"Paul J. McAuley & Kim Newman - In Dreams" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mcauley Paul J)

devos, and teevees go to be weird and freaky and devo-ish and dress up
or dress down together. Tres Milagros have won the golden Bell of St
James five times in the past ten years under the leadership of their director,
the fabled La Baiana.

And they want Annunciato to be chief guitarristo? HeesusHoséMaria .
..

Ros’a’Jericho is the remixado. She lives on a mattress amid piles of
rotting Chinese food cartons in a room stacked to the ceiling with silver and
black boxes bearing the logos of Pacific Rim corporations. The only light is
that of LEDs and crystal displays.

‘No vinyl, no spiral, no scratch,’ she says. ‘Happening world is my
found source.’ The pockets of her silver lamé suit contain DATcorders from
which she remixes the sound of the city into her music.

The aged aged black man makes food. Guitarristos are always
hungry. It is good for the music. While Annunciato pokes rice and beans
and a little chopped synthetic meat into his face, El Batador tells him about
the Tucurombé.

They are gods. Real gods. Street gods. Patterns of alien intelligence
stirred out of the informational minestrone of the Pacific Rim computer
cores and seasoned with Catholic hagiolatry; favela myth and superstition;
silver screen icon-ography; the symbolism of candomblé, umbanda,
vodun, Rosicrucianism and mass-market Buddhism; emergent myths of
the global data nets; night-hawk radio heroes, rock’n’soul legends. They
have quite a following on Tres Milagros and in some of the big projects
and arcosantis. Gods of the remix.

Though it was Seu Guantanamera had been watching you, calling you,
chose you for the kairis,’ says the old black man, ‘it was La Miranda, the
oldest and strongest of the Tucurombé, traced you through the traffic
control cameras down on the boulevard and called us. These are gods of
the public telephone and the traffic signal. They are strong, young, eager.
They do not ask of their disciples renounce the world, the flesh and the
devil, they ask and what have you done for me lately?’

Ogun Dé is the old black man’s particular patron. Con-ceived in the
informational shatter of a Mundo Tercero terror grouping’s viral attack on
the military systems, he oversees all things dynamic and rhythmic.
Arcologies, freeways, ionocruisers, carnival fireworks, heavy rains, fire,
fighting, team sports, all these fall into his bailiwick. He is Master of Rhythm.
He is Lord of the Drums. His avatar, rezzed up on Sendai-Nihon
wristie-vision, is a stealth bomber in Gothic spiked armour.
 San BuriSan is a rotating icosahedron of Japanese theatre masks,
persona of change and evolution. Bottle banks and carcrushers are his, his
also adolescence, plastic, birthdays, editing desks and lasers. Born one
cherry-blossom morning in the transfinite complexity of the Pacific Rim