oxygen, then jackknifed into a sitting position, veils of gel clinging to his arms and legs like tattered cloth. An acid bead of saliva dribbled down his chin as cinegraphic images appeared on the membrane, blurry at first, then slowly sharpening.
"... fuck outta here," he said, the words sputtering out, frothy and bilious.
"Take it easy," Uri said, bending over the tank, his gaze drilling down like the lenses of a microscope. "Everything's fine. All we got to do now is download the philm and you'll be good to go."
The grin was back, mocking, carnivorous.
_______
The 'skin came with a soot-gray suit, the creases in the pant legs origami-sharp, a white silk shirt, and red silk tie. While he slipped on graphene-covered dress shoes, Uri brought him the jacket and overcoat.
"They part of the ware?" he asked.
Uri nodded. "No different from the 'skin. You got menu options for fabric type, color, and pattern. Same for the shirt, shoes, and tie."
"Simage capability?" Pelayo asked. In addition to philm, most new 'skin—even street jobs — included a tightly woven mesh of nanotrodes that mapped the topology and kinetic movement of the 'skin to generate a simulated image for use online.
"Fully integrated," Uri said. "You can even pick and choose which 'skin options you want to cast. That it?"
"All I can think of, for now."
"There may be a couple of updates," Uri said, "last-minute wrinkles we're in the process of ironing out. If that happens, you need to come in as soon as you get the call. Same day. Is that clear?"
Pelayo gave a pro forma nod. "I hear ya." Same old Uri, keeping him on a tight leash so he could yank his chain.
_______
On the surface, the philm was conservative, an uninspired adaptation of 1940s or 1950s film noir. A bleak grayscale pseudoself sporting a knife-edged mustache and black, slicked-back hair. The face of an analog wristwatch was stenciled on his left wrist, mechanically resolute gears grinding out seconds, minutes, hours.
Inside was different. He couldn't put his finger on it, the feeling. Some odd acid-etched pattern of raw tics and urges. Too new yet to make their wishes known. That would come in time, a sense of direction, of place, in the world... the main reason people wore philm in the first place. Belonging. It made them part of a cast, a global cinematic tribe with shared interests and values.
It was always a little disconcerting at first. The jagged uncertainty and wrenched dislocation that ranie with new philm and undebugged 'skin.
Pelayo stepped from IBT's front lobby onto the sidewalk and accessed the public datalib with a quick mental command. Half a second later the spectral voice of a datician tickled his earfeed. "How may I assist you?"
"What can you tell me about the source material for the philm I'm currently waring?" he said. In the past, source images had been a good indicator of the market IBT was aiming for and what he could expect from the philm.
"One moment, please." A nearby mask, an Italianate muse, drifted down to look at him. "It's a composite," the datician said. "The persona doesn't appear to be drawn from one single film, but several."
"Such as?"
"Spencer Tracy in Fury. Orson Welles in The Lady from Shanghai. Burt Lancaster in Elmer Gantry. There may be others."
Pelayo had never heard of any of them. He squinted at the downloaded images projected on his retinas. "I don't get it."
"Explain, please?"
"The purpose of the philm. Why come out with an obscure composite?" Normally, philms had a distinct, readily identifiable character or brand name, like Scandalicious, F8, or Marilyn Monroe.
"Most composite images try to integrate a number of thematically or symbolically related tropes," the datician said.
"Maybe," Pelayo allowed. Something was going on. Whatever it was, it didn't fit into the normal prerelease pattern. Who would download the philm if there was no recognizable lifestyle, pseudoself, or ideology people could identify with and plug
"... fuck outta here," he said, the words sputtering out, frothy and bilious.
"Take it easy," Uri said, bending over the tank, his gaze drilling down like the lenses of a microscope. "Everything's fine. All we got to do now is download the philm and you'll be good to go."
The grin was back, mocking, carnivorous.
_______
The 'skin came with a soot-gray suit, the creases in the pant legs origami-sharp, a white silk shirt, and red silk tie. While he slipped on graphene-covered dress shoes, Uri brought him the jacket and overcoat.
"They part of the ware?" he asked.
Uri nodded. "No different from the 'skin. You got menu options for fabric type, color, and pattern. Same for the shirt, shoes, and tie."
"Simage capability?" Pelayo asked. In addition to philm, most new 'skin—even street jobs — included a tightly woven mesh of nanotrodes that mapped the topology and kinetic movement of the 'skin to generate a simulated image for use online.
"Fully integrated," Uri said. "You can even pick and choose which 'skin options you want to cast. That it?"
"All I can think of, for now."
"There may be a couple of updates," Uri said, "last-minute wrinkles we're in the process of ironing out. If that happens, you need to come in as soon as you get the call. Same day. Is that clear?"
Pelayo gave a pro forma nod. "I hear ya." Same old Uri, keeping him on a tight leash so he could yank his chain.
_______
On the surface, the philm was conservative, an uninspired adaptation of 1940s or 1950s film noir. A bleak grayscale pseudoself sporting a knife-edged mustache and black, slicked-back hair. The face of an analog wristwatch was stenciled on his left wrist, mechanically resolute gears grinding out seconds, minutes, hours.
Inside was different. He couldn't put his finger on it, the feeling. Some odd acid-etched pattern of raw tics and urges. Too new yet to make their wishes known. That would come in time, a sense of direction, of place, in the world... the main reason people wore philm in the first place. Belonging. It made them part of a cast, a global cinematic tribe with shared interests and values.
It was always a little disconcerting at first. The jagged uncertainty and wrenched dislocation that ranie with new philm and undebugged 'skin.
Pelayo stepped from IBT's front lobby onto the sidewalk and accessed the public datalib with a quick mental command. Half a second later the spectral voice of a datician tickled his earfeed. "How may I assist you?"
"What can you tell me about the source material for the philm I'm currently waring?" he said. In the past, source images had been a good indicator of the market IBT was aiming for and what he could expect from the philm.
"One moment, please." A nearby mask, an Italianate muse, drifted down to look at him. "It's a composite," the datician said. "The persona doesn't appear to be drawn from one single film, but several."
"Such as?"
"Spencer Tracy in Fury. Orson Welles in The Lady from Shanghai. Burt Lancaster in Elmer Gantry. There may be others."
Pelayo had never heard of any of them. He squinted at the downloaded images projected on his retinas. "I don't get it."
"Explain, please?"
"The purpose of the philm. Why come out with an obscure composite?" Normally, philms had a distinct, readily identifiable character or brand name, like Scandalicious, F8, or Marilyn Monroe.
"Most composite images try to integrate a number of thematically or symbolically related tropes," the datician said.
"Maybe," Pelayo allowed. Something was going on. Whatever it was, it didn't fit into the normal prerelease pattern. Who would download the philm if there was no recognizable lifestyle, pseudoself, or ideology people could identify with and plug
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