Neuromancer
Authors: William Gibson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely
coincidental.
Neuromancer
An
Ace
Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©
1984, 1986, 1988
by
William Gibson
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means,
without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes
copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
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ISBN:
9781101146460X
AN
ACE
BOOK®
Ace
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Electronic edition: August, 2003
Version_3
William Gibson
lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, with his wife and their two children. His first
novel,
Neuromancer,
won the Hugo Award, the Philip K. Dick Memorial Award, and the Nebula Award in 1984.
Gibson is credited with having coined the term “cyberspace,” and having envisioned
both the Internet and virtual reality before either existed. In addition to
Neuromancer,
he is the author of
Count Zero, Mona Lisa Overdrive, Burning Chrome, Virtual Light, Idoru,
and
All Tomorrow’s Parties
.
T
O
D
EB
WHO MADE IT POSSIBLE
WITH LOVE
CHIBA CITY BLUES
T
HE SKY ABOVE
the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.
“It’s not like I’m using,” Case heard someone say, as he shouldered his way through
the crowd around the door of the Chat. “It’s like my body’s developed this massive
drug deficiency.” It was a Sprawl voice and a Sprawl joke. The Chatsubo was a bar
for professional expatriates; you could drink there for a week and never hear two
words in Japanese.
Ratz was tending bar, his prosthetic arm jerking monotonously as he filled a tray
of glasses with draft Kirin. He saw Case and smiled, his teeth a webwork of East European
steel and brown decay. Case found a place at the bar, between the unlikely tan on
one of Lonny Zone’s whores and the crisp naval uniform of a tall African whose cheekbones
were ridged with precise rows of tribal scars. “Wage was in here early, with two joeboys,”
Ratz said, shoving a draft across the bar with his good hand. “Maybe some business
with you, Case?”
Case shrugged. The girl to his right giggled and nudged him.
The bartender’s smile widened. His ugliness was the stuff of legend. In an age of
affordable beauty, there was something heraldic about his lack of it. The antique
arm whined as he reached for another mug. It
was a Russian military prosthesis, a seven-function force-feedback manipulator, cased
in grubby pink plastic. “You are too much the artiste, Herr Case.” Ratz grunted; the
sound served him as laughter. He scratched his overhang of white-shirted belly with
the pink claw. “You are the artiste of the slightly funny deal.”
“Sure,” Case said, and sipped his beer. “Somebody’s gotta be funny around here. Sure
the fuck isn’t you.”
The whore’s giggle went up an octave.
“Isn’t you either, sister. So you vanish, okay? Zone, he’s a close personal friend
of mine.”
She looked Case in the eye and made the softest possible spitting sound, her lips
barely moving. But she left.
“Jesus,” Case said, “what kinda creepjoint you running here? Man can’t have a drink.”
“Ha,” Ratz said, swabbing the scarred wood with a rag. “Zone shows a percentage. You
I let work here for entertainment value.”
As Case was picking up his beer, one of those strange instants of silence descended,
as though a hundred unrelated conversations had simultaneously arrived at the same
pause. Then the whore’s giggle rang out, tinged with a certain hysteria.
Ratz grunted. “An angel passed.”
“The Chinese,” bellowed a drunken Australian, “Chinese bloody invented nerve-splicing.
Give me the mainland for a nerve job any day. Fix you right, mate. . . .”
“Now that,” Case said to his glass, all his bitterness suddenly rising in him like
bile, “that is so much bullshit.”
T
HE
J
APANESE HAD
already forgotten more neurosurgery than the Chinese had ever known. The black clinics
of Chiba were the cutting edge, whole bodies of technique supplanted monthly, and
still they couldn’t repair the damage he’d suffered in that Memphis hotel.
A year here and he still dreamed of cyberspace, hope fading nightly. All the speed
he took, all the turns he’d taken and the corners he’d cut in Night City, and still
he’d see the matrix in his sleep, bright lattices
of logic unfolding across that colorless void. . . . The Sprawl was a long strange
way home over the Pacific now, and he was no console man, no cyberspace cowboy. Just
another hustler, trying to make it through. But the dreams came on in the Japanese
night like livewire voodoo, and he’d cry for it, cry in his sleep, and wake alone
in the dark, curled in his capsule in some coffin hotel, his hands clawed into the
bedslab, temperfoam bunched between his fingers, trying to reach the console that
wasn’t there.
“I
SAW YOUR
girl last night,” Ratz said, passing Case his second Kirin.
“I don’t have one,” he said, and drank.
