The Blue Line Maglev whizzed through dark tunnels vibrating with holoverts pulsing down from grime-covered display units. Caldwell was wedged tightly between a middle-aged Chinese lady with an unfortunately placed mole on her upper lip and a rabbi muttering quietly to himself. The knapsack was on his lap, nestled in the crook of his arm like a mother nursing a tender new born. He spent a few moments rapt in thought. Then it hit him. They were after the console. It was the only thing that made sense, the only loose end that needed tying up. But how would Glyph know about that? Kenzo Yamamoto. The HUB. It was all starting to make sense.

The goon on the platform would be on the next train. Luckily the Maglevs came through in two-minute intervals. His assailant wouldn’t know at which station he got off, unless of course they had access to a system that was monitoring the CCTV networks. He would be fine once he hit the Isle of Dogs station. Caldwell tried to put his current dilemma out of his mind and let the imploring sounds of advertising wash over him.

He watched with disdain the flickering hologram of some cyberspace manufactured star float through the carriage, her lithe body speckled with missing pixels. Now that was advertising in its rawest form. And following behind it, a group of teenage boys, weird haircuts and painted up, packing wireless personal jukebox implants and singing along to the music. He noticed that most of them had bar codes tattooed on the insides of their wrists. They were the new power generation, slaves to the digital machine.

Caldwell didn’t recognize the newfangled celebrity and didn’t care. In an age of surgically and electronically created media personalities, fifteen minutes was as long a time as anyone stayed famous. If you were lucky, your fifteen minutes got you enough money to retire from the rat race, having barely made a dent on the collective consciousness. He did not consider these Warholian idols worthy of his memory space. Did something happen to him that caused his partial amnesia? Do the headaches have anything to do with it? These questions etched themselves in his mind over and over again like a laser creating the intricate circuitry of a microchip.

The rest of the passengers were equally nonchalant as the hologram disappeared into the next compartment with a shudder as the holographic displays switched over. The transition of her adolescent fans into the next compartment was a lot more seamless.

The good citizens of the Union were so mesmerized by the persuasive power of media and its hybrids that they scarcely made any choices that weren’t advertising driven. Caldwell could barely control his disdain for the medium of advertising and related media. The passivity of it drove him to distraction. Caldwell could go as far as to claim that he was anti-media, at least the kind that wasn’t free-flowing like cyberspace.

Like your typical conspiracy theorist, he strongly believed that media was the collective effect of powerful conglomerates imposing their will, through the relentless sacrilege of advertising, on a public that had somehow lost the ability to think for themselves. In cyberspace their power was severely curtailed and they had to try much harder to work their evil. Caldwell liked that status quo just fine.

The Isle of Dogs station platform shifted into view. It was time to make his move. He stepped off the driver-less train as the doors swished open and scanned the crowds. Wedged between an ample Eastern Bloc lady with a faint moustache and a young gothic punk revivalist with surgically painted makeup, he let himself move with the crowd. He realized that his hairs were standing on end as he shuddered free and began to cut a swathe through the cluster of flesh towards the exit. He grew increasingly nervous as he boarded the huge glass elevators, and continued to scan the exiting crowds as the elevator crept vertically up the side of the station.

From the vantage point of the ascending elevator, with the wonder of modern day commuter transportation unfurling before his eyes, Caldwell satisfied himself that he wasn’t being followed, to the extent that such satisfaction could be arrived at. Maybe thirty seconds to reach the exit at the top, the disfigured man on the platform a good minute-and-a-half away. The morning crowds were beginning to thicken. Passengers matched towards exits and trains, stared at huge display screens or buried their heads in newspapers or Styrofoam cups of coffee.

The massive displays promoted the latest in consumer goods and services. The latest Trans-Human Enhancement Surgical Procedure, known as THESP, was being touted by some Harley Street outfit in a maelstrom of computer-generated voices and blaring music. Below this din, a cacophony of subliminal messages pulsated, willing the privileged with access to credit to spend like there was no tomorrow and the unprivileged to add to spiraling piles of debit.

For those who couldn’t afford the newfangled products or the reconfigured services, the black markets of Portobello Road, Camden Town, Liverpool Street and the underground clinics of the Docklands would sell you the same illusion for a fraction of the price. Such was the power held by big media over huge swathes of the populace that for every new product or service advertised, an even newer gray market would spring up in the dark zones within a matter of hours.

Caldwell exited the Isle of Dogs station with another classic maneuver, a great leap over the ticket barrier. His move startled a young mother with a pale-looking underfed baby in an electric pushchair making an exit the legal way. There was a strong whiff of the Thames River in the air but strangely it helped him steady his nerves and shake off the fear instilled by the disfigured man on the platform. Caldwell stopped and scanned the street ahead to make sure the coast was clear.

“Why don’t you bloody get a ticket like everyone else, you mindless dumb fuck,” the heavily-lipsticked young woman shouted at him as she walked past, pushing the baby’s pram as though it was a Tesco supermarket shopping trolley. She was probably on some narcotic that had transformed her, a newly-minted mother no less, into some tightly-coiled expletive-venting concerned citizen. Caldwell muttered an apology and turned left past the London Arena. He was more interested in discerning from the display window of a nearby Habitat store whether he was still being followed.