They didn’t think Flynne’s brother had PTSD, but that sometimes the haptics glitched him…like phantom limb… — William Gibson
They didn’t think Flynne’s brother had PTSD, but that sometimes the haptics glitched him…like phantom limb, ghosts of the tattoos he’d worn in the war, put there to tell him when to run, when to be still, when to do the bad-ass dance…
So they allowed him some disability for that, and he lived in the trailer down by the creek.
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“You’re used to telepresence, then,” Lev said.
“We call it getting a haircut,” Flynne said, giving him a look as she got to her feet, “back in frontier days.”
Conner was in the garden, on hands and knees, snarling at Gordon and Tyenna. They were facing him, side by side, as if ready to spring, their musculature looking even less canine than usual, their stiff tails in particular. Carnivorous kangaroos, in wolf outfits with Cubist stripes.
“What’s he doing out there?” Netherton asked.
“I don’t know,” said Lev, “but they love it.”
Now the two creatures lunged at Conner simultaneously. He fell between them, flailing, wrestling with them. They were making a high-pitched, repetitious coughing sound.
“Ash imagines you a conservative,” Lowbeer said, “or a romantic, perhaps. She sees your distaste for the present rooted in the sense of a fall from grace. That some prior order, or perhaps the lack of one, afforded a more authentic existence.”
“I simply imagine things were less tedious,” Netherton said.
“I personally recall that world, which you can only imagine was preferable to this one,” she said. “Eras are conveniences, particularly for those who never experienced them. We carve history from totalities beyond our grasp."
