such a high-profile figure had gone to the man's head and he simply couldn't bear to see the opportunity disappear. Plus, of course, Philip was the only person the police were physically holding following the incident. The men in the matts had managed to elude capture, which came as no great surprise.

  Fortunately, other wiser heads were on hand to ensure that Philip was exonerated and granted the status of victim rather than suspect. He'd still violated a fistful of local laws, but it was accepted that he'd done so only in reaction to a genuine threat and in order to preserve his own skin. This plus the influence he was able to muster ensured that he was released, pending further investigation, though this all took time. It was late in the evening before he was able to return home, with the sage advice that he should 'be especially careful over the next few days' still ringing in his ears.

  The police had promised to increase patrols around his home and be ready to respond if he needed assistance. Knowing something about local funding issues, Philip took this as code for 'we'd love to help but we don't really have the resources'.

  Philip vowed not to watch the news for the next day or two, confident that the incident, and presumably his face, would be all over it.

  In accordance with standing instructions, Phil had refrained from reporting on messages until he was safely indoors.

  "Eight calls from different reporters, all requesting to talk to you personally," the partial informed him.

  "Are any of them Julia Cirese of Universal News?"

  "No."

  "Then they'll have to make do with your eloquent self."

  "I have a call coming in right now from your fath -"

  "Phil!"

  "...from Mal," the partial swiftly amended.

  Philip was almost disappointed. He would have expected the old man to have more patience than this. It seemed his father's partial simply couldn't resist the opportunity to gloat. Any burgeoning disappointment, however, was soon sidelined by his sense of satisfaction at having successfully out-waited the old goat.

  He composed himself before instructing Phil to patch Mal through, determined not to allow any smugness to creep into his voice.

  "Mal, what can I do for you?"

  "It's more what I can do for you. Again. In case no one's told you yet, you've been listed."

  "What?"

  "Your name's been posted at The Death Wish."

  Philip thought this through for a second, turning the words over to see if they might reveal some hidden meaning in the process, but other than a realisation that, to judge by the words 'Death Wish', this probably wasn't good news, he drew a blank. "I'm sorry?"

  "You've never even heard of The Death Wish, have you." This wasn't a question, more an expression of disbelief.

  "I can't say I have, no."

  "Now why doesn't that surprise me?" Definitely a question this time but a rhetorical one, so Philip kept quiet and waited for the old man to continue. "It's a bar, a sleazy heaving CGR bar, one which is frequented by those with certain... skills."

  Philip was not in the mood to suffer another 'slow reveal' from Mal, so there was a distinct edge in his voice as he said, "Namely?"

  "Do I have to spell this out for you? Doesn't the name suggest anything? It's where assassins and thugs on the make congregate between jobs - where they go to pick up new commissions. Thrill seekers too; in fact, anyone who wants to sample the taste of life at society's shadier fringes."

  Really? Now that did pique Philip's curiosity; he had no idea such a place even existed. "Lowlifes, you mean."

  "I couldn't possibly agree with that description, even as a generalisation, since I hang out there a fair bit myself."

  "You do?" Philip was genuinely surprised. This didn't sound the sort of place he could imagine either Malcolm or Mal frequenting. "Why?"

  "To be prepared, of course, to stay one step ahead of the game. How else am I ever going to know if somebody's posted notice on me?"

  Which might go some way to explaining why his father used to go there, but was hardly relevant any more. "Okay, I'll buy that for days gone by, but what's your excuse now?"

  "Force of habit."

  Or maybe the desire to look out for a son who still numbered among the living. Philip quashed the thought; somewhere down that route lay the path to madness, or at least to thinking that this obscene recording really was his father. Then the context of their conversation sank in. "So you're trying to tell me
that there's a contract out on me?" There went any hope that today's car problem was a one-off incident.

  "Ah, reality bites at last! Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you."

  "Whatever happened to simply hiring a hit man?"

  "That's illegal."

  "And this isn't?"

  "What could the law possibly object to in someone posting a person's name on a message board? And the fact there happen to be some numbers nearby is a complete coincidence."

