When your mout' is full o'blood from internal haemoraging, spit it in the face of your enemy. Or so me old dad use't'say. And still does, if I give him half a chance. He's a mangy ol' bugger, full o'spite.

Maybe t'at's why I don't call him up so much anymore. It's just t'at times have changed. T'ings are a little easier, less straight foreward than when me old dad ran t'e show. There is …more room to move, more options. Sure, t'ere are still the hard players, t'e spooks, Neonats, Triads - nobody fucks wit't'em. But t'ey're really a hangover from t'e old days, when politics mattered. Generally, t'ings are more laid back t'ese days.

Like t'e time cousin Harry gets in a cutting match wit' some shegirls. Didn't go down too well wit' Dad, tanglin' wit' dykes, but t'e interestin' thing about t'is event is he's alive at all. See, he lost t'e match, openned up like he had a zip down his front. But t'ey didn't finish him off, no terminal stuff, and a couple o'cousins recover him and slap him into t'e autodoc just in time. Fuckin' lucky, but alive, y'know.

Now in t'e old days, like up till, say... oh, a coupl'years ago even, t'ose haircuts woulda organned him. Zot. Blackstuff. But t'ings are cooler now. Which is what I tell me old Dad just before he goes off on his spiel about blood and family and stuff...

Don't get me wrong. I'm glad t'e hard old bastard's dead, but t'ose were the time's, y'know. He hadda be hard. Shit, it was his way, or sweat'n blood in some shit-eating minifab, listenin' t' pop songs in Mandarin. I hated him, 'tis true, but he kept t'e family outta t'e merda in some pretty turbulent times.

Like another time - I remember t'is good because it wuz t'e start of an important period for me - cousin Greg, who wuz a system leech o'fame in t'ose days - estimated to have saved the family no less than fifty megs o'power costs, and t'ey wuz goin' up in a hurry cos o'greenhouse shit at t'at time - anyway, he gets in a fracas with a squad o'security in a MitsuPower maintenance tunnel when t'ey catch him making unaut'orised alterations. Greg had t'is industrial laser he'd customised for personal use, kills a coupl'guards with it, and somehow gets away.

But they know who he is, and they lay a contract with House Smallcomb for his eyes. These Smallcombs are rastas, y'gotta know, big and mean but low tech. Unpredictable. Into voodoo. Difficult. So me old Dad, he reads the screen and he tells the assembled cousins t'at trouble is at hand, and that the family must act with alacrity. And t'at cousin Greg is a “fucking idiot”, and he takes cousin Greg's laser offa him, tells two cousins to hold him down and he burns off cousin Greg's left hand wit' his own laser. Oh, the smell! And the screams. But cousin Greg later gets a prosthetic and does even better work. Can y'figure t'at?

So then Dad tells cousins Sean and Michael to go around to t'is abode where t'is long time juicer named Rocard exists. I go along for t'e experience. T'is Rocard used to be an ol buddy o'me old Dad's when they wuz bot' killin' Joses for Uncle Sam somewhere sout'o t'e border.. Now he's just fucked, a shell, place for happy juice t' circulate. He lives in a building musta been built by the Romans, now supports about half a meg o'coffins. T'ey all musta been on some pension, all zotto, tubes in, tubes out. T'ey wouldnt'a noticed the smell, but I did. All in all, I wuz havin' a poor day, olfactory-wise.

Michael, he somehow gets t'rough to where Rocard's brain is hidin' and t‘is juicebat whispers somethin' into t'e cousin's ear. Said ear was extremely slimy by the time message was transmitted, but it was heard clear enough. T'is Rocard, Michael tells me as we stomp outta t'e place, was in some Marine engineering unit, like me dad. But unlike me old dad, he'd stayed in an' become a lifer. Hence the pension. Anyway, after retirement he'd done some job for the Smallcombs, who, as I mentioned earlier, were pretty low tech and had to call in contractors from time to time. T'e rastas, of course, had promised Rocard swift blackstuff if he chattered concernin' what he knew about t'eir business, but Rocard had somehow decided he was headed that way anyway and informed me dad he had some useful info and to send some cousins around t' collect. Repayin' some old Marine days debt, evidently.

