Omega Point Read Free

light to make himself out. He was in a copy of the simulated body he normally wore in virtspaces: middling height, mid-forties – twenty more years than his actual age – brown hair with the beginnings of a widow's peak. He had the face of a gumshoe, tired and worn out on too much whisky and too many worthless women; brown trenchcoat of a gumshoe; threadbare suit of a gumshoe – now wet with vomit; red tie of a gumshoe. Richards liked mid-twentieth-century detective stories; he was a security consultant and a security consultant was a kind of detective, so he styled himself after their fashion. It was all play; he was far more than that.
      He missed his hat. And this body felt far too real. And he stank of sick.
      "Bollocks," he said.
      A squeaking of shoes approached from the left-hand archway. A figure dressed in full butler's regalia appeared and made its stiff-backed way into the entrance hall. Its head was the last thing to resolve itself from the shadows. The head of a dog.
      Grizzled black hair covered the dog's head. Sharp ears twitched alertly on the crown. The muzzle was long, the bastard offspring of auntie's Scottie dog and the big bad wolf. Red eyes smouldered. Dog-headed man was a misnomer; it was more like a dog in the shape of a man, a man-shaped dog, thought Richards. He found it strangely disturbing, a feeling he couldn't shake.
      "Good evening, sir," said the man-dog. It sniffed distastefully at Richards' disarray.
      "Nice outfit," said Richards.
      The man with the dog's head inspected itself, looking in turn at its frock coat, well-tailored trousers with a light pinstripe, charcoal waistcoat, pocket watch and shoes.
      They look uncomfortable, thought Richards, but what the hell kind of feet did a man with a dog's head have anyway?
      "It is the uniform of my office, nothing more," said the dog. "This is my master's house."
      "Yeah, well. It's natty," said Richards.
      The dog stared at him levelly, panting lightly. His breath smelled superficially of mint but it covered meat, drool and things left best uneaten. "Might I ask what you are doing in my master's house?"
      "Beats the shit out of me," said Richards.
      "There is," said the dog, clasping its hands behind its back and flexing its spine, "no need for language like that. This is my master's house."
      "And your master would not approve?"
      The dog looked from side to side, ears twitching independently of one another, listening to something Richards could not hear.
      "Nice place he has here. No doors."
      The dog looked at the bare walls framed by wood as if it were news to him. "It is my master's house," said the dog. "I guard the entryway. It is my master's house. Good evening, sir."
      "Right. You're not very bright. Let me see, limited responses… Hmmm. You're on a loop, aren't you? Hey! Hey!" Richards snapped his fingers. "Where is your master?"
      The dog quirked its head. Suddenly it was standing right in front of Richards. "This is my master's house. Might I ask what you are doing, doing here in my master's house?"
      "We've done this bit before," said Richards. He turned away to examine his options, but the dog was in front of him wherever he looked.
      "I am afraid I must ask you to leave." The dog shifted again. Another flicker; it became huge, clothes ripped, clawed hands dripping blood. "This is my master's house. Might I ask what you are doing, doing here in my master's house?"
      "I'll be leaving," said Richards, but he could not move.
      "Get out, I say, get out, get ooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut!" The dog's voice broke into a howl and it threw its head back. The howl increased in volume until the ornaments rattled. Richards screwed his eyes shut against the torrent of dog breath and spittle.
      Dying is becoming an annoying habit of mine, he thought. But he didn't die.
      The howl abruptly stopped. The temperature dropped, and he was confronted with a sense of