Read Online Rock On by Bruce Sterling, Poppy Z. Brite, Norman Spinrad, Elizabeth Hand, Lucius Shepard, Graham Joyce, Michael Swanwick, Charles De Lint, John Shirley, F. Paul Wilson, Howard Waldrop, Alastair Reynolds, Graham Masterton, Caitlin R. Kiernan, David J. Schow, Elizabeth Bear, Edward Bryan, Lawrence C. Connolly, Bradley Denton, Greg Kihn, Pat Cadigan, Marc Laidlaw, Del James, Lewis Shiner - Free Book Online
Authors: Bruce Sterling, Poppy Z. Brite, Norman Spinrad, Elizabeth Hand, Lucius Shepard, Graham Joyce, Michael Swanwick, Charles De Lint, John Shirley, F. Paul Wilson, Howard Waldrop, Alastair Reynolds, Graham Masterton, Caitlin R. Kiernan, David J. Schow, Elizabeth Bear, Edward Bryan, Lawrence C. Connolly, Bradley Denton, Greg Kihn, Pat Cadigan, Marc Laidlaw, Del James, Lewis Shiner
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enfolds Jain in her protection like a raincape. It sometimes amuses Jain; I can see that. Stella, get Alpertron on the phone for me. Stella? Can you score a couple grams? Stella, check out the dudes in the hall. Stella— It never stops.
When I first met her, I thought that Stella was the coldest person I’d ever encountered. And in Des Moines I saw her crying alone in a darkened phone booth—Jain had awakened her and told her to take a walk for a couple hours while she screwed some rube she’d picked up in the hotel bar. I tapped on the glass; Stella ignored me.
Stella, do you want her as much as I?
So there we are—a nice symbolic obtuse triangle. And yet— We’re all just one happy show-biz family.
4
This is Alpertron, Ltd.’s, own chartered jet, flying at 37,000 feet above western Kansas. Stella and Jain are sitting across the aisle from me. It’s a long flight and there’s been a lull in the usually boisterous flight conversation. Jain flips through a current Neiman-Marcus catalogue; exclusive mail order listings are her present passion.
I look up as she bursts into raucous laughter. “I’ll be goddamned. Will you look at this?” She points at the open catalogue on her lap.
Hollis, Moog Indigo’s color operator, is seated behind her. She leans forward and cranes her neck over Jain’s shoulder. “Which?”
“That,” she says. “The VTP.”
“What’s VTP?” says Stella.
Hollis says, “Video tape playback.”
“Hey, everybody!” Jain raises her voice, cutting stridently trough everyone else’s conversations. “Get this. For a small fee, these folks’ll put a videotape gadget in my tombstone. It’s got everything—stereo sound and color. All I’ve got to do is go in before I die and cut the tape.”
“Terrific!” Hollis says. “You could leave an album of greatest hits. You know, for posterity. Free concerts on the grass every Sunday.”
“That’s really sick,” Stella says.
“Free, hell.” Jain grins. “Anybody who wants to catch the show can put a dollar in the slot.”
Stella stares disgustedly out the window.
Hollis says, “Do you want one of those units for your birthday?”
“Nope.” Jain shakes her head, “I’m not going to need one.”
“Never?”
“Well . . . not for a long time.” But I think her words sound unsure.
Then I only half listen as I look out from the plane across the scattered cloud banks and the Rockies looming to the west of us. Tomorrow night we play Denver. “It’s about as close to home as I’m gonna get,” Jain had said in New Orleans when we found out Denver was booked.
“A what?” Jain’s voice is puzzled.
“A cenotaph,” says Hollis.
“Shut up,” Stella says. “Damn it.”
5
We’re in the Central Arena, the architectural pride of Denver District. This is the largest gathering place in all of Rocky Mountain, that heterogeneous, anachronistic strip-city clinging to the front ranges of the continental divide all the way from Billings down to the southern suburb of El Paso.
