Globalhead
Bruce Sterling
Language: English
Pages: 239
ISBN: B002C14AC4
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Featuring thirteen satirical short stories, a unique collection includes scientific superstars, a rock singer who is the voice of the people, and two lost souls who drive off the edge of the world and find each other.
From the Paperback edition.
and across the border to Wells, Nevada. The switch to a smaller highway seemed to stymie their pursuers, but only temporarily. At 80 West just east of Oasis they found the desert highway entirely blocked. A church bus full of protestors in death’s-head masks had physically blocked the road with their black-cloaked bodies. As the van drew nearer, they began chaining themselves together, somewhat hampered by their placards and scythes. Starlitz rolled down the driver’s-side window, took his hands
girl-group as if they’d just arrived via saucer from Venus. “That would let the Bureau in …” Bob adjusted his Ray-Bans. “Okay, Janie, if you say so, I guess they walk. But be sure and upload their dossiers to Washington.” “Will do!” O’Houlihan beamed. Bob was reluctant. “You’re damned sure they didn’t try to get into any police systems?” “They’re not that smart,” O’Houlihan told him. Bob nodded and returned to his cohorts, who were hauling handcuffed pro-lifers, by their armpits, face first
always liked dogs. One of the soldiers addressed the dog in Uzbek and offered it some of its rations. It sniffed the food, took a tentative lick, but refused to eat it. “Sit!” Vlad said suddenly. The dog sat obediently. “She understands Russian,” Vlad said. “Nonsense,” I said. “She just reacted to your voice.” “There must be some other Russians nearby,” Nina said. “A secret research station, maybe? Something we were never told about?” “Well, I guess we have a mascot,” I said, scratching the
old man?” Blank look. “Your husband, Irene.” “Husband is dead.” “Aw, Jesus. Sorry to hear that.” Judging by her clothes, Mrs. Irene Beiliss was about one Adidas jog away from bag-ladyhood. No job, a widow, and a foreigner. With a chrome-plated Magnum in her purse and a real attitude problem. “Tell you what,” Jim said, improvising. “I really don’t want to go back there just yet, I don’t think it’s safe for us. So whatya say I buy us something to eat. We can wait a while, talk it over. You
high-tech drum kit with the clustered, shiny look of an oil refinery. Others checked lighting, flicking blue and yellow spots across the stage. At the public entrances, two crewmen from a second bus erected metal detectors for illicit cameras, recorders, or handguns. Especially handguns. Two attempts had already been made on Boston’s life, one at the Chicago Freedom Festival, when Chicago’s Mayor had been wounded at Boston’s side. For a moment, to understand it, I mounted the empty stage and