Broken Angels

"I walked in firing.
The guns, the interface guns, like rage extended in both hands. Biofeed from the palm plates gave me the detail. high impact, fragmentation load, magazines full to capacity. The vision I had, outside my fury, found structure in the writhing thing before me and the Kalashnikovs punched solid fire at it. The biofeed put my aim in place with micrometer precision.
Lengths of cable chopped and jumped, dropping to the sand and flopping like landed fish.
I emptied both guns.
They spat out their magazines and gaped open eagerly. I pounded the buts against my chest. The harness loader delivered, the gun buts sucked the fresh clips in with slick magnetic clicks. Heavy again, my hands whipped out, left and right, seeking,sighting.
The killing cables were gone, chopped off. The others surged at me through the sand and died, cut to pieces like vegetables under a chef's knife,
I emptied again.
Reloaded.
Emptied.
Reloaded.
Emptied.
Reloaded.
Emptied.
Reloaded.
Emptied.
And beat my chest repeatedly, not hearing as the harness clicked empty at me."

Wintermute Image

wintermute (neuromancer)

"I improvise. It is my greatest talent. I prefer situations to plans, you see.....Really,I've had to deal with givens. I can sort a great deal of information, and sort it very quickly. It's taken a very long time to assemble the team your part of. Corto was the first, and he nearly didn't make it. Very far gone in Toulon. Eating, excreting, and masturbating were the best he could manage. But the underlying structure of the obsessions were there: Screaming Fist, his betrayal, the congressional hearings."

"Is he still crazy?"

"He's not quite a personality." Dean smiled.

"But I am sure you are aware of that. But Corto is in there, somewhere, and I can no longer maintain that delicate balance. He's going to come apart on you, Case. So I will be counting on you. . ."

"That's good, mother fucker," Case said, and shot him in the mouth with the .357.

He'd been right about the brains. and the blood.

count zero

"The plane had gone to ground near the sound of running water. Turner could hear it, turning in the g-web in his fever of sleep, water down stone, one of the oldest songs. The plane was smart, smart as any dog, with hard-wired instincts of concealment. He felt it sway on it's landing gear,somewhere in the sick night, and creep forward, branches brushing and scrapping against the dark canopy. The plane crept into deep green shadow and sank down on it's knees, it's airframe whining and creaking as it flattened itself, belly down, into the loam and granite like a manta ray into the sand."

neuromancer

"The sky above the port was the color of television,tuned to a dead channel."