“Miss Linda Lee.”
Case shook his head.
“No girl? Nothing? Only biz, friend artiste? Dedication to commerce?” The bartender’s
small brown eyes were nested deep in wrinkled flesh. “I think I liked you better,
with her. You laughed more. Now, some night, you get maybe too artistic; you wind
up in the clinic tanks, spare parts.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Ratz.” He finished his beer, paid and left, high narrow
shoulders hunched beneath the rain-stained khaki nylon of his windbreaker. Threading
his way through the Ninsei crowds, he could smell his own stale sweat.
C
ASE WAS TWENTY
-
FOUR
. At twenty-two, he’d been a cowboy, a rustler, one of the best in the Sprawl. He’d
been trained by the best, by McCoy Pauley and Bobby Quine, legends in the biz. He’d
operated on an almost permanent adrenaline high, a byproduct of youth and proficiency,
jacked into a custom cyberspace deck that projected his disembodied consciousness
into the consensual hallucination that was the matrix. A thief, he’d worked for other,
wealthier thieves, employers who provided the exotic software required to penetrate
the bright walls of corporate systems, opening windows into rich fields of data.
He’d made the classic mistake, the one he’d sworn he’d never make. He stole from his
employers. He kept something for himself and tried to move it through a fence in Amsterdam.
He still wasn’t sure how he’d been discovered, not that it mattered now. He’d expected
to die, then, but they only smiled. Of course he was welcome, they told him, welcome
to the money. And he was going to need it. Because—still smiling—they were going to
make sure he never worked again.
They damaged his nervous system with a wartime Russian mycotoxin.
Strapped to a bed in a Memphis hotel, his talent burning out micron by micron, he
hallucinated for thirty hours.
The damage was minute, subtle, and utterly effective.
For Case, who’d lived for the bodiless exultation of cyberspace, it was the Fall.
In the bars he’d frequented as a cowboy hotshot, the elite stance involved a certain
relaxed contempt for the flesh. The body was meat. Case fell into the prison of his
own flesh.
H
IS TOTAL ASSETS
were quickly converted to new Yen, a fat sheaf of the old paper currency that circulated
endlessly through the closed circuit of the world’s black markets like the seashells
of the Trobriand islanders. It was difficult to transact legitimate business with
cash in the Sprawl; in Japan, it was already illegal.
In Japan, he’d known with a clenched and absolute certainty, he’d find his cure. In
Chiba. Either in a registered clinic or in the shadowland of black medicine. Synonymous
with implants, nerve-splicing, and microbionics, Chiba was a magnet for the Sprawl’s
techno-criminal subcultures.
In Chiba, he’d watched his New Yen vanish in a two-month round of examinations and
consultations. The men in the black clinics, his last hope, had admired the expertise
with which he’d been maimed, and then slowly shaken their heads.
Now he slept in the cheapest coffins, the ones nearest the port, beneath the quartz-halogen
floods that lit the docks all night like vast stages; where you couldn’t see the lights
of Tokyo for the glare of the television sky, not even the towering hologram logo
of the Fuji Electric
Company, and Tokyo Bay was a black expanse where gulls wheeled above drifting shoals
of white styrofoam. Behind the port lay the city, factory domes dominated by the vast
cubes of corporate arcologies. Port and city were divided by a narrow borderland of
older streets, an area with no official name. Night City, with Ninsei its heart. By
day, the bars down Ninsei were shuttered and featureless, the neon dead, the holograms
inert, waiting, under the poisoned silver sky.
T
WO BLOCKS WEST
of the Chat, in a teashop called the Jarre de Thé, Case washed down the night’s first
pill with a double espresso. It was a flat pink octagon, a potent species of Brazilian
dex he bought from one of Zone’s girls.
The Jarre was walled with mirrors, each panel framed in red neon.
At first, finding himself alone in Chiba, with little money and less hope of finding
a cure, he’d gone into a kind of terminal overdrive, hustling fresh capital with a
cold intensity that had seemed to belong to someone else. In the first month, he’d
killed two men and a woman over sums that a year before would have seemed ludicrous.
Ninsei wore him down until the street itself came to seem the externalization of some
death wish, some secret poison he hadn’t known he carried.
Night City was like a deranged experiment in social Darwinism, designed by a bored
researcher who kept one thumb permanently on the fast-forward button. Stop hustling
and you sank without a trace, but move a little too swiftly and you’d break the fragile
surface tension of the black market; either way, you were gone, with nothing left
of you but some vague memory in the mind of a fixture like Ratz, though heart or lungs
or kidneys might survive in the service of some stranger with New Yen for the clinic
tanks.