Sean, he's just got t'is fuckin' nose for trouble, and I mean t'at literally. We're in t'e corridor head'n for the stairs when he just kind o'stiffens, sticks t'is great shnozz of his into the ether, and sez, "Let's get the fuck outta, now!" And me'n him n' Michael are doing t'is career down stairs n' scapes that are collapsing behind us in clouds o'rust n' dust. Mot'er of you know who, what a ride! I musta fell furt'er'n I ran, n' Michael, who is a big fuck, he's behind me pushin' n' kickin' me an' yellin' "Get outta me way, y' little prick!" N'old, gaunt faces are staring out of doorways at us like such a commotion is t'e only thing keeping 'em from fallin' off. I do some fallin off meself just then, off a scape into a pile of nicely matured trash but don't have time to gag 'cos Michael has me by me t'scruff and is runnin' me outta there. Michael, he knows Sean's nose, and he trusts it 'cos it's saved his ass numerous. Whew!

But I'm inexperienced in t'e ways o'Sean's nonce and so I'm layin', in some kinda oily fluid realisin' I have a multitude o'bruises and contusions on me person from the escapade, behind a dumpster full o'what smells like rotten eggs and I'm about to ask one o' me colleagues, "What the fuck?" when t'e buildin' we just vacated turns t'dust and debris and settles t' t'e floor with a noise t'at would make y't'ink twice if y' wuz an at'iest.

Upshot, Rocard n' his erstwhile co-inhabitants just got turned into dogmeat.

Later, I find out cousin Sean's nose is also a gift o'Unky Sam. Super-sensitized to a number o'tricky chemical substances o't'e explosive or ot'erwise noxious type, one o'which was the ordnance t'at turned Rocard's digs into another attractive investment proposition.

So what happenned? Wuz it the property owners embarking on a new investment tack, or some stupid street shit, or had the Smallcombs got wise? I didn't know about t'is stuff t'en, but me old dad consults t'e right authorities and next t'ing I know I'm swimmin' the east river in a fishsuit lookin' for a submerged shippin' container n' watchin' out for e-sharks. You bin in the east river lately? You bin near the east river lately? Jeez, I kept expectin' to come across hundred year old skeletons wit' cement feet. 'Cept I couldn't see anyt'ing anyway. Even wit' t'e chemicals and ot'er shit like you wouldn't, its night. So I'm on sonar, scopin' t'e shapes as t'ey emerge 'bout t'irty metres in front like bad VR. Trouble is, one o't'ose fuckin' e-sharks gonna take about a half second t' travel t'at distance n' take a nibble. So I am tensing my finger on the trigger of t'e shitty little compressed air gun attached to the fish suit, t'inkin' dark t'oughts.

And shit, here come two straight at me, 'bout two an ten o'clock! They're not too big ‘cos t'ere's a size-manouverability trade off, but a metre long shark can bite a whole lot outta your future. The gun is self aiming and I fire it n' bubbles frizz around me and I don't know what the fuck. Then t'ere's this really weird effect as the suit's proximity electro-shock thing goes off n'I'm glad for all t'e extra discomfit o' t'e special insulation. Somet'in' nudges my right arm and in the glare o'the spot I see t'electocuted corpse of an electronically modified lemon shark. The suit HUD registers a hit wit' t'e gun and t'e ot'er fried. Fish n' chips, heh.

Even before t'e shippin' container looms outta t'e grey-green murk, my electronics has countered t'eir's. Cousin Patrick, no contest, best counter-measures man in t'e burg. Marries corporate wit' military, Russian wit' Indonesian, analog wit' digital - like it was meant to go toget'er. But like I say, Smallcombs are not top o'the tech league anyhow. I scan for more sentinels, but nothin'. I swim down to t'e fat, dark shape, watchin' me displays for even micro-voltage shifts, but still not'in'. T'at's Patrick – t'ey don't even know t'ey're blind.

T'is container, it's been made watertight and stuff, see, and its got the Smallcomb House core in it. T'ey control t'is part o't'e river, an'so t'ey whack t'is container on a hydraulic jack outta some old aircraft carrier and t'ey stick t'e jack on t'e bottom o'the river and they keep the container t'ere and only raise it at night, to, say, let techies in and out. Cores, y'now, t'ey're really just discrete mainframes - not netted so no one can crack'm with cleversoft - but t'ese comps got heavy duty memory so t'ey keep all the house records and stuff. Anyway, Smallcomb t'ought t'ey had some extra security keeping it at the bottom o'the river, and t'ey woulda probably if me old dad hadn't persuaded me t'is was my opportunity to prove me manhood.

So t'ere I am at the bottom o't'e east river at four in the morning with not'in' between me n'a nasty time but some surplus SEAL gear. I settle on t'e roof of t'e container n'set the magnetised tranceiver unit n'hit play: "House Smallcomb," sez a jigged version o'me old dad's voice, "we have just attached an explosive device to the wall of your container unit, along with the tranceiver you are now listening to. Tap out the operative code number of your Swiss bank account with a heavy object against a wall. One tap for one, nine for nine, etcetera, with a gap of at least two seconds between each number. Start knocking in less than thirty seconds. Poor or dead, your choice."