The dome stretches up beyond the range of the house lights, if it were rigid, there could never be a Rocky Mountain Central Arena. But it’s made of a flexible plastic-variant and blowers funnel up heated air to keep it buoyant. We’re on the inner skin of a giant balloon. When the arena’s full, the body heat from the audience keeps the dome aloft, and the arena crew turns off the blowers.
I killed time earlier tonight reading the promo pamphlet on this place. As the designer says, the combination of arena and spectators turns the dome into one sustaining organism. At first I misread it as “orgasm.”
I monitor crossflow conversations through plugs inserted in both ears as set-up people check out the lights, sound, color, and all the rest of the systems. Finally some nameless tech comes on circuit to give my stim console a run-through.
“Okay, Rob, I’m up in the booth above the east aisle. Give me just a tickle.” My nipples
When I first met her, I thought that Stella was the coldest person I’d ever encountered. And in Des Moines I saw her crying alone in a darkened phone booth—Jain had awakened her and told her to take a walk for a couple hours while she screwed some rube she’d picked up in the hotel bar. I tapped on the glass; Stella ignored me.
Stella, do you want her as much as I?
So there we are—a nice symbolic obtuse triangle. And yet— We’re all just one happy show-biz family.
4
This is Alpertron, Ltd.’s, own chartered jet, flying at 37,000 feet above western Kansas. Stella and Jain are sitting across the aisle from me. It’s a long flight and there’s been a lull in the usually boisterous flight conversation. Jain flips through a current Neiman-Marcus catalogue; exclusive mail order listings are her present passion.
I look up as she bursts into raucous laughter. “I’ll be goddamned. Will you look at this?” She points at the open catalogue on her lap.
Hollis, Moog Indigo’s color operator, is seated behind her. She leans forward and cranes her neck over Jain’s shoulder. “Which?”
“That,” she says. “The VTP.”
“What’s VTP?” says Stella.
Hollis says, “Video tape playback.”
“Hey, everybody!” Jain raises her voice, cutting stridently trough everyone else’s conversations. “Get this. For a small fee, these folks’ll put a videotape gadget in my tombstone. It’s got everything—stereo sound and color. All I’ve got to do is go in before I die and cut the tape.”
“Terrific!” Hollis says. “You could leave an album of greatest hits. You know, for posterity. Free concerts on the grass every Sunday.”
“That’s really sick,” Stella says.
“Free, hell.” Jain grins. “Anybody who wants to catch the show can put a dollar in the slot.”
Stella stares disgustedly out the window.
Hollis says, “Do you want one of those units for your birthday?”
“Nope.” Jain shakes her head, “I’m not going to need one.”
“Never?”
“Well . . . not for a long time.” But I think her words sound unsure.
Then I only half listen as I look out from the plane across the scattered cloud banks and the Rockies looming to the west of us. Tomorrow night we play Denver. “It’s about as close to home as I’m gonna get,” Jain had said in New Orleans when we found out Denver was booked.
“A what?” Jain’s voice is puzzled.
“A cenotaph,” says Hollis.
“Shut up,” Stella says. “Damn it.”
5
We’re in the Central Arena, the architectural pride of Denver District. This is the largest gathering place in all of Rocky Mountain, that heterogeneous, anachronistic strip-city clinging to the front ranges of the continental divide all the way from Billings down to the southern suburb of El Paso.
The dome stretches up beyond the range of the house lights, if it were rigid, there could never be a Rocky Mountain Central Arena. But it’s made of a flexible plastic-variant and blowers funnel up heated air to keep it buoyant. We’re on the inner skin of a giant balloon. When the arena’s full, the body heat from the audience keeps the dome aloft, and the arena crew turns off the blowers.
I killed time earlier tonight reading the promo pamphlet on this place. As the designer says, the combination of arena and spectators turns the dome into one sustaining organism. At first I misread it as “orgasm.”
I monitor crossflow conversations through plugs inserted in both ears as set-up people check out the lights, sound, color, and all the rest of the systems. Finally some nameless tech comes on circuit to give my stim console a run-through.
“Okay, Rob, I’m up in the booth above the east aisle. Give me just a tickle.” My nipples
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