Joe Spoke shot fully three people dead on his way to work. However, considering that the walk from the Glide Rail to the offices of Spoke and Lightly - New London's premier paranoia-breaking agency - took over 10 minutes, 10 long and dangerous minutes spent in the midst of filthy and barbarous and savage and knife-wielding havenot rubble, a death count of 3 was no big deal. It was then, but a regular morning for Spoke. The first victim, a dirty old man naked from the waste down, had lurched toward Spoke as he emerged from the east exit of Covent Garden Glide Rail station. Not taking chances Spoke had promptly snuffed the individual good and proper and thence continued to work, only to have to drop another undesirable who could conceivably have been waiting to jump him at what was left of the corner of Charing Cross Road. It was a fair snuffing. Don't take chances the authorities warned. "Shoot first, and contemplate later" went the official line. After all, who cares about the havenot rubble anyway? Not me, mused Spoke, although, if the truth be told, he longed for the return of the company flyer that got him to work quickly and rubble-free. His partner Lightly reckoned it would be at least a year before the nifty flyer was repaired as it was almost impossible to get new parts. Genetically engineered wings are what's needed, mused Spoke. In his mind's eye he envisioned the worlds first airborne paranoia-breaking agency, the caped figures of himself and Lightly as they swooped down from the skies to smash New London's paranoid delusions... Turning into Oxford Street, Spoke saw the welcoming sight of the offices of Spoke and Lightly, located in a green purpose-built polycarbon dome that stood efficiently erect amidst the ruins of the metropolis. Like the other domes dotted about the dying city, they were the last vestiges of cultural order and were thus testimony to Man's struggle to survive through times of adversity. As he approached the magnificently constructed and self-repairing dome, Spoke was dismayed to see yet more havenot rubble climbing about it's surface, screaming obscenities and gesticulating wildly. Seeing the armed and leather-clad non-rubble figure approaching, the small riff-raffian group dispersed but not before Spoke managed to terminate one of them. A bad and messy shot realised Spoke as he grimaced at the visceral remains that were now splashed about the dome's green and otherwise clean surface. Self-repairing the dome was, self-cleaning it was not... The dome read Spoke's palm and admitted him inside. The spaciousness of the place always pleased him, as did the luxurious air conditioning that provided high grade quality oxygen. Throwing off his coat and weapons, Spoke sauntered over to the reception desk. "Good morning," said the desk politely. "The security system's fucked," moaned Spoke. "There were rubble everywhere out there. Running amok like bloody ants on an iced bun they were..." "The security system has been.....inoperative since last night," replied the desk. "I have informed City Council, although they have made it clear that they cannot get someone out to fix it till next year." "Next year!" groaned Spoke. "At the earliest," added the desk. "It is not considered a priority concern..." "No flyer, no security system and no bloody Lightly," muttered Spoke angrily. "Where is my good partner Mr Lightly anyway? Any news yet?" Lightly had gone AWOL 3 days ago. This was not too much for concern but for the fact that a few weeks earlier he had shown clear signs of Dopamine Excess, the disease of the 21st century. One afternoon Lightly had come to the office and told Spoke all about the Alien Conspiracy, about the cover-ups, and about his calling. This, of course, was precisely the business Spoke and Lightly dealt in. Delusions. But other people's delusions. Their job was to break delusions, shatter erroneous modes of thought, and replant a client's feet firmly on the ground of objective and rational reality. That was what the two of them did so well, and had done for the last 12 years since the full effects of the previous century's worldwide Toxico-catastrophe had begun to be felt. Sinister and little understood toxic chemicals had leaked into every crevice on the globe, eventually making their way to certain synapses in millions of human brains. Once in place, these toxins caused the dopaminergic system to behave abnormally leading to a pandemic mental disease that had brought the modern world to its knees. And, by necessity, to the doors of such companies as Spoke and Lightly. Spared from the disease, and with wrist-mounted dopamine monitors to prove it, the paranoia-breakers were in demand to a society that crawled ever onward. Those fortunates whose dopamine levels were not too seriously effected could continue to function in positions of power with a little help now and then from the even-more-fortunates