Read Psykogeddon for Free Online

in it.
    That was actually an exaggeration, which some cool and oddly dispassionate part of his mind told him. The human mind is just wired-up, on the fundamental level, to throw up all kinds of panic-flags at the sight of loose blood.
    It isn't as bad as it seems, calm thread of consciousness told him. Just the standard spray-and-spatter of a single living creature stabbed brutally to death, no more than that.
    Every other part of Barnstable's mind seemed to have shorted itself out, as though an iron spike had been driven through it. So when the personal comms-unit by the bed began to peal, he reached out and activated it automatically.
    The virtual screen flashed the message: "NO INCOMING VISUAL SIGNAL", and went back into standby mode. The receiver-bead floated from its port and positioned itself by Barnstable's ear, where it would remain, wherever he moved, until the connection was cut.
    "Hey, listen up," said a voice from the receiver-bead. Male, casual and friendly. The sort of voice, attached by the usual means, to a sympathetic ear you could tell your troubles to. "You've just this second realised that under normal circumstances you like people to see this really fine and tasteful place where you live, so you set your receiver to send visuals by default. That means I can see everything you can, even if you can't see me. All that blood.
    "Now, I'm telling you not to worry about that, for the moment at least. I'm not going to be calling the Justice Department, and for a number of technical reasons I'm not going to bother going into, there is absolutely no way the Judges can be monitoring this call. Do you understand me?"
    There was an edge to the voice, however. Not so much an edge of authority or command; more that it was simply, casually and sympathetically telling you how the world was going to be.
    Barnstable tried to reply, but the voice overrode him:
    "Aside from that," the voice said, "you're in a minor form of post-traumatic shock, what with waking up to see all that blood and all. Your mental switchboard's jammed with questions and possible scenarios. Just breathe easy and we'll clear things up a little, yes?
    "First things first. You're wondering if you've been wounded in the night - maybe in a home invasion or the like - and you're still, somehow, at the point of not feeling it. You're wondering if you're in hysterical denial or some such, that when you can finally bring yourself to look down you'll see the ruin of your chest with a knife still sticking in it.
    "You don't have to worry about that, either. The blood isn't yours. Except for trace-contamination, which we'll get along to in a minute, never fear.
    "For the moment, look at the trail it makes, through all that wreckage that suggests a violent struggle. Through the door and into the bathroom...
    "I'd go in there and have a look, if I were you. Watch your bare feet on the broken glass from that overturned antique jukebox full of classic static-blips from the Two Thousand and Tens - we wouldn't want to add any more direct contamination to the scene, now would we?
    "And here we are at, well, let's be honest, what we might as well call the meat of the matter.
    "It's quite amazing, really, what you can do with sufficient time and effort. You'll notice that, in certain respects, certain details have been left eminently identifiable.
    "This is not some random individual who will not be missed. This is a personage who was quite well-known, in life, and who is known to be in personal contact with yourself. The disappearance will be noticed, make no mistake about that..."
    Barnstable Wheems stared at the mess in his bathroom.
    "How could you...?" he managed at last. "How were you able to...?"
    "In case you're wondering," said the voice from the receiver-bead, "these are not the remains of a clone. A clone does not have all the cumulative imperfections and adaptations that are acquired by the phenotypical act of living. "This is the genuine and definitive