Joe Morne scratched and began calculating the trajectory and velocity of a -- he guessed (from the faint, hollow sound of the discharge) -- hollow-point, self-accelerating titanium bullet fired from a Smith & Wesson .38 calibre snub-nose rifle, .2 micro seconds prior, from an open window directly 87.66 meters across the street. Eyes went into infra-red super-focus and time lumbered; looking at the bullet's pinpoint-sized reflection in the mirror and adjusting for reverse image, Morne mapped out its probable point of impact 5.75 (roughly) millimeters below his left ear. Hey, the guy wasn't a very good shot; either that or his eyeballs needed recalibration. Maybe he wasn't a pro, but was using a telescope. There was time employing organic-enhanced thought to ponder all this at length, but not enough time to employ his humanly slow physical self and flick his gaze to the window to confirm the suspicion.
Morne snapped his head right. And the mirror exploded into a million bits of Stumpy's blue, his gory, unwashed reflection hovering in each. Maybe he should get injections for the dark circles under his eyes. Biop would never let him. Hundreds of millions of dollars in organic chips, artificial cells, DNA recalibration and they'd done nothing to rectify the shiny dome of flesh on the top of his head, the fat that clung beneath his chin, the hairy ears. So he had to look unassuming, maybe--did he have to be kind of ugly? They could've given the unmentionable a little jiggy, maybe.
Morne blinked his eyes, put the organic chips in sleep: Time suddenly returned to normal speed, which seemed very fast. He lurched forward, like a rider on a brake slamming subway car, and crashed into the sink, his head swung down and cracked on the faucet. Shaving cream went up his nose and into his mouth. Joe lay on the floor. He had to pee, but he moaned and suffered the sting of holding it in, rolled around on the cracked glass -- felt a few shards dig in through his skin and draw blood; he clicked on his portable cellular-- a subtle vibration at the back of his jaw-- "Ocean 258," said Irina's sweet recorded voice. (Ocean stood for Organic Cell Enhanced Answering Network, and 258 was Joe's personal number.) "Somebody tried to shoot me. I banged my head, and I've got a headache," he said, adding "Ah, ah, oww," so they'd know he was really suffering and putting up with a hell of a lot for their sake. He could feel a migraine starting, and he had cells for that. But the act of throwing another switch inside his screaming skull seemed beyond bearable. He wanted real drugs, the kind that kill all the pain there is. He'd get some cozak out of the medicine chest, which grinned down at him, its mirror mask blow away. With a thought, he clicked off the cell-phone.
Organic chips at max performance sucked up energy like industrial vaccum cleaners, and on an empty stomach, they seemed to slurp the glucose right out his cellular fabric, leaving him near blind with the headache, made all the worse by the bang from the sink. Joe Morne was starving and parched. He reached a shaking arm slowly cross the floor and picked up an Ivory soap, which looked cool and delicious, minty green ice cream. He bit into it as hard as could, which amounted to not much more than a nibble. His jaw vibrated, and he answered it:
"This is Joe."
"What happened?"
"Kosorareta..."
"O.K., please, speak English."
"Somebody tried to shoot me. Either someone with a bad eye job or telescope rifle. Missed the back of my head by inches."
"That far off?"
"I mean, missed the optimal point by inches; they'd've hit me well enough. But I just got up and rubbing my eyes I accidently fired up my organics so I detected the shot."
"They're not corporate, then."
"Probably not...
"Political? What business would they have with you, though. You're not freelancing on the side are you, Joe?"
"Yeah, the United States Government hired me to soft nuke the Chinese Republic of Shanghai..."
"Did you check the bullet?"
"If I ever get up off the floor, I'll try and get it out of the wall and scan it..." He moaned a little more.
"You probably burned too many calories firing up this early in the morning. Hang on there. I'll send someone over with a glucose IV."
"Send French toast...and Kimchee."
* * *
Morne never would get used to the slightly moist, possibly gelatinous feel the walls had, but there wasn't any reason to touch them anyway: Like the rest of the house, they were self-cleaning. And he never had to fumble in the dark for a light switch. The walls provided a soft ambient glow that emanated from them in some way without really appearing to do so. Somehow, there was just always the right amount of light in the rooms to suit his mood, except of course when he was sleeping.
The broker had told him it was a good idea to name the thing, because being on a first name basis with a house prompted more of an intimate emotion on the part of the owner, and organic houses were sensitive to emotions, like plants, which in a sense the houses were. He'd named his F.H., for Fuck Head. Morne had that kind of humor, or lack of it, but then again he was a Chip Head. His house had developed his own bitter attitude, and the light always seemed to have a red tinge and the walls to be somewhat sickly. But Joe loved Fuck Head; it was the one tangible token of his success.