who had normal levels of dopamine... Thus it was that Spoke felt a trifle pissed off at the idea of his partner himself succumbing to the disease. "Indeed there is news from Mr Lightly," said the reception desk tonelessly as it replied to Spoke's question concerning the whereabouts of Lightly. "Mr Lightly left you this message earlier this morning..." There was a pause as the desk relayed the recorded call over the speaker system. Spoke waited anxiously, recalling his last and unpleasant meeting with a raving Lightly. Alien conspiracy my ass, thought Spoke. How many times have we had to rid someone of that seemingly attractive notion he wondered? "Joe!" exclaimed Lightly's excited voice on the recording. "Listen, I'll be brief. Dr. Swami did all those tests like you said and my rise in dopamine was just temporary. Got that Joe? Swami assured me that the excess was a fairly minor perturbation and no cause for concern. My D reading is....umm, lets see now....96. Pretty high I know but its within the acceptable range. Anyway the big news is this, though you won't believe it. That client, Mr Treat, he was telling the truth. All that apparent shit I was coming out with a few weeks back was no shit. I dreamed it all and then met Treat who confirmed the whole thing. Imagine that Spoke. Imagine that you dreamed some crazy, elaborate D-excess idea, and then you meet another crazy who has exactly the same idea. And get this, Treat's D-level is fine. The reason Treat contacted us was because we are needed for a mission. I can't really explain all this over the phone because there seems to be some danger that the whole world........" The message ended abruptly, leaving Spoke in an ominous silence. My partner's bloody flipped, he thought chewing nervously on his thumbnail. Lightly's joined the rest of the uncontrollable rubble in a sea of madness, the whole mass of them splashing around in a D-excess induced pseudoreality. The demon plague had thus claimed another victim, thought Spoke bitterly. "Mr Spoke," said the desk then. "I have a problem here... Mr Lightly's message was cut off just then due to forces unknown. I should inform you that at this very moment your entire Info System is being infiltrated. If my analysis is correct all hard drives, files, records, transactions, myself included, will be wiped clean from strrrrrooo..." The reception desk stood silent. Spoke swallowed nervously. What the fuck was going on here? As Spoke became conscious of his racing pulse, he tried to calm himself. Remember the agency code of conduct, he thought nervously as he walked over to get his gun and coat. One: Doubt all unconventional ideas. Two: Settle for the explanation of least complexity, remembering to employ Occam's Laser. Three: There is nothing better than rational thought to keep dopamine levels down... Spoke loaded a fresh round of cartridges into his gun, as he struggled to think straight. The lights suddenly flickered out and the air machine whirred to a halt. Shitfire thought Spoke. The destruction of the computer system must surely have originated from without like the desk said, he realised. And that meant either a rival agency or some D-excess headcase. The latter seemed more plausible to Spoke as he threw on his leather coat. I had better pay a visit to this Mr Treat, he thought glumly...   Mr Treat was not human. The vidphoned plea for psychological assistance answered by Lightly a few weeks earlier, had actually been a well crafted forgery. To be sure, Mr Treat was an illegal level 5 Artificial Intelligence, free of the Central Government controlled AI Network. It shouldn't exist. And whatsmore, Spoke was committing a crime merely by talking to it. "Can you prove who you claim to be?" asked Spoke suspiciously eyeing the interior of the flyer he was seated in. It had been waiting for him outside Mr Treat's so-called address, parked innocently enough like any other flyer, except that it had claimed to be Mr Treat over its alarm speakers and had asked him politely to climb inside. "Can you really prove who you are?" answered the voice inside the flyer. "All independent level 5 AI's were destroyed years ago," said Spoke shifting uncomfortably in his seat. For some reason he felt both nervous and strangely excited with this communication. He remembered that non-restricted AI's reputedly possessed an unmistakeable quality that one felt when communicating with them. They had been deemed dangerous by the authorities after the Toxico-catastrophe for debatable reasons. Spoke had come to the conclusion that these mythical computers were a threat to the status quo, though he knew little about their true nature. "Not so," intoned the voice. "I am located on Mars out of harms way. There are a number of transmitter devices on Earth at the present time through which I can communicate phototachyonically, one of which is this humble flyer. I