79 Cobra eyes

Record store window, guy with lushlips, Mick Jagger. Satisfaction. Beach Boys, Herman's Hermits. Mrs. Brown You've Got a Lovely Daughter.

Lala's purse emitting a bluewhite light and a bipbipbip. Panopticon operational, says look at me! Huddling in a phone booth out of the wind.

Two figures in the globe, under a bridge, pallets piled high, caskets. Kindred and Overtone, talking. Kindred listens intently, no audio.

This is like a crystal globe, like a carnival lady once had in a movie I saw, K Tate said. Then thought it looked like Methane Man's helmet.

Lala and K Tate, in Chicago of 1965 while riding his brainstream from 2012, datapacked transluminence Panopticon displaying their pursuers.

This was the city of souveneirs, the Wrigley Building a crosswalk from Tribune Tower. Hide the Panopticon in plain sight, no one would see.

No one would NOTICE, except Kindred and Dick O in a tinglytangly kind of way. This was amazingly weird, made him think about old time TV.

Kindred and Overtone having no sense of being observed, how could they? The watchers existed inside K Tate's bent neuralnet, not realworld.

K Tate not even born yet, but watching 1965, inhabiting 1965, breathing eating living 1965 with a girl who could interpret his brainstreams.

Now K/O go into a door with a carved stone arch. Before it closes, a cat scoots out and is crushedflat under the wheels of a crosstown bus.

The Panopticon fizzes blank. Apparently its signal cannot penetrate stone walls that thick. K Tate impulsively kisses Lala, enigmatic smile.

Kindred and Overtone, out of view, walktalkinging along a long hallway walkway walk this way talk knockknock shockjock radio say hey D.O.

Kindred in ripped military pants, sweatstained T, no jacket, corded sinewy biceps, heavy dented death's head ring, combat boots, cobra eyes.

Dick Overtone wears pressed blackslacks, thin shiny blackbelt and tie, blackwool socks, blackleather shoes, crisp white short sleeved shirt.

They are in a library, booksmell wet from ceiling leak, Overtone on a hunch researching Jeremy Bentham, his turbines told him he just must.

Finds out all about the principles of being observed without seeing your observers, espoused by Bentham and his ultraradical prison designs.

Overtone tells Kindred they are being watched, but he doesn't know who the watchers are. Tingly vibe, non 60s feel, maybe eye from the past.

Kindred, fast twitch survival mode kicks in, Namblam. Instant environmental scan, tracking quadrants in 3D, solar flare from skylight noted.

Sees two figures on an upper balcony, kissing, assesses threat as low verging nonexistent, dismiss, refocus, clear. Kindred and DickO leave.

K Tate watches them go, looking over Lala's shoulder. They descend the stairs, pull Bentham's book from the stacks, stuff it backpackly.

Kindred: So who we chasin'? DickO: Destroyer of turbines, future rebel, liberator of information, addicts snort it up their noses, 2012.

Kindred: We goin' there? DickO: No need. He's here. K: Here? O: Somehow, yes. I don't really understand how. Not yet. K: Okay. Me neither.

K: So, you need me to kill this guy? O: I don't. Society does. Where would we be if data was free? What he has done, will do, is criminal.

K: What's his name? O: Tate. K: For certain? O: Turbines don't lie. K: What else? Who is he? O: Blood. K: What? O: He's your future son.

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