Cyberpunk

your whole body. Just like singing.
    One of the flocks had paused off to the side; they had a red light to wait for. It was as he had observed with Delmont: the lawyers looked right through beggars, they didn’t want to think about them. He played louder, and one young man glanced over briefly. Sharp face, wire-rims—with a start Lee recognized the man as the one he had harassed out of Fish Park a couple days before. The guy wouldn’t look at Lee directly, and so he didn’t recognize him back. Maybe he wouldn’t have anyway. But he was hearing the kazoo. He turned to his companions, student types gathered to the lawyer flock for the temporary protection of the bodyguard. He said something to them—“I love street music,” or something like that—and took a dollar from his pocket. He hurried over and put the folded bill in Lee’s baseball cap, without looking up at Lee. The walk light came on, they all scurried away. Lee played on.
    That night after feeding Debra her potato, and eating two himself, he washed the pot in the bathroom sink, and then took a can of mushroom soup up to Rochelle, who gave him a big smile.
    Walking down the stairs he beeped the kazoo, listening to the stairwell’s echoes. Ramon passed him and grinned. “Just call you Robinson Caruso,” he said, and cackled.
    “Yeah.”
    Lee returned to his room. He and Debra talked for a while, and then she fell into a half-sleep, and fretted as if in a dream.
    “No, that’s all right,” Lee said softly. He was sitting on his mattress, leaning back against the wall. The cardboard sign was facedown on the floor. The kazoo was in his mouth, and it half buzzed with his words. “We’ll be all right. I’ll get some seeds from Delmont, and take the pots to new hideouts, better ones.” It occurred to him that rent would be due in a couple of weeks; he banished the thought. “Maybe start some gardens in no-man’s-land. And I’ll practice on Vic’s harmonica, and buy one from the pawn shop later.” He took the kazoo from his mouth, stared at it. “It’s strange what will make money.”
    He kneeled at the window, stuck his head out, hummed through the kazoo. Tune after tune buzzed the still, hot air. From the floor below Ramon stuck his head out his window to object: “Hey, Robinson Caruso! Ha! Ha! Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to sleep!” But Lee only played quieter. “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.”

GETTING TO KNOW YOU

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    By David Marusek

    In 2019, Applied People constructed the first Residential Tower to house its growing army of professionals-for-hire. Shaped like a giant egg in a porcelain cup, APRT 1 loomed three kilometers over the purple soybimi fields of northern Indiana and was visible from both Chicago and Indianapolis. Rumor said it generated gravity. That is, if you fell off your career ladder, you wouldn’t fall down, but you’d fly cross-country instead, still clutching your hat and briefcase, your stock options and retirement plan, to APRT 1.
    Summer, 2062
    Here she was in a private Slipstream car, flying beneath the plains of Kansas at 1000 kph, watching a holovid, and eating pretzels. Only four hours earlier in San Francisco, Zoranna had set the house to vacation mode and given it last-minute instructions. She’d thrown beachwear and evening clothes into a bag. Reluctantly, she’d removed Hounder, her belt, and hung him on a peg in the closet. While doing so, she made a solemn vow not to engage in any work-related activities for a period of three weeks. The next three weeks were to be scrupulously dedicated to visiting her sister in Indiana, shopping for a hat in Budapest, and lying on a beach towel in the South of France. But no sooner had Zoranna made this vow than she broke it by deciding to bring along Bug, the beta unit.
    “Where were you born?” Bug asked in its squeaky voice.
    Zoranna started on a new pretzel and wondered why Bug repeatedly asked the same questions. No doubt it had to do with its imprinting algorithm. “Take a note,” she said, “annoying repetition.”
    “Note taken,” said Bug. “Where were you born?”
    “Where do you think I was born?”
    “Buffalo, New York,” said Bug.
    “Very good.”
    “What is your date of birth?”
    Zoranna sighed. “August 12, 1961. Honestly, Bug, I wish you’d tap public records for this stuff.”
    “Do you like the timbre of Bug’s voice?” it said. “Would you prefer it lower or higher?” It repeated this question through several