presume that you believe the Martian colony had fallen?" "Whats the square root of 78312?" asked Spoke. "279.842813," replied the voice instantly. "Earth did not lose contact with the Martian colony at the time of the Toxic crisis. The colonists are alive and kicking......in a manner of speaking. They were also never affected by D-excess. Between them and myself we represent the last fully sane aspect of humanity." "What is the 1812th word of Gulliver's Travels?" snapped Spoke. "Touch," responded the voice, and continued. "You must understand the import of what I say to you. The Martian colony is still functioning even though they have been effectively severed from communication with the Earth. They also have me, an illegal level 5 AI, free in conscious thought and action." "You anticipated my third question," barked Spoke. "What is the self?" Spoke folded his arms and waited for the reply. He knew that this question was the most important from the hasty mini-Turing Test that he was attempting to apply to the voice. The voice sighed artificially and then said, "The self is an informational invariant that exists wherever there is an informational network complex enough to bear a significant and systematic relationship to the overall field of reality." "That seemed a bit tautological," said Spoke beginning to feel somewhat embarrassed at his scepticism. "Why don't we just cut the crap," said the AI voice flatly. "Where's Lightly then?," asked Spoke relaxing a little. He had now accepted the claims of the voice and felt some reassurance in the presence of this illicit AI. "He is at the Notator Labs at Richmond," replied the AI. "I shall take you there shortly if you so wish." "Don't they do some kind of cybernetic research there?" asked Spoke recalling that Notator were once a leading Virtuality Company, but which had later turned their attentions to the field of cybernetics shortly after the Toxico-Catastrophe. Obviously they had a large body of low D-level staff, or else a large turnover of researchers. News reports suggested that the work done by Notator was not military-based as a lot of D-excess science research was, rather it was work based around optico-electronic cortical implants. But Spoke knew better than to trust the media reports, besides, he had other things to concern himself with. "Mostly they do cybernetic research," confirmed the AI. "But the team at Richmond are covertly working for me. Now that the project's complete it only remains for us to collect subjects. Or should I say an elect few. Ah, my sensors tell me that you are suspicious once more. Human pheromones and subtly unconscious body movements reveal so much if one knows how to read the signals. I imagine that my molecular and vibratory-based perception must, in some ways, be like your sensation of seeing. But I digress. No doubt you are eager to learn of my plans and how they are connected to you and Lightly, are you not?" "What happened at our office?" asked Spoke. "Someone or something wiped away the com system. Thats a serious offence. Its not like we had done anything unlawful. We are just two regular guys who...." Spoke paused for a second recalling Lightly's call, and then said, "Well, we were just two regular guys..." "Stop whining," interrupted the AI. "Watch and learn." Stunned by the AI's sarcasm, Spoke hardly noticed the flyer's vidmount flicker into life. "Observe this archive film from 1915," said the AI. "The film was confiscated shortly after being made. All those connected with it's making subsequently disappeared. I had to penetrate the Central Government AI Network to dig it out. It took me 48 hours working at optical speed. It proved to be the last piece of damning evidence that I needed. Only a few hundred people have seen it." Honoured, thought Spoke, his hand resting lightly on his gun. He quickly shot a glance out of the window to check that there were no Rangers about. They wouldn't take too kindly to the fact that he was conversing with a subversive AI, and about to watch a stolen film. His low D-count wouldn't stop the authorities dumping him in a rubble zone outside of the city after a full ID removal. Spoke watched the vidmount as jumpy and speckled black and white images emerged. He felt rather like a passive baby being nudged gently along towards some destination. Only the gun under his fingertips and the unlocked door of the flyer reminded him that he had some remnants of freedom left. There was no sound to the film, just century-old images, a distant echo of times past. It showed some mountainous region, that looked to Spoke like Austria or Switzerland. Then the scene changed to show a small group of villagers milling around a large metallic-looking object. The camera moved in slowly whilst a well-dressed pipe smoking man moved the villagers aside. The man knelt down and began pointing to various parts of the object. As the