Modem Times 2.0 Read Free

the little cul-de-sac was still stables with Dutch doors. Mo got out to undo the lockup where they had arranged to leave the car. Nye could tell from the general condition of the place, with its flaking nondescript paint and stink of mould and manure, that they were already as good as home. From somewhere in the back of the totters yard came the rasp of old cockney, the stink of drunkard’s sweat. It had to be Jerry’s Uncle Edmund. That cawing might be the distant
kar-har-kaa
of crows or an old man’s familiar cough.
    Major Nye could not be sure he was actually home but it was clear that the others were certain. This was their natural environment. From somewhere came the aroma of vinegar-soaked newspaper, limp chips.
3. CAPTAIN MARVEL BATTLES HIS OWN CONSCIENCE!!!!!
    Knowing that we are slaves of our virtual histories, the soldiers play dice beneath the cross. A bloody spear leans against the base. A goblet and a piece of good cloth are to be won. “What’s that?” says a soldier, hearing a groan overhead. “Nothing.” His companion rattles the dice in his cupped hands. “Something about his father.”
    —Michel LeBriard,
Les Nihilists
    “U P TO YOUR old tricks, eh, Mr. Cornelius?” Miss Brunner adjusted her costume. “Well, they won’t work here.”
    “They never did work. You just had the illusion of effect. But you said it yourself, Miss B—
-follow the money
. You can’tchange the economics. You can just arrange the window dressing a bit.”
    “Sez you!” Shakey Mo fingered his gun’s elaborate instrumentation. “There’s a bullet in here with your address on it.”
    Birmingham had started to burn. The reflected flames gave a certain liveliness to Miss Brunner’s features. “Now look what you’ve done!”
    “It doesn’t matter.” Jerry rubbed at his itching skull. “They’ll never make anything out of it. I must be off.”
    She sniffed. “Yes. That explains everything.”
    She wobbled a little on her ultra-high heels as she reboard-ed the chopper. “Where to next?”
4. ECCE RUMPO
    All Nazis fear The Yellow Star,
Who leaves his card upon the bar.
And
‘
scaping from their railroad car
He’s gone again, the Yellow Star!
    —Lafarge and Taylor,
The Adventures of the Yellow
Star
, 1941
    J ERRY WAS SURPRISED to see his dad’s faux Le Corbusier chateau in such good shape, considering the beating it had taken over the years. Obviously someone had kept it up. In spite of the driving rain and the mud, the place looked almost welcoming.
    Mo took a proprietal pleasure in watching Jerry’s face. “Maintenance is what I’ve always been into. Everything that isn’t original is a perfect repro. Even those psychedelic towers your dad was so keen on. He was ahead of his time, your dad. He practically invented acid. Not to mention acid rain. And we all know how far ahead of his time he was with computers.” Mo sighed. “He was a baby badly waiting for the microchip. If he’d lived.” He blinked reflectively and studied the curved metalcasings of his Banning, fingering the ammo clips and running the flat of his hand over the long, tapering barrel. “He understood machinery, your dad. He lived for it. The Leo IV was his love. He built that house for machinery.”
    “And these days all he’d need for the same thing would be a speck or two of dandruff.” Miss Brunner passed her hand through her tight perm and then looked suspiciously at her nails. “Can we go in?” She sat down on the chopper’s platform and started pulling her thick wellies up her leg.
    High above them, against the dark beauty of the night, a rocket streaked, its intense red tail burning like a ruby.
    Jerry laughed. “I thought all that was over.”
    “Nothing’s over.” She sighed. “Nothing’s ever bloody over.”
    Mo remembered why he disliked her.
    They began to trudge through the clutching mud which oozed around them. Melting chocolate.
    “Bloody global warming,” said Jerry.
    “You should have concentrated