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Главная » 2011 » Декабрь » 22 » William Gibson. Fragments of A Hologram Rose текстовый формат читать книгу.
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William Gibson. Fragments of A Hologram Rose
That summer Parker had trouble sleeping.
consciousness.
To avoid these, he used patch cords, miniature alligator clips, and black tape to wire the inducer to a battery-
operated ASP deck. Power loss in the inducer would trigger the deck's playback circuit. He bought an ASP
cassette that began with the subject asleep on a quiet beach. It had been recorded by a young blonde yogi with
20-20 vision and an abnormally acute color sense. The boy had been flown to Barbados for the sold purpose of
taking a nap and his morning's exercise on a brilliant stretch of private beach. The microfiche laminate in the
cassette's transparent case explained that the yogi could will himself through alpha to delta without an inducer.
Parker, who hadn't been able to sleep without an inducer for two years, wondered if this was possible.
He had been able to sit through the whole thing only once, though by now he knew every sensation of the first
five subjective minutes. He thought the most interesting part of the sequence was a slight editing slip at the start
patrolling a chain link fence, a black machine pistol slung over his arm.
While Parker slept, power drained from the city's grids.
The transition from delta to delta-ASP was a dark implosion into other flesh. Familiarity cushioned the shock. He
felt the cool sand under his shoulders. The cuffs of his tattered jeans flapped against his bare ankles in the
morning breeze. Soon the boy would wake fully and begin his Ardha-Matsyendra-something; with other hands
Parker groped in darkness for the ASP deck.
Three in the morning.
Making yourself a cup of coffee in the dark, using a flashlight when you pour the boiling water.
Morning's recorded dream, fading: through other eyes, dark plume of a Cuban freighter - fading with the horizon
it navigates across the mind's gray screen.
Three in the morning.
Let yesterday arrange itself around you in flat schematic images. What you said - what she said - watching her
pack - dialing the cab. However you shuffle them they form the same printed circuit: you, standing in the rain,
screaming at the cabby.
The rain was sour and acid, nearly the color of piss. The cabby called you an asshole; you still had to pay twice
the fare. She had three pieces of luggage. In his respirator and goggles, the man looked like an ant. He pedaled
away in the rain. She didn't look back.
The last you saw of her was a giant ant, giving you the finger.
Parker saw his first ASP unit in a Texas shantytown called Judy's Jungle. It was a massive console in cheap
plastic chrome. A ten-dollar bill fed into the slot bought you five minutes of free-fall gymnastics in a Swiss
orbital spa, trampolining through twenty-meter perihelions with a sixteen-year-old Vogue model - heady stuff for
the jungle, where it was simpler to buy a gun than a hot bath.
He was in New York with forged papers a year later, when two leading firms had the first portable decks in major
department stores in time for Christmas. The ASP porn theaters that had boomed briefly in California never
recovered.
Holography went too, and the block-wide Fuller domes that had been the holo temples of Parker's childhood
became multilevel supermarkets, or housed dusty amusement arcades where you still might find the old consoles,
under faded neon pulsing APPARENT SENSORY PERCEPTION through a blue haze of cigarette smoke.
Now Parker is thirty and writes continuity for broadcast ASP, programming the eye movements of the industry's
human cameras.
The brown-out continues.
In the bedroom, Parker prods the brushed-aluminum face of his Sendai Sleep-Master. Its pilot light flickers, then
lapses into darkness. Coffee in hand, he crosses the carpet to the closet she emptied the day before. The
flashlight's beam probes the bare shelves for evidence of love, finding a broken leather sandal strap, an ASP
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