  "But surely the intent...?"

  "... is difficult to prove," Mal assured him.

  "Look, the authorities do know all about the place."

  "Then why haven't they shut it down?"

  "Too few resources too thinly spread. And besides, shutting it down would only drive all the lowlifes underground. Who knows, maybe one day the police will have the budget and the backing and the will to take that sort of step, but for now they simply monitor The Death Wish. At least this way they can keep up-to-date with who's being targeted."

  "Wonderful." Philip shook his head. Even in this day and age nobody seemed to have enough resources to do everything, not even all those things that needed doing. "So how come I've never heard about this Death Wish place?" he asked.

  "Don't ask me, I thought everybody had; everybody who's wealthy enough and successful enough to make enemies, at any rate. If pushed, I'd guess that you're so caught up in your own personal definition of reality that you never thought to look for it."

  Philip ignored the jibe and instead turned his thoughts to another matter; after all, he couldn't help but wonder: "These numbers you mentioned... add up to a lot, do they?"

  "Enough that I'm almost tempted to come after you myself."

  "That much, huh?"

  "Oh yes. Look, I don't know what you've done to piss off whoever it is and I don't want to know, but my advice is to get in touch with them as soon as you can and do whatever it takes to get them un-pissed. Otherwise you're going to have every killer, glory hunter and wannabe in the system making a beeline for this city and, more specifically, for you."

  "I'll bear it in mind."

  "Make sure you do. Oh, and I'm sending something through. Fifteen wishits."

  "Wishits? What the hell is a 'wishit' when it's at home?"

  "Currency. What you buy drinks with at The Death Wish. There, I've credited you with them." The image of three small piles of gold discs appeared in the air before him, five to a pile. "They're transferable, not identity-specific, and you can also use them to pay for membership. Ten will get you in, which leaves you five to play around with."

  Philip snorted. "You don't seriously expect me to actually visit this 'Death Wish' place, do you?"

  "No, of course not; silly me. Remember what I said, though."

  "I will."

  Philip wasn't entirely certain what to make of that conversation. He had never before been the subject of a 'contract' or a 'Death Wish', and had never expected to be, but that was not what caused him to sit there for long minutes after ending the call simply analysing his reaction. The uncomfortable truth was that this was the first time in the two years since Malcolm died that the lingering partial had reminded him so strongly of his father.

  As for the Death Wish itself, Mal had offered some sound advice, no question about that; just a shame it was so impractical in this particular instance. After all, what could he say to the pissed-off individual in question? "Hi, I'm the neighbour who snooped into your private records, but don't worry, I didn't actually see anything, so you can rest easy and call off the hounds."

  Sure, who wouldn't believe a story like that?

  Of course, that didn't mean that contacting McGovern was a bad idea in principle, it simply wasn't enough on its own... During the conversation with Mal, Phil had fielded a call which he deemed important enough to bring to Philip's attention. It was from the local head of police, Commissioner Kincaid. Philip had met the man briefly at a function but would hardly claim to know him, so he didn't bother returning the call in person, simply reviewed it. Essentially, Kincaid wanted to warn Philip that the police had 'information' that his life was in danger and stressed that, while they would do all they could to provide assistance, they couldn't guarantee his safety against a determined threat. The man closed by suggesting that Philip should consider spending a period off-world, if only for his own safety.

  Philip was just digesting this when Phil interrupted his train of thought once more.

  "I have a call for you from Catherine Chzyski. She insists it's urgent."

  Philip sighed, banishing all consideration of assassins and plans for the moment. This was bound to be about The Noise Within. Adjusting his mindset accordingly, he said, "Put her through."

  Not for the first time in their association, the canny old shrew managed to surprise him. As her image formed, she said, "I gather from the news feeds that you had a somewhat interesting journey home."

  "That's one way to describe it."

  "Well I think I can explain why. Were you aware that a Death Wish has been posted against you?"

  She knew about this Death Wish site as well? Was he the only one who didn't? Maybe it was a generational thing.

