Schismatrix plus Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Bruce Sterling
suit back into the vault, then picked his way with exaggerated grace along the stepping-stones.
The air stank. Lindsay stopped and sneezed. "Hey," the camera said. "Mr. Dze. I'd like a word with you, Mr. Dze."
"If you want a part in the play you'll have to appear in person," Lindsay said.
"You astonish me," the camera remarked. It spoke in trade Japanese. "I have to admire your daring, Mr. Dze. The Black Medicals have the foulest kind of reputation. They could have rendered you for your body chemicals." Lindsay walked north, his flimsy shoes scuffing the mud. The camera tagged after him, its left rear leg squeaking.
Lindsay descended a low hill into an orchard where fallen trees, thick with black smut, formed a loose, skeletal thicket. Below the orchard was a scum-covered pond with a decayed teahouse at its shore. The once-elegant wooden and ceramic building had collapsed into a heap of dry rot. Lindsay kicked one of the timbers and broke into a coughing fit at the explosion of spores. "Someone ought to clean this up," he said.
"Where would they put it?" the camera said.
Lindsay looked around quickly. The trees screened him from observation. He stared at the machine. "Your camera needs an overhaul," he said.
"It was the best I could afford," the camera said. Lindsay swung his black bag back and forth, narrowing his eyes. "It looks rather slow and frail."
The robot prudently stepped backward. "Do you have a place to stay, Mr. Dze?"
Lindsay rubbed his chin. "Are you offering one?"
"You shouldn't stay in the open. You're not even wearing a mask." Lindsay smiled. "I told the Medicals that I was protected by advanced antiseptics. They were very impressed."
"They must have been. You don't breathe raw air here. Not unless you want your lungs to end up looking like this thicket." The camera hesitated.
"My name is Fyodor Ryumin."
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance," Lindsay said in Russian. They had injected him with vasopressin through the suit, and his brain felt impossibly keen. He felt so intolerably bright that he was beginning to crisp a little around the edges. Changing from Japanese to his little-used Russian felt as easy as switching a tape.
"Again you astonish me," the camera said in Russian. "You pique my curiosity. You understand that term, 'pique'? It's not common to trade Russian. Please follow the robot. My place isn't far. Try to breathe shallowly."
Ryumin's place was a small inflated dome of gray-green plastic near the smeared and broken glass of one window panel. Lindsay unzipped the fabric airlock and stepped inside.
The pure air within provoked a fit of coughing. The tent was small, ten strides across. A tangle of cables littered the floor, connecting stacks of battered video equipment to a frayed storage battery propped on ceramic roof tiles. A central support pole, wreathed in wire, supported an air filter, a lightbulb, and the roots of an antenna complex.
Ryumin was sitting cross-legged on a tatami mat with his hands on a portable joystick. "Let me take care of the robot first," he said. "I'll be with you in a moment."
Ryumin's broad face had a vaguely Asiatic cast, but his thinning hair was blond. Age spots marked his cheeks. His knuckles had the heavy wrinkles common to the very old. Something was wrong with his bones. His wrists were too thin for his stocky body, and his skull looked strangely delicate. Two black adhesive disks clung to his temples, trailing thin cords down his back and into the jungle of wires.
Ryumin's eyes were closed. He reached out blindly and tapped a switch be-side his knee. He peeled the disks from his temples and opened his eyes. They were bright blue.
"Is it bright enough in here?" he said.
Lindsay glanced at the bulb overhead. "I think so." Ryumin tapped his temple. "Chip grafts along the optic nerves," he said.
"I suffer a little from video burn. I have trouble seeing anything not on scan lines."
"You're a Mechanist."
"Does it show?" Ryumin asked,
The air stank. Lindsay stopped and sneezed. "Hey," the camera said. "Mr. Dze. I'd like a word with you, Mr. Dze."
"If you want a part in the play you'll have to appear in person," Lindsay said.
"You astonish me," the camera remarked. It spoke in trade Japanese. "I have to admire your daring, Mr. Dze. The Black Medicals have the foulest kind of reputation. They could have rendered you for your body chemicals." Lindsay walked north, his flimsy shoes scuffing the mud. The camera tagged after him, its left rear leg squeaking.
Lindsay descended a low hill into an orchard where fallen trees, thick with black smut, formed a loose, skeletal thicket. Below the orchard was a scum-covered pond with a decayed teahouse at its shore. The once-elegant wooden and ceramic building had collapsed into a heap of dry rot. Lindsay kicked one of the timbers and broke into a coughing fit at the explosion of spores. "Someone ought to clean this up," he said.
"Where would they put it?" the camera said.
Lindsay looked around quickly. The trees screened him from observation. He stared at the machine. "Your camera needs an overhaul," he said.
"It was the best I could afford," the camera said. Lindsay swung his black bag back and forth, narrowing his eyes. "It looks rather slow and frail."
The robot prudently stepped backward. "Do you have a place to stay, Mr. Dze?"
Lindsay rubbed his chin. "Are you offering one?"
"You shouldn't stay in the open. You're not even wearing a mask." Lindsay smiled. "I told the Medicals that I was protected by advanced antiseptics. They were very impressed."
"They must have been. You don't breathe raw air here. Not unless you want your lungs to end up looking like this thicket." The camera hesitated.
"My name is Fyodor Ryumin."
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance," Lindsay said in Russian. They had injected him with vasopressin through the suit, and his brain felt impossibly keen. He felt so intolerably bright that he was beginning to crisp a little around the edges. Changing from Japanese to his little-used Russian felt as easy as switching a tape.
"Again you astonish me," the camera said in Russian. "You pique my curiosity. You understand that term, 'pique'? It's not common to trade Russian. Please follow the robot. My place isn't far. Try to breathe shallowly."
Ryumin's place was a small inflated dome of gray-green plastic near the smeared and broken glass of one window panel. Lindsay unzipped the fabric airlock and stepped inside.
The pure air within provoked a fit of coughing. The tent was small, ten strides across. A tangle of cables littered the floor, connecting stacks of battered video equipment to a frayed storage battery propped on ceramic roof tiles. A central support pole, wreathed in wire, supported an air filter, a lightbulb, and the roots of an antenna complex.
Ryumin was sitting cross-legged on a tatami mat with his hands on a portable joystick. "Let me take care of the robot first," he said. "I'll be with you in a moment."
Ryumin's broad face had a vaguely Asiatic cast, but his thinning hair was blond. Age spots marked his cheeks. His knuckles had the heavy wrinkles common to the very old. Something was wrong with his bones. His wrists were too thin for his stocky body, and his skull looked strangely delicate. Two black adhesive disks clung to his temples, trailing thin cords down his back and into the jungle of wires.
Ryumin's eyes were closed. He reached out blindly and tapped a switch be-side his knee. He peeled the disks from his temples and opened his eyes. They were bright blue.
"Is it bright enough in here?" he said.
Lindsay glanced at the bulb overhead. "I think so." Ryumin tapped his temple. "Chip grafts along the optic nerves," he said.
"I suffer a little from video burn. I have trouble seeing anything not on scan lines."
"You're a Mechanist."
"Does it show?" Ryumin asked,
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