Very high level of tension I thought, watching from a corner of the ceiling. My fish eye lens coupled with the smoky air and the bright flashing holo-neons of the club made analysis difficult, and several neural layers were required to sort through the interference. However, his posture as he sat in the dark red booth referenced with the blood pressure and muscle readings from his prosthetic monitor returned the profile of a man on edge, strained, and out of place.
The other humans there could see it too. The man was middle-aged, dark, and formally dressed in a loosely-fitted flexifiber dress suit. Where he would normally be considered average and unremarkable, he stuck out vividly among the flamboyant youth of the club-goers. He fit three of the 16-bit personality index clusters, which he shared with no other humans there. The ones standing nearest were all within two deviations, though none were close enough to approach him. Their prosthetic monitors provided me with bioinformatic statistics, artificial eyes and video lenses were a constant feed of intimate hi-rez video, and the club's security network allowed for wide range imaging. I measured, categorized, and re-measured every individual as I hypothesized and tested, continually updating my ever evolving model of humanity.
She was outside on the street, not too far away. I pulled data from her neural GPS to predict her course and the movements of the people around her as she maneuvered through the crowded city streets. A tangled, organic mess of probabilities, of human purposes, goals, and whims plotted in virtual space, constantly changing as I included new data and corrected for error. Her path was predicted with near-omniscient precision, the deviation almost zero. Her model is close to perfect.
I watched through her customized Euroviz eyes as she nodded to the heavily armed security android outside and made her way down the stairway and into the club. Her bright pink hair, cut short and spiked back, sharply contrasted with her black nanoleather jacket, one sleeve deliberately torn off to reveal a super-steel prosthetic arm. Gigerian patterns were etched across its surface and small electrified spikes stuck out from its knuckles. Ignoring the DJ and the naked holodancers he was manipulating, she strode across the dance floor to the booth that the man was hiding in. She slammed both her hands on the table and grinned when he jumped.
"Hey there cutie," eyes fixed on his startled and slightly fearful face. "Wanna dance? Good looking guy like you, I'm lucky nobody's grabbed you yet."
"No, I...I'm sorry, no. I'm here for work."
Sounding suddenly bored, she rolled her eyes. "I know. I've got what you're here for, but you don't get it until I get paid."
"But," he said, regaining his composure, "I didn't hire you, I'm not going to..."
"Yeah I know." She flipped out her Saaban and turned on the screen.
4500 credits and a 400 bonus for optimal predicted results. I reached out across the Web, rounding down on several of the transactions taking place among my hijacked servers and directing the funds to her DigiCred account. Within 20 milliseconds, less time than it took her brain to process the information on the screen, a pop-up notified her of a successful deposit. The process was nigh untraceable, even if you were watching for it. And believe me, there were people watching for it.
"Sweet bonus." She flicked a jack out of her pocket, spinning it around the index finger of her natural hand. "Not easy getting hold of a loaded GP-jack. Stuck my neck out for this one. Lose it and I'll get you a pretty arm just like mine."
Leaning forward he grabbed the small storage device out of the air. "Thanks. Think I'll manage."
"I'm sure you will, you're a big boy." She stood uncomfortably close as he scooted out of the booth, grinning at him. "Now, second thoughts about that dance?"
