TheBlueLineMaglevwhizzedthroughdarktunnelsvibratingwithholovertspulsingdrime-covereddisplayunits.Caldedgedtightlybetweenamiddle-agedeseladywithanunfortunatelyplacedmoleonherupperlipandarabbimutteringquietlytohimself.Theknapsackwasonhislap,ledinthecrookofhisarmlikeamothernursingatendernewborn.Hespentafewmomentsraptinthought.Thenithithim.Theywereafterthesole.Itwastheonlythingthatmadeseheonlylooseendthatyingup.ButhowwouldGlyphknowaboutthat?KenzoYamamoto.TheHUB.Itwasallstartingtomakesense.

    Thegoonoformwouldbeotrain.LuckilytheMaglevscamethroughintwo-miervals.Hisassailantwouldn’tknowatwhichstatiooff,unlessofcoursetheyhadaccesstoasystemthatwasmonittheetworks.HewouldbefineoheIsleofDogsstation.Caldwelltriedtoputhiscurrentdilemmaoutofhismindaheimplsoundsofadvertisingwashoverhim.

    Hewatchedwithdisdaintheflickeringhologramofsomecyberspaufacturedstarfloatthroughthecarriage,herlithebodyspeckledwithmissingpixels.Nowthatwasadvertisinginitsrawestform.Andfollowingbehindit,agroupofteenageboys,weirdhaircutsandpaintedup,pagwirelesspersonaljukeboximplantsandsingingalongtothemusioticedthatmostofthemhadbarcodestattooedontheiheirwrists.Theywerethenewpeion,slavestothedigitalmae.

    Caldwelldidn’treizethenewfangledcelebrityanddidn’tcare.Inanageicallyaronicallycreatedmediapersonalities,fifteenminuteswasaslongatimeasaayedfamous.Ifyouwerelucky,yourfifteenmiyouenoughmooretirefromtheratrace,havingbarelymadeadentonthecollectivesciousness.HedidnotsidertheseWarholianidolsworthyofhismemorys