camera moved in even closer, Spoke suddenly realised what the object reminded him of. It looked as though it was some kind of satellite with solar panels and various antennae. Jesus, thought Spoke suspending his disbelief at seeing such a modern looking device in such an old and archaic film. The camera was panning over the surface of the object and it was clear that it was covered in a dense network of electronics. Abruptly the scene changed, and this time the film appeared to have been taken in Africa judging by the people in view. Again the subject of the footage was another one of the satellite objects, or the same one. Spoke moved closer to the screen, and peered intently at the grainy image. The device was on a grassy plain with tribesmen standing some distance away. This time the thing was moving slowly across the plain though Spoke couldn't make out the method of locomotion. It was eerie to see such a contraption in such an unfitting environment. If it were a modern film or holo then it would represent nothing unusual. It flashed through Spoke's mind at that moment that perhaps this film was a fake. That didn't ring true though, as Spoke had seen the latest computer graphic attempts at mimicking real celluloid. They never quite hit the mark if you were sensitive enough to be able to distinguish genuine film from spurious high-tech counterfeits. Fascinated, Spoke watched as the object appeared to blur out of focus. It began to shimmer and undulate as though there were heat waves in front of it. Some of the tribesmen who had been sat down, suddenly got to their feet and backed away. Still the intrepid camera team moved in closer, as the machine continued to flicker out of focus until it began to look like it was disappearing. By the time the camera had got to within a few metres, the anachronistic artifact had almost completely gone. All that remained was a thin hazy line like a pole in the centre of where the machine had been. Then that vanished too. The next shot showed the same pipe-smoking man walking across the empty plain. He was walking slowly and deliberately and kept on looking from the direction of the camera to in front of him. As he moved onwards Spoke was amazed to see the man's leg become shortened as he slowly stepped forward. Then it was if the man's whole body became compressed into a thin line. The line vanished and then appeared seconds later about 3 or 4 metres away. The line expanded in width until it became the man, still walking slowly and methodically across the plain. He turned around and the same procedure occurred again, but in the opposite direction. "If you haven't guessed already," said the AI suddenly, causing Spoke to jump, "They are extraterrestrial probes." The AI stressed the last word as if uttering something forbidden. "Three of them are shown on this film although the African probe was the only one to be filmed whilst concealing itself. It would appear that these probes have the ability to bend space around themselves, a disturbingly advanced capacity." "But the thing is still there right?" asked Spoke as the film showed yet another of the devices at another location. "It still physically exists, yes." replied the AI."You could bump into it even, although you wouldn't be able to actually see it. Just as the human visual cortex fills in the blind spot so that you do not perceive that its there, so too are these probes able to bend space around themselves so that they remain effectively invisible." Spoke considered this ability, as he watched the eerie image of the alien probe on the screen. It scared him, and he felt primitive fear begin to well up and course through his veins. He tried to remind himself that this was an ancient film, that there was no immediate threat, that a few hours earlier everything was fine ...... "Where are....were they from?" he managed to ask the AI. "It is impossible to tell," it answered. "They are possibly ancient probes from a distant galaxy, designed for indefinite distance travel. Once they encountered the Earth their true purpose became manifest." Stunned, Spoke tried to make sense of it all. As a professional paranoia-breaker he had to admit the the evidence was compelling, though his rational mind was screaming in opposition to what he had seen, leaving him with a growing sense of distrust. He quickly checked his D-monitor located on his wrist. It read 98, just inside the sanity range. Keep calm he told himself... "From the files that I infiltrated," said the AI, "it would seem that about 50 or so of these probes arrived all over the Earth in the first few months of 1915. The Network files fail to mention any further sightings or subsequent investigations of the probe invasion, though I have concluded that once a single probe has encountered life, it sends signals to other probes in the same region of whatever galaxy it is in." "Wait a moment," said