  "One offering a sufficiently impressive pay-off that it's bound to attract considerable attention," Catherine continued. Perhaps his face gave him away, because she second-guessed his thoughts by immediately adding, "I've been around a lot longer than you have, Philip. Checking on things like this ensures I'll be around for a while yet. Trust me, the threat is very real and not to be underestimated."

  He hardly needed convincing of that. At the same time, if he were to seek advice from anyone, he could do a lot worse than Catherine Chzyski. After a few seconds' thought, he said carefully, "Assuming everything you say is true, what would you do about it if you were in my shoes?"

  She raised her eyebrows and the corners of her mouth twitched as if threatening to break into a smile. "What's this, Philip Kaufman asking for advice? Life is still capable of producing surprises it seems, even when you reach my age."

  He took the dig with a polite smile, accepting that he'd probably earned it. "Even so..."

  All hint of humour vanished. It was the shrewd businesswoman he knew so well who now stared back at him. "Two things. First I'd do everything I could to get the Death Wish lifted, and second I'd run as far and fast as I could, just in case the first part failed or word of its success didn't circulate quickly enough to those who had already seen the posting."

  More sound advice; he was beginning to sense a theme here. Philip had plenty to think about once Catherine's image faded. With the project so tantalisingly close to fruition he was loathe to go anywhere, yet the idea of saving his own skin was not without its appeal. He determined to try and follow the first part of her advice at least, and trusted that this might prove enough for now.

  He remembered what Mal had said about The Death Wish and had to admit his curiosity was piqued. His thoughts turned to those intriguing 'wishits' Mal had sent him...

  The Death Wish proved easy enough to find. As with so many things, it was all a question of knowing the place existed in the first place. Philip had thought long and hard about how best to approach the situation, and even toyed with the idea of simply hacking into the site's systems and erasing his name entirely. He was confident of his ability to hack into almost anywhere and could probably even enlist Mal's help if needed, but in the end this seemed more trouble that it was worth. After all, his name would already have been seen by many and once somebody noticed it had disappeared they could, presumably, simply post it up again.

  Besides, there was the potential backlash to consider should his meddling be noticed. Did he seriously need the sort of aggravation a place like this could undoubtedly direct his way? Definitely not, particularly given the current situation.

  In the end, he decided that rather than sneak in via the back door he would use the front, and simply join the site. He had no real idea what he intended to do once
there, but he had to see this board and his name upon it. Only then would all of this seem real. Yet part of him was reluctant to take such a direct approach, not only because Mal had seemed so confident that he would, but also for more pragmatic concerns to do with security. Could he really afford to trust this site with his personal details? Then he chided himself for being daft; after all, his address was a matter of public record and hardly difficult to find if anyone were determined enough. If registration required other more sensitive details... well, he would face that when he came to it.

  His concerns were proven to be groundless as no intimate details were needed; nor for that matter were his name and address. After seeing two of the small piles of wishits disappear, all he was asked to provide were a username, password and avatar name - with a stipulation that the latter had to be different from his user name. After some deliberation, he opted for 'Seeker', which struck him as fitting. Unfortunately, somebody had evidently beaten him to it and he was asked to choose again. Not wanting to spare this process any more thought, he went for 'Seeker2', and was relieved to see it accepted.

  Then, things turned difficult. He was required to select his avatar's appearance, being offered a bewildering selection of standard characters or the facility to upload a customised avatar of his own choosing.

  For goodness sake! All he wanted to do was satisfy his curiosity and actually gaze upon this wretched board for himself. Once he had seen his name up there he intended to leave and had no expectation of ever coming back.

  He gazed at the proffered list with a growing sense of hopelessness, only to enjoy a flash of inspiration. He smiled, suddenly knowing exactly which form to adopt, and chose accordingly.

  As soon as he did, his living room was transformed.

  At the back of his mind, Philip had long suspected that he lacked a little imagination; not in terms of his work and seeing the potential for the technology and concepts he played around with, but in certain other... less structured areas. When Philip let his imagination run wild it rarely did, but instead tended to stay within safe, clearly defined parameters.