Read Online Ribofunk by Paul di Filippo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul di Filippo
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director of the Great Lakes Bioregion, several World Bank officials, and many of the mayor’s old teammates. All were present at an exclusive party later that night, featuring entertainment by a host of the most uptaking stars from Bollywood to Taikong, including the Newsy Floozy, Jonny Kwesti, and Wubbo the Whale.
“A spokesdemon for the Transgenic Oversight Committee has issued a warning that the notorious rogue splice known as Krazy Kat is suspected to have infiltrated the GLB. All franches are asked to report any suspicious sightings to their commensal buzzworms or to patrolling TAC-TOCs.
“An Anti-Em demonstration in front of the Board of Trade erupted in violence late in the afternoon. The familiar chant of ‘No mods, no mixes!’ soon changed to shouts of ‘Burn the miscegenators!’ Authorities declared an emergency risk-bubble of ninety naders intensity covering three square blocks for a duration of thirty minutes plus-minus and dispersed clouds of Riotnip and Incontibarf.
“On financial fronts, the Hang Seng Index registered a day of heavy trading, reflecting the turmoil on the Prague exchange. Dalai Street responded by …”
“Softer,” I ordered the bird, and the parrot voice of the Central Nerve Net dipped in audibility to a low reassuring murmur.
A wordbird is a primitive, limited way to interface with CNN, I know, but it was all I was permitted by my altered bioparms. The same incident that had left my neurocircuits a bit scrambled and prone to rhyme-times made it impossible for me to experience virtuality or even plain three-dee anymore.
You see, I was one of the Hiphop Heads.
Not many people remembered the incident. I mean, so much happened nowadays, and things changed so fast. What with the Temp-Trop War and the Grey Goo Booboo intervening—Well, it’s not surprising lots of lesser scandals and yocto-minute-wonders were forgotten. After all, the whole affair happened over ten years ago. Though it did affect three million plus-minus people. But scattered across the whole North American Union, the victims were only about 4 percent of the population. Anyway, what happened was this.
Some three million percipients were tuned into Virtual Music Transmission’s half-hour show known as “Rap Klassix” when VMT experienced an act of sabotage. (As I recall, the individual or group responsible was never positively identified; suspects ranged from the Sons of Dixie to the Limbo Cannons.) In an instant, before any of the perks knew what was happening or could disengage, VMT’s baud rate was tripled, safety overrides were disabled, and new templates were laid over the standard transmission.
The add-on routines consisted of an illegal copy of Microprose’s Hardcore Reform, which was normally licensed only to government and gembaitch penal institutions.
The intruder master software did its job. Locking out the volition centers of the perks, taking as its text the innocent raps, Hardcore Reform reamed new neural pathways in three million brains, establishing the fifty-year-old raps as dominant behavior paradigms.
By the time the authorities shut VMT down, three million people had had their brains rewired.
At age thirteen, innocent cheb still living with his mom and sis in the gecekondu projex, I was one of them.
Well, to make a hairy narry less scary, the trope dosers and mccoys eventually fixed most of the neural damage the terrorists had wrought. Except for one minor tic.
All us perks who got our brains skew-fried
Would carry inside till the day we true-died
A distributed web of spurting nerve gaps
That made us want to rhyme out our urb raps.
The best that the big labs like Novo Nordisk and Cantab and NeosePharm could do was batch up a trope that alleviated the symptoms. A daily dose of poemasomes kept the Tourette-like syndrome mostly in check. Except during times of stress, or often just upon waking, or if I ingested any other really radical tropes, I was pretty much normal in my
“A spokesdemon for the Transgenic Oversight Committee has issued a warning that the notorious rogue splice known as Krazy Kat is suspected to have infiltrated the GLB. All franches are asked to report any suspicious sightings to their commensal buzzworms or to patrolling TAC-TOCs.
“An Anti-Em demonstration in front of the Board of Trade erupted in violence late in the afternoon. The familiar chant of ‘No mods, no mixes!’ soon changed to shouts of ‘Burn the miscegenators!’ Authorities declared an emergency risk-bubble of ninety naders intensity covering three square blocks for a duration of thirty minutes plus-minus and dispersed clouds of Riotnip and Incontibarf.
“On financial fronts, the Hang Seng Index registered a day of heavy trading, reflecting the turmoil on the Prague exchange. Dalai Street responded by …”
“Softer,” I ordered the bird, and the parrot voice of the Central Nerve Net dipped in audibility to a low reassuring murmur.
A wordbird is a primitive, limited way to interface with CNN, I know, but it was all I was permitted by my altered bioparms. The same incident that had left my neurocircuits a bit scrambled and prone to rhyme-times made it impossible for me to experience virtuality or even plain three-dee anymore.
You see, I was one of the Hiphop Heads.
Not many people remembered the incident. I mean, so much happened nowadays, and things changed so fast. What with the Temp-Trop War and the Grey Goo Booboo intervening—Well, it’s not surprising lots of lesser scandals and yocto-minute-wonders were forgotten. After all, the whole affair happened over ten years ago. Though it did affect three million plus-minus people. But scattered across the whole North American Union, the victims were only about 4 percent of the population. Anyway, what happened was this.
Some three million percipients were tuned into Virtual Music Transmission’s half-hour show known as “Rap Klassix” when VMT experienced an act of sabotage. (As I recall, the individual or group responsible was never positively identified; suspects ranged from the Sons of Dixie to the Limbo Cannons.) In an instant, before any of the perks knew what was happening or could disengage, VMT’s baud rate was tripled, safety overrides were disabled, and new templates were laid over the standard transmission.
The add-on routines consisted of an illegal copy of Microprose’s Hardcore Reform, which was normally licensed only to government and gembaitch penal institutions.
The intruder master software did its job. Locking out the volition centers of the perks, taking as its text the innocent raps, Hardcore Reform reamed new neural pathways in three million brains, establishing the fifty-year-old raps as dominant behavior paradigms.
By the time the authorities shut VMT down, three million people had had their brains rewired.
At age thirteen, innocent cheb still living with his mom and sis in the gecekondu projex, I was one of them.
Well, to make a hairy narry less scary, the trope dosers and mccoys eventually fixed most of the neural damage the terrorists had wrought. Except for one minor tic.
All us perks who got our brains skew-fried
Would carry inside till the day we true-died
A distributed web of spurting nerve gaps
That made us want to rhyme out our urb raps.
The best that the big labs like Novo Nordisk and Cantab and NeosePharm could do was batch up a trope that alleviated the symptoms. A daily dose of poemasomes kept the Tourette-like syndrome mostly in check. Except during times of stress, or often just upon waking, or if I ingested any other really radical tropes, I was pretty much normal in my
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