Read Online Rapture of the Nerds by Cory Doctorow - Free Book Online
Authors: Cory Doctorow
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she answers in English, staring at him idly. Her earrings stare too—synthetic eyeballs dangling from desiccated optic nerves. “You a tranny?”
“No, I’m a biohazard. What’s on the lunch menu?”
“We’ve got a choice of any cloned meat shawarma you fancy: goat, mutton, ox tongue, or Rumsfeld. With salad, olives, cheese, falafels, coffee or Coke. Pretty much anything. Say, are you
really
a biohazard?”
“Listen,” Huw says, “I’m not wearing this fucking sack because I
enjoy
it. Your Ministry of Barbarian Affairs insisted—”
“Why don’t you take it off then?” she asks. “If they call you on it, just pay.”
“Pay—”
“What’s wrong with you? You one of those dumb Westerners who doesn’t get baksheesh?” She looks unimpressed.
Huw stifles a facepalm.
I should have known. ...
“Thanks. Just get me the goat shawarma and falafels. They’re cloned, you say?”
She looks evasive. “Cloned-ish.”
“Vatmeat?” Huw’s stomach turns.
“You’re not a racist, are you? Nothing wrong with being vatted.”
Huw pictures a pulsating lump of flesh and hoses, recalls that the top-selling album of all time was recorded by such a being, and resigns himself to eating vatmeat rather than getting into a religious argument. “I’ll take the goat. And, uh, a Diet Coke.”
“Okay.” She turns and beams his order to the kitchen, then wanders over to the bar and begins to pour a tall drink.
Huw takes a deep breath. Then he pinches the seal node on his burka and gives it a hard yank. As gestures of defiance go, it’s small but profound; he feels suddenly claustrophobic, and can’t stop until he’s tugged the whole thing off, up and over his head, and yanked down the overalls that make up its bottom half, and stomped them all into the gray dust under his boots.
The air is dry, and smells
real
. Huw finally begins to relax. The waitress strolls over bearing a large glass, loaded with Coke and ice cubes. As she gets close, her nose wrinkles. “You need a bath, Mr. Biohazard Man.”
“Yeah. Well. You tell the Ministry.” Huw takes the drink, relishes a long swallow, unencumbered by multiple layers of smart antiviral polymer defenses. He can feel the air on his face, the sunlight on his skin. He puts the glass down.
Wonder how long I’ll take to work up a suntan?
he thinks, and glances at his wrist. He freezes.
There’s a biohazard trefoil on the back of his hand.
Huw stands up, feeling dizzy. “There a toilet here?” he asks.
“Sure.” The waitress points him round the back. “Take your time.”
The bathroom is a small nautiloid annex, but inside it’s as chilly and modern as Sandra Lal’s. Huw locks the door and yanks his tee and sweatpants off. He turns anxiously to check his back in the mirror over the sink—but the trefoil on his shoulder has gone.
It’s on the back of his hand. And it itches.
“Shit,” he says quietly and with feeling.
Back at the table, Huw bolts his food down then rises, leaving an uncharacteristic tip. He picks up the bundle of dusty black biohazard fabric and strolls past the shops. One of them is bound to be a black market nanohacker. His hands are shaking. He isn’t sure which prospect is worse: finding he’s got a big medical bill ahead, or trying to live in ignorance.
“Teapot,” he whispers.
“Yes, sir ?”
“Where’s the nearest body shop? Doesn’t have to be fully legal under WIPO-compliant treaty terms, just legal enough.”
“
Bzzt
. It is regrettably not possible for this humble unit to guide you in the commission of felonies, O Noble Sirrah—”
Shake
. “There is legal and there is
legal,
” Huw says. “I don’t give a shit about complying with all the brain-dead treaties the Moral Majority rammed through WIPO in the wake of the Hard Rapture. I just want somewhere that the local police won’t arrest me for frequenting if I pay the usual. Whatever the usual happens to be around here. Can you do that? Or would you like
“No, I’m a biohazard. What’s on the lunch menu?”
“We’ve got a choice of any cloned meat shawarma you fancy: goat, mutton, ox tongue, or Rumsfeld. With salad, olives, cheese, falafels, coffee or Coke. Pretty much anything. Say, are you
really
a biohazard?”
“Listen,” Huw says, “I’m not wearing this fucking sack because I
enjoy
it. Your Ministry of Barbarian Affairs insisted—”
“Why don’t you take it off then?” she asks. “If they call you on it, just pay.”
“Pay—”
“What’s wrong with you? You one of those dumb Westerners who doesn’t get baksheesh?” She looks unimpressed.
Huw stifles a facepalm.
I should have known. ...
“Thanks. Just get me the goat shawarma and falafels. They’re cloned, you say?”
She looks evasive. “Cloned-ish.”
“Vatmeat?” Huw’s stomach turns.
“You’re not a racist, are you? Nothing wrong with being vatted.”
Huw pictures a pulsating lump of flesh and hoses, recalls that the top-selling album of all time was recorded by such a being, and resigns himself to eating vatmeat rather than getting into a religious argument. “I’ll take the goat. And, uh, a Diet Coke.”
“Okay.” She turns and beams his order to the kitchen, then wanders over to the bar and begins to pour a tall drink.
Huw takes a deep breath. Then he pinches the seal node on his burka and gives it a hard yank. As gestures of defiance go, it’s small but profound; he feels suddenly claustrophobic, and can’t stop until he’s tugged the whole thing off, up and over his head, and yanked down the overalls that make up its bottom half, and stomped them all into the gray dust under his boots.
The air is dry, and smells
real
. Huw finally begins to relax. The waitress strolls over bearing a large glass, loaded with Coke and ice cubes. As she gets close, her nose wrinkles. “You need a bath, Mr. Biohazard Man.”
“Yeah. Well. You tell the Ministry.” Huw takes the drink, relishes a long swallow, unencumbered by multiple layers of smart antiviral polymer defenses. He can feel the air on his face, the sunlight on his skin. He puts the glass down.
Wonder how long I’ll take to work up a suntan?
he thinks, and glances at his wrist. He freezes.
There’s a biohazard trefoil on the back of his hand.
Huw stands up, feeling dizzy. “There a toilet here?” he asks.
“Sure.” The waitress points him round the back. “Take your time.”
The bathroom is a small nautiloid annex, but inside it’s as chilly and modern as Sandra Lal’s. Huw locks the door and yanks his tee and sweatpants off. He turns anxiously to check his back in the mirror over the sink—but the trefoil on his shoulder has gone.
It’s on the back of his hand. And it itches.
“Shit,” he says quietly and with feeling.
Back at the table, Huw bolts his food down then rises, leaving an uncharacteristic tip. He picks up the bundle of dusty black biohazard fabric and strolls past the shops. One of them is bound to be a black market nanohacker. His hands are shaking. He isn’t sure which prospect is worse: finding he’s got a big medical bill ahead, or trying to live in ignorance.
“Teapot,” he whispers.
“Yes, sir ?”
“Where’s the nearest body shop? Doesn’t have to be fully legal under WIPO-compliant treaty terms, just legal enough.”
“
Bzzt
. It is regrettably not possible for this humble unit to guide you in the commission of felonies, O Noble Sirrah—”
Shake
. “There is legal and there is
legal,
” Huw says. “I don’t give a shit about complying with all the brain-dead treaties the Moral Majority rammed through WIPO in the wake of the Hard Rapture. I just want somewhere that the local police won’t arrest me for frequenting if I pay the usual. Whatever the usual happens to be around here. Can you do that? Or would you like
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