William Gibson - Fragments Of A Hologram Rose

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Fragments of a Hologram Rose

by William Gibson

VERSION 1.1 (Feb 04 00). If you find and correct errors in the text, please

update the version number by 0.1 and redistribute.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

That summer Parker had trouble sleeping.

There were power droughts; sudden failures of the delta-inducer brought

painfully abrupt returns to consciousness.

To avoid these, he used patch cords, miniature alligator clips, and black

tape to wire the inducer to a battery-operated ASP-deck. Power loss in the

inducer would trigger the deck's playback circuit.

He brought an ASP cassette that began with the subject asleep on a quiet

beach. It had been recorded by a young blonde yogi with 20-20 vision and an

abnormally acute color sense. The boy had been flown to Barbados for the

sole purpose of taking a nap and his morning's exerciseon a brilliant

stretch of private beach. The microfiche laminate in the cassette's

transparent case explained that the yogi could will himself through alpha

to delta without an inducer. Parker, who hadn't been able to sleep without

an inducer for two years, wondered if this was possible.

He had been able to sit through the whole thing only once, though by now he

knew every sensation of the first five subjective minutes. He thought the

most interesting part of the sequence was a slight editing slip at the

start of the elaborate breathing routine: a swift glance down the white

beach that picked out the figure of a guard patrolling a chain link fence,

a black machine pistol slung over his arm.

While Parker slept, power drained from the city's grids.

The transition from delta to delta-ASP was a dark implosion into other

flesh. Familiarity cushioned the shock. He felt the cool sand under his

shoulders. The cuffs of his tattered jeans flapped against his bare ankles

in the morning breeze. Soon the boy would wake fully and begin his

Ardha-Matsyendra-something; with other hands Parker groped in darkness for

the ASP deck.

Three in the morning.

Making yourself a cup of coffe in the dark, using a flashlight when you

pour the boiling water.

Morning's recorded dream, fading: through other eyes, dark plume of a Cuban

freighter - fading with the horizon it navigates across the mind's gray

screen.

Three in the morning.

Let yesterday arrange itself around you in flat schematic images. What you

said - what she said - watching her pack - dialing the cab. However you

shuffle them they form the same printed circuit, hieroglyphs converging on

a central component: you, standing in the rain, screaming at the cabby.

The rain was sour and acid, nearly the color of piss. The cabby called you

an asshole; you still had to pay twice the fare. She had three pieces of

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William Gibson - Fragments Of A Hologram Rose

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