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the bottom of the heap for years, struggling for funding, but now they may be onto something that has piqued the employer’s interest.’
    ‘What do you want?’
    ‘Ah – the usual,’ replied Hex, indicating with a sweeping hand how broad a range of services this might include.
    ‘Specifically? Research databases, staff details, financial details – all of it, in other words. I assume.’
    Hex took a sip of Scotch, appraising Debian critically. He took in the hacker’s thin, handsome face, intense expression and understated clothing. This non-descript, slight-framed young man was the best in his business. At least that Hex knew of.
    The ice cubes, melting now, clinked in his glass. Rolling, rolling. Oily colours glistened faintly on the surface of the liquid. The two chatting ladies were leaving, gathering up their artefacts. Sharky Dave was really abusing the slide guitar now. The sound was raw, buzzy, over-enthusiastic, but all the better for it.
    ‘All of it. Yes.’
    ‘Should be no problem. The price will be as usual.’ Debian took a sip of water and looked towards the bar, where Jalan was looking busy without actually doing much.
    ‘The payment will actually be increased this time,’ Hex admitted, as if confessing an embarrassing secret.
    ‘Why so?’
    ‘You are likely to find them rather well-prepared to defend their data, rather more so than the average AI research company. They are working on a very large, very secretive contract.’
    ‘For whom?’ asked Debian, his interest fully engaged now.
    ‘You tell us.’ Hex spread his hands wide in the universal search me gesture.
    ‘Okay. It won’t be a problem anyway. I’ve been working on something new – something that will let me run rings around the average avatar. Not just a neural simulation of myself and a simple guidance routine but…’ Debian stopped himself, suddenly aware that he was about to reveal too much. Trade secrets must exist, after all. If only there was someone, one person, whom he could talk to freely about his passion, his work, without fear.
    Hex waved aside this abridged flow of information. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, echoing Debian’s own thoughts. ‘Just be careful, right? Their defence routines are pretty top-notch these days. If we could find someone to get us what we want for cheaper, we would, but none of our other… helpers has had any joy with it. These guys are using avatars themselves. Just be warned.’
    ‘Avatars are still illegal!’ hissed Debian, surprised. ‘How can a registered company get away with that?’
    ‘Maybe no-one can catch them at it. Maybe you can find us answers to these questions.’
    Debian stroked his narrow chin meditatively. Avatars! This could be a proper test of his new toy, a proving ground for his baby. He had been prolific enough over the last five years that he could comfortably retire already. His various employers, covert and overt, had paid him in accordance with his abilities. But what would he do if not this? Smoke dope and indulge in recreational acts of random cyber-terrorism? Where would be the challenge? He didn’t realise that he was smiling broadly. Hex noticed though, and gulped the last of his Scotch, satisfied.
    Sharky Dave was deep in the groove now, his growling voice rolling under and over the zinging and pinging of his guitar:
    ‘I got sixteen pills
    They cure all ills
    The one with the cross
    On the underside kills.
    Take two at random
    At the foot of a hill,
    Climb to the top
    And abandon your will
    -power. Flee cowards,
    Dreamflowers litter the street –
    They’re like porcupine quills
    On the soles of your feet.
    Multicoloured poisons,
    I pour ’em out neat
    And into the corners
    Of your mind I creep.
    I got sixteen pills
    They cure all ills
    The one with the cross
    On the underside kills…’
    Debian listened absently to the music, eyes roving the shadows of the ceiling randomly, deep in thought. The dull glitter of alloy betrayed the presence of