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Here is the novel that started it all, launching the cyberpunk generation,
and the first novel to win the holy trinity of science fiction: the
Hugo Award, the Nebula Award and the Philip K. Dick Award. With Neuromancer,
William Gibson introduced the world to cyberspace--and science fiction
has never been the same.
Case was the hottest computer cowboy cruising the information superhighway--jacking
his consciousness into cyberspace, soaring through tactile lattices
of data and logic, rustling encoded secrets for anyone with the money
to buy his skills. Then he double-crossed the wrong people, who caught
up with him in a big way--and burned the talent out of his brain,
micron by micron. Banished from cyberspace, trapped in the meat of
his physical body, Case courted death in the high-tech underworld.
Until a shadowy conspiracy offered him a second chance--and a cure--for
"Kaleidoscopic, picaresque, flashy, and decadent...an
amazing virtuoso performance...Neuromancer, in every sense, is state-of-the-art."
--The Washington Post
"A debut novel set for brain stun! Streetwise SF... one of the most
unusual and involving narratives to be read in many an artificially
induced blue moon!"
"Freshly imagined, compellingly detailed and chilling."
--The New York Times
"A revolutionary novel."
The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead
"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, h is 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 certain hysteria.
Ratz grunted. "An angel has 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."
The Japanese 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,
"You're breaking my heart, Ratz." He finished his beer, paid and left,
high narrow shoulders hunched beneath the rainstained khaki nylon
of his windbreaker. Threading his way through the Ninsei crowds, he
could smell his own stale sweat.
Case 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 hat projected his disembodied consciousness
into the consensual hallucination that was the matrix. A their, 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's made the classic mistake, the one he's 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.
His 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 the 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.