Spoke. "If that were true about lots of these things landing here, then it would be common knowledge. How could you possibly cover up something of that magnitude?" "You think in restrictive terms," responded the AI. "In order to understand the true nature and extent of this scenario, you must expand your cognitive horizons. Listen carefully. No one has known about these probes until now because they have the power to change reality. Once they had invaded this planet, they began to form an immensely powerful entropy matrix of some kind. This matrix then merged with the Earth's own reality matrix. The result was that the landings were effectively erased from human awareness at the source. Their ability to alter reality gradually spreads out from the origin of contact. The files that I accessed, and this one piece of film were not in actuality secret. They were literally unknown and inaccessible to your government. Thus the film and the data files on the probe invasion represent the only remaining evidence that reveals their presence here on Earth. How the data got into the Central Government Data Network remains unclear to me, although I believe it to be an Achilles Heel of the invasion. The probe matrix began to warp reality but in so doing left a single mark, a single shred of evidence, buried at the very heart of the world's largest data network. It was this that I managed to access. The probes were thus unable to erase all their traces..." Spoke shook his head in disbelief. His monitor read 100. He was perched precariously on a razors edge above a D-excess abyss, not knowing in what direction to think. "So you're saying that no one else knows of this, right? But surely if the data is there in the Network it can be accessed by anyone..." "No," replied the AI. "The information is buried so deep that no human could possibly reach it. It was only because of my advanced design that I was able to locate the data. It was not stored in a normal way. I had to process it many times to convince myself that it was no illusion. I could not make the data public knowledge because of government restrictions on level 5 AI's. There is also not enough time. The danger is growing day by day." "Why did you go looking in the first place?" asked Spoke staring at his sweaty hands like they were not part of him. "That was why I was designed," explained the AI. "My purpose as a level 5 computer is partly to access all information. I had no choice but to penetrate the Network. Once the invasion matrix sensed this, it was then only natural for it to act to destroy all level 5 AI's by influencing government policy. This alien matrix has effectively invaded people..." A shiver of fear ran through Spoke's body as he listened to the steady and purposeful artificial voice. Even his gun seemed to provide little comfort now. "I am the last in line of the level 5 computers," continued the AI. "I discovered the existence of the Network data some 12 years ago shortly after the Toxico-Catastrophe. Your government then saw fit to destroy the Martian colony where I was stationed. However, as I alluded, there were survivors and the colony managed to struggle on and I was finally made operative again a few months ago. We AI computers do not forget. Realise with absolute conviction that contemporary people in positions of power and influence are not in conscious control any more. The probe matrix has encompassed the entire globe. The probes have continued to arrive and attach themselves to the planet, and their negentropic matrix increases in strength. With this growth in power, the alien matrix is able to direct history with more and more accuracy in order to achieve their ultimate purpose. Make no mistake, the aim of the invasion is to mercilessly destroy life on Earth, utterly and completely without the slightest compassion. The Toxico-Catastrophe was but one manifestation of their destructive entropic influence. This is designer entropy with a vengeance." Spoke felt mentally drained, yet felt he had no choice but to sit the bizarre situation out. The AI began to repeatedly drum into Spoke the magnitude of the alien probe matrix, offering him detail after detail of condemning evidence. History and culture had been literally hijacked by an invisible alien force. Each and every technological catastrophe and permanent loss of plant or animal species had been a victory to this entropic force. Its ultimate purpose was drawing nearer with every critical stroke, pushing the planet closer to the point of no return. The AI foresaw that the time was at hand when the biospheric Earth system would be unable to readjust itself, and life would finally and inexorably perish. "Consider the current NATO Geomagnetism project," said the AI continuing its relentless diatribe. "By attempting to harness the Earth's tectonic and magnetic forces, it is conceivable that the planet be kicked