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Turner, corporate mercenary, wakes in a reconstructed body, a beautiful woman by his side. Then Hosaka Corporation reactivates him for a mission more dangerous than the one he's recovering from: Maas-Neotek's chief of R&D is defecting. Turner is the one assigned to get him out intact, along with the biochip he's perfected. But this proves to be of supreme interest to certain other parties--some of whom aren't remotely human.
Bobby Newmark is entirely human: a rustbelt data-hustler totally unprepared for what comes his way when the defection triggers war in cyberspace. With voodoo on the Net and a price on his head, Newmark thinks he's only trying to get out alive. Until he meets the angel.
A stylish, streetsmart, frighteningly probable parable of the future.
were dated and vaguely ridiculous. You could talk with them and get them to do things with themselves and each other. Bobby remembered being thirteen and in love with Brandi, the one with the blue rubber pants. Now he valued the projections mainly for the illusion of space they could provide in the makeshift bedroom. “Something fucking happened,” he said, pulling on black jeans and an almost-clean shirt. He shook his head. “What? Fucking what?” Some kind of power surge on the line? Some flukey
herbal hint of soap or shampoo. Thinking that, he thought about what he must smell like to her. Rudy had a shower— “Oh, shit, what’s that?” Stiffening on his back, pointing. A lean gray hound regarded them from a high clay bank at a turning in the road, its narrow head sheathed and blindered in a black hood studded with sensors. It panted, tongue lolling, and slowly swung its head from side to side. “It’s okay,” Turner said. “Watchdog. Belongs to my friend.” The house had grown, sprouting
they did, they were invisible as ever. For that matter, it seemed most likely that they would leave Alain unobserved. Certainly the address he had given her that morning would already be a focus of their attention, whether he were there or not. She felt a new strength today. She had stood up to Paco. It had had something to do with her abrupt suspicion, the night before, that Paco might be there, in part, for her, with his humor and his manliness and his endearing ignorance of art. She
Sally had made for him. “What’s wrong with your brother?” she asked, handing him half a sandwich. “How do you mean?” “Well, there’s something . . . He drinks all the time, Sally said. Is he unhappy?” “I don’t know,” Turner said, hunching and twisting the aches out of his neck and shoulders. “I mean, he must be, but I don’t know exactly why. People get stuck, sometimes.” “You mean when they don’t have companies to take care of them?” She bit into her sandwich. He looked at her. “Are you
or the other? You got the phone number for that Rolls of his?” “No,” Jackie said, “don’t bother. Best we lay low till Beauvoir turns up.” She stood, pulling off the trodes and picking up her hat. “I’m going to lie down, try to sleep. You keep an eye on Bobby . . .” She turned and walked to the office door. She looked as though she were sleepwalking, all the energy gone out of her. “Wonderful,” Jammer said, running the shaver along his upper lip. “You want a drink?” he asked Bobby. “Well,”