"Gagne, Stefan - Haven Borne" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gagne Stefan)

-=| HB |=-

:Program transferred,: flashed a monitor somewhere in the real
portion of the Tank. The Tank was really just a long string of super
computers stuck in a fraternity basement, running in secret. Since the
computer banks were sealed off in a manner similar to King Tut's tomb, odds
are no surprise inspections would uncover them. In fact, to remove the
hatch and access the system, a block and tackle arrangement had to be
hooked up to several domestic, fuel-guzzling land rovers.

There were only three ways to access the Tank. One, via a cheapo text
interface from a keyboard in the dark, dry basement. Two, with a special
cyberspace deck linked to VOSNet.

Or three, be a program uploaded to the system.

:Running program Number_Two.VST. Marking process as foreground with
high priority,: echoed the screen to nobody in particular.

Number Two materialized with a sickening thud in a back alley of the
Septic Tank, landing in a virtual puddle. Since water and absorption
weren't factors in this simulated world, it was like landing on a mirror.
Hitting water would have been less painful, on the whole.

Number Two got up quickly, going through the human motions of dusting
himself off, despite the lack of dust. (Certain physical quirks were
programmed into him, regardless of whether they were needed on not, such as
breathing, eating, or keeping wrinkles out of your clothes.) He re-adjusted
his scarf and cane, and took a leisurely stroll into a baseball bat.

Two collapsed on the ground as the three punks grinned, looming over
him.

"Welcome wagon," one of them said. "Let's see what you've got for us
in the way of tips."

The goons continued pounding with the bats. After five minutes, they
realized something was wrong.

"Jimmy, this guy ain't derezzing," one of them noted.

"I'm not what?" Number Two asked, completely placid.

"The negative feedback ain't workin'," Jimmy spat. "He's blocked it