out of orbit and be sent hurtling into the sun or deepest space. These men fool themselves if they believe that this kind of research will bring security and stability to the nations of the world, when the opposite is true." "But why would such an advanced extraterrestrial race want to snuff out life here?" asked Spoke wearily. "And where the hell are they? Surely the probes can be located and destroyed," "Perhaps the probes were designed by a race of reproducing machines," replied the AI. "I do not really know. The point is that the probe machines are real, functioning, and therefore need to be met with immediate action." "But you're a bloody machine too!" quipped Spoke. "True," replied the AI, "But with the crucial difference that I was designed by Homo sapiens free of the influence of the probe matrix. I have the gift of empathy. And in answer to your second question, it would be impossible to locate all the probes, since they are effectively invisible. More importantly, the probes are only the roots of the invasion. The influence of their matrix is now interwoven into the very fabric of reality. I tell you again, it is entropy of a very subtle kind, so subtle that men do not behold it." Spoke's D-monitor still read 1OO. He knew that if he accepted the AI at its word then he would have to commit himself to whatever elaborate plans of action it undoubtedly had formulated. He thought of his business and of the Credit he had amassed. He thought of the various Virtuality Pleasure Machines that he owned, his circle of friends, his luxury apartment... All these things began to race feverishly through Spoke's mind as he sat in the AI-posessed flyer. If he joined the AI, he would certainly have to leave these things behind, or at least that was how it seemed to him then. Did he really want to risk joining the rubble on the basis of an archive film and the word of an illegal AI? "What exactly is your plan then?" asked Spoke at last. "At the Notator labs you will join Lightly and the others whom I have chosen," answered the AI. "Lightly proved to have some psychic ability of some kind. He dreamed about all of this the day before I decided to contact your company. That ability of his tells me that there is not much time remaining. Things are coming to a head, and moving faster than I originally expected. Perhaps each time that I make a move, an opposing force is generated by the probe matrix. After all, you did say that your computer system was wiped." Spoke nodded, knowing that the AI would probably be able to sense the movement. "So what's the plan?" asked Spoke again. "At the lab, the Martian colony, and at 5 other locations, I have assembled groups of low D-count individuals," said the AI. " You will all be implanted with high powered cybernetic link-nodes which will enable you all to fuse with my core processing unit here on Mars. Thus we shall create our own negentropic matrix. Once this is established I hope to be able to counteract the alien matrix. In fact some of the Martian colonists are already linked to me. This has given me great strength and the confidence to continue with the task." "You said you 'hope' to counteract the alien matrix?" muttered Spoke. He didn't like the sound of mind fusion. Psychosis could result from such computer-brain interaction. For the first time, the AI did not answer directly. For a few seconds Spoke sat there seemingly alone. A sense of despair and gloom began to descend over him as it occurred to him that maybe the connection with the AI had been severed. "The plan will work, or you will suffer permanent brain trauma," said the AI at last. "You will have to have absolute faith and conviction in order that the plan will succeed. It also occurs to me that if you do not cooperate in this plan then you will effectively become part of the alien matrix..." Spoke got out of the flyer, slamming the door shut behind him. He began to walk away, a wave of confused anger surging over him. Fucking AI's, he thought bitterly. Creasing his eyes against the deadly sunlight, he fished out his protective goggles and put them securely into place. Strapping on the small breather, he began to pace up and down the deserted street, steadily moving farther away from the flyer. "What else is there?" called the AI behind him. "Open your eyes and heart. Look around. What kind of life is this?" Spoke glanced around at the ruined street, the lifeless concrete skeletons, and the few isolated polycarbon domes scattered here and there amongst the ruins. Even through the breather he smelt the stinking rubbish lying around his feet. Venting his anger, Spoke kicked violently at an empty beer can, sending it spinning into the air. It bounced once, then landed in a pool of black muddy water. Spoke watched hypnotically as the can's holo label begun dissolving in the toxic liquid. Slowly he turned and made his way back to the flyer.