I could sort'a imagine what was going on in t'ere, t'e frantic techies desperately trying to break t'rough Patrick's electronic blanket. But t'ey had no choice, and after a coupl' minutes, with me scannin' seriously all the while for more e-sharks, starts the t'umpin'.

I record, then hit t'e button t'at releases a twenty metre float arial. Half a minute goes by an' t'e okay comes t'rough: House Kilbride has confirmed t'e code number, for a price t'at soaks up a neat twenty five percent. Still, many will be happy to see Smallcomb taken down a peg or twelve.

I've relaxed. If t'ey'd had any more sharks t'ey would've come by now. I am detaching t'e tranceiver - there wuz no bomb o'course - when t'ere is t'is t'ud, and bubbles come boiling up around me, comin' from one side o't'e container. I push off t' view the situation and just come around the edge when t'is large cat comes bubbling up at me wit' a screw driver aimed at my heart.

He is wearin' not'in' but coveralls and he's gonna drown if he doesn't get my breathing gear quick. They must'a blown a hole in t'e side o't'e container and sent him out. Real crazy fuckers these Smallcombs. I dodge his lunge and we start grappling ‘cos he's too close to shoot n't'e proximity gear hasn't recharged yet. He's strong, but his wind's going fast, and I see his eyes get wider and wider and t'e strength goes out o'him. He lets go o'me and drifts away.

I swim down to t'e hole and look in. Two ot'er Smallcombs are floating aroun' in t'e flooded interior which is, eerily, still lit up. Little sparky t'ings are flashin' off t'eir core, a clunky old ex-air force IBM. It looks fucked to me, but I'm not certain.

What the Holy Mother of God were t'ey t'inkin' of?

T'en it hits me. "Oh oh," I say to meself and start seriously swimmin'. The blast sure tests out t'e suit's shock protection capability. But it works orright, n'after a few minutes waiting for m'ears to stop ringin', I review me situation.

I had swum a full t'ree kilometres down t'e east river to avoid Smallcomb territory, t'ree kilometres in maybe t'e most polluted river in t'e world, and now I hadda swim back. Smallcombs woulda bin runnin' about like roaches on garbage up top, and it wouldn't be long before t'ey got some divers down to find out what had happenned.

But anyway, I made it, as y'can see, and m'exploit went down in house history. Jerry's long swim.

House Smallcomb was fucked, never recovered. T'ey musta lost t'eir entire data base. A hundred houses moved in on t'em, pecked ‘em t' death. But before t'ey succumbed t'ey shot up me old dad in a typical Smallcomb operation t'at killed ten o'theirs as well as t'ree good cousins, in addition to me old dad. Those Smallcombs, t'ey were dinosaurs.

Lucky t'at we'd been recordin' him, and so t'ere he was in t'e house core, surly as ever. Yep, part o't'at Fujitsu-Cray core is me old dad. We were t'e first t' record t'e ancestors, but all t'e houses t'at can afford to do it now. When family's all you got, y' take t'e forebears seriously, eh?

It was dad's idea, of'course. He read about `neuro-digital transmission and storage' on t'e net and realised we had plenty o'room on t'e house core t' store such stuff.

He was always t'inkin'... plannin'...

He used t' go on about how t'ings used t' be different, how t'ere was a great class compromise - called the `New Deal' - but how it fell apart and how it became dog eat dog for t'ose wit'out enough money to lock themselves away in one o't'e corporate enclaves. He said people went back t' t'e oldest kind of social organization, extended families. He said family loyalty had to replace a lot of contrived social rules. We hadda remember our traditions. Even changed the way we talked.

Father Brendan made a nice speech at t'e funeral. Said how it was time for t'e new generation t' take over, etcetera. And as I said, t'ings have got easier. The families have gradually worked out some rules so we're not at each ot'er all the time. It's like we can see what we've got in common now, an' not just our differences.

T'ere's even been some talk lately about a combined raid on one o' t'e enclaves...

I tell him about t'ese things, patch in an' watch his simulated scowl on the vid, hear his simulated grunts. He's always the skeptic. But like I said, he hadda be. It's like with immigrants, the first generation's gotta be tough. Start new traditions, but don't make too many mistakes. Past generations represent discipline, survival in tough times. Only diff is, now we can keep 'em around for advice. Digital ghosts o't'e ancestors. T'is way, maybe, we won't forget t'e lessons o't'e past so quick.

End