Caldwell contorted his aching body in the capsule’s confined space and switched on the louvered halogen light. He reached out and picked up the Slav’s mysterious vial. For a moment, he watched the viscous mass of the transparent liquid swirl within. The Slav had promised that it would do the job in less than a minute, stopping the activity of all the vital organs with the speed and precision of a bullet to the head.

“The problem with the human body,” the Slav had said as he fumbled around in his makeshift workshop in a disused viaduct in the inner city ghetto of Oval, “is that it is not designed to coexist with machines. The relationship is not symbiotic and sooner or later they, the machines, will fuck you up. It’s just a question of time.” There was enough tobacco smoke in the stale air of the Slav’s makeshift workshop to stop a bull in its tracks.

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