Biz here was a constant subliminal hum, and death the accepted punishment for laziness,
carelessness, lack of grace, the failure to heed the demands of an intricate protocol.
Alone at a table in the Jarre de Thé, with the octagon coming on, pinheads of sweat
starting from his palms, suddenly aware of each tingling hair on his arms and chest,
Case knew that at some point he’d started to play a game with himself, a very ancient
one that has no
name, a final solitaire. He no longer carried a weapon, no longer took the basic precautions.
He ran the fastest, loosest deals on the street, and he had a reputation for being
able to get whatever you wanted. A part of him knew that the arc of his self-destruction
was glaringly obvious to his customers, who grew steadily fewer, but that same part
of him basked in the knowledge that it was only a matter of time. And that was the
part of him, smug in its expectation of death, that most hated the thought of Linda
Lee.
He’d found her, one rainy night, in an arcade.
Under bright ghosts burning through a blue haze of cigarette smoke, holograms of Wizard’s
Castle, Tank War Europa, the New York skyline. . . . And now he remembered her that
way, her face bathed in restless laser light, features reduced to a code: her cheekbones
flaring scarlet as Wizard’s Castle burned, forehead drenched with azure when Munich
fell to the Tank War, mouth touched with hot gold as a gliding cursor struck sparks
from the wall of a skyscraper canyon. He was riding high that night, with a brick
of Wage’s ketamine on its way to Yokohama and the money already in his pocket. He’d
come in out of the warm rain that sizzled across the Ninsei pavement and somehow she’d
been singled out for him, one face out of the dozens who stood at the consoles, lost
in the game she played. The expression on her face, then, had been the one he’d seen,
hours later, on her sleeping face in a portside coffin, her upper lip like the line
children draw to represent a bird in flight.
Crossing the arcade to stand beside her, high on the deal he’d made, he saw her glance
up. Gray eyes rimmed with smudged black paintstick. Eyes of some animal pinned in
the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.
Their night together stretching into a morning, into tickets at the hoverport and
his first trip across the Bay. The rain kept up, falling along Harajuku, beading on
her plastic jacket, the children of Tokyo trooping past the famous boutiques in white
loafers and clingwrap capes, until she’d stood with him in the midnight clatter of
a pachinko parlor and held his hand like a child.
It took a month for the gestalt of drugs and tension he moved through to turn those
perpetually startled eyes into wells of reflexive need. He’d watched her personality
fragment, calving like an iceberg,
splinters drifting away, and finally he’d seen the raw need, the hungry armature of
addiction. He’d watched her track the next hit with a concentration that reminded
him of the mantises they sold in stalls along Shiga, beside tanks of blue mutant carp
and crickets caged in bamboo.
He stared at the black ring of grounds in his empty cup. It was vibrating with the
speed he’d taken. The brown laminate of the tabletop was dull with a patina of tiny
scratches. With the dex mounting through his spine he saw the countless random impacts
required to create a surface like that. The Jarre was decorated in a dated, nameless
style from the previous century, an uneasy blend of Japanese traditional and pale
Milanese plastics, but everything seemed to wear a subtle film, as though the bad
nerves of a million customers had somehow attacked the mirrors and the once glossy
plastics, leaving each surface fogged with something that could never be wiped away.
“Hey. Case, good buddy. . . .”
He looked up, met gray eyes ringed with paintstick. She was wearing faded French orbital
fatigues and new white sneakers.
“I been lookin’ for you, man.” She took a seat opposite him, her elbows on the table.
The sleeves of the blue zipsuit had been ripped out at the shoulders; he automatically
checked her arms for signs of derms or the needle. “Want a cigarette?”
She dug a crumpled pack of Yeheyuan filters from an ankle pocket and offered him one.
He took it, let her light it with a red plastic tube. “You sleepin’ okay, Case? You
look tired.” Her accent put her south along the Sprawl, toward Atlanta. The skin below
her eyes was pale and unhealthy-looking, but the flesh was still smooth and firm.
She was twenty. New lines of pain were starting to etch themselves permanently at
the corners of her mouth. Her dark hair was drawn back, held by a band of printed
silk. The pattern might have represented microcircuits, or a city map.
“Not if I remember to take my pills,” he said, as a tangible wave of longing hit him,
lust and loneliness riding in on the wavelength of amphetamine. He remembered the
smell of her skin in the overheated darkness of a coffin near the port, her fingers
locked across the small of his back.
