Mona Lisa Overdrive by William Gibson

»Her nose is bleeding,« the streetgirl said. »What’ll I do?« »Wipe it up. Get her to lean back. Shit. Deal with it . . .« »What was that stuff she said about New Jersey?« »Shut up. Just shut up. Look for an exit ramp.« »Why?« »We’re going to New Jersey.« Blood on the new fur. Kelly would be furious.

Cranes

Tick removed the little panel from the back of the Maas-Neotek unit, using a dental pick and a pair of jeweler’s pliers. »Lovely,« he muttered, peering into the opening through an illuminated lens, his greasy waterfall of hair dangling just above it. »The way they’ve stepped the leads down, off this switch. Cunning bastards . . .« »Tick,« Kumiko said, »did you know Sally, when she first came to London?« »Soon after, I suppose . . .« He reached for a spool of optic lead. » ‘Cos she hadn’t much clout, then.« »Do you like her?« The illuminated glass rose to wink in her direction, Tick’s left eye distorted behind it. »Like ‘er? Can’t say I’ve thought of it, that way.« »You don’t dislike her?« »Bloody difficult , Sally is. D’you know what I’m saying?« »Difficult?« »Never quite got onto the way things are done here. Always complaining.« His hands moved swiftly, surely: the pliers, the optic lead. . . . »This is a quiet place, England. Hasn’t always been, mind you; we’d the troubles, then the war. . . . Things move here in a certain way, if you take my meaning. Though you couldn’t say the same’s true of the flash crew.« »Excuse me?« »Swain, that lot. Though your father’s people, the ones Swain’s always been so chummy with, they seem to have a regard for tradition. . . . A man has to know which way’s up. . . . Know what I’m saying? Now this new business of Swain’s, it’s liable to bugger things for anyone who isn’t right there and part of it. Christ, we’ve still got a government here. Not run by big companies. Well, not directly . . .« »Swain’s activities threaten the government?« »He’s bloody changing it. Redistributing power to suit himself. Information. Power. Hard data. Put enough of that in one man’s hands . . .« A muscle in his cheek convulsed as he spoke. Now Colin’s unit lay on a white plastic antistatic pad on the breakfast table; Tick was connecting the leads that protruded from it to a thicker cable that ran to one of the stacks of modules. »There then,« he said, brushing his hands together, »can’t get him right here in the room for you, but we’ll access him through a deck. Seen cyberspace, have you?« »Only in stims.« »Might as well ‘ave seen it, then. In any case, you get to see it now.« He stood; she followed him across the room to a pair of overstuffed ultrasuede chairs that flanked a low, square, black glass table. »Wireless,« he said proudly, taking two trode-sets from the table and handing one to Kumiko. »Cost the world.« Kumiko examined the skeletal matte-black tiara. The Maas-Neotek logo was molded between the temple pieces. She put it on, cold against her skin. He put his own set on, hunched down in the opposite chair. »Ready?« »Yes,« she said, and Tick’s room was gone, its walls a flutter of cards, tumbling and receding, against the bright grid, the towering forms of data. »Nice transition, that,« she heard him say. »Built into the trodes, that is. Bit of drama . . .« »Where is Colin?« »Just a sec . . . Let me work this up. . . .« Kumiko gasped as she shot toward a chrome-yellow plain of light. »Vertigo can be a problem,« Tick said, and was abruptly beside her on the yellow plain. She looked down at his suede shoes, then at her hands. »Bit of body image takes care of that.« »Well,« Colin said, »it’s the little man from the Rose and Crown. Been tinkering with my package, have you?« Kumiko turned to find him there, the soles of his brown boots ten centimeters above chrome yellow. In cyberspace, she noted, there are no shadows. »Wasn’t aware we’d met,« Tick said. »Needn’t worry,« Colin said. »It wasn’t formal. But,« he said to Kumiko, »I trust you found your way safely to colorful Brixton.« »Christ,« Tick said, »aren’t half a snot, are you?« »Forgive me,« Colin said, grinning, »I’m meant to mirror the visitor’s expectations.« »What you are is some Jap designer’s idea of an Englishman!« »There were Draculas,« she said, »in the Underground. They took my purse. They wanted to take you. . . .« »You’ve come away from your housing, mate,« Tick said. »Got you jacked through my deck now.« Colin grinned. »Ta.« »Tell you something else,« Tick said, taking a step toward Colin, »you’ve got the wrong data in you, for what you’re meant to be.« He squinted. »Mate of mine in Birmingham’s just turned you over.« He turned to Kumiko. »Your Mr. Chips here, he’s been tampered with. D’you know that?« »No . . .« »To be perfectly honest,« Colin said, with a toss of his forelock, »I’ve suspected as much.« Tick stared off into the matrix as though he were listening to something Kumiko couldn’t hear. »Yes,« he said, finally, »though it’s almost certainly a factory job. Ten major blocks of you.« He laughed. »Been iced over . . . You’re supposed to know fucking everything about Shakespeare, aren’t you?« »Sorry,« Colin said, »but I’m afraid that I do know fucking everything about Shakespeare.« »Give us a sonnet, then,« Tick said, his face wrinkling in a slow-motion wink. Something like dismay crossed Colin’s face. »You’re right.« »Or bloody Dickens either!« Tick crowed. »But I do know –« »Think you do, till you’re asked a specific! See, they left those bits empty, the Eng. lit. parts, then filled ’em with something else. . . .« »With what, then?« »Can’t say,« Tick said. »Boy in Birmingham can’t fiddle it. Clever, he is, but you’re that bloody Maas biosoft. . . .« »Tick,« Kumiko interrupted, »is there no way to contact Sally, through the matrix?« »Doubt it, but we can try. You’ll get to see that macroform I was telling you about, in any case. Want Mr. Chips along for company?« »Yes, please . . .« »Fine, then,« Tick said, then hesitated. »But we don’t know what’s stuffed into your friend here. Something your father paid for, I’d assume.« »He’s right,« Colin said. »We’ll all go,« she said.

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