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Download: Book Welcome to Another World. The year is 2027.

Book Welcome to another world. The year is 2027. Greenspace monitors space, the virtual computer world Gamespace has been infiltrated by Tibetan zombies and tantric viruses. And while users are still enjoying the interactive sushi and Tai Chi students are communicating with their long-dead masters, neurotechnology is starting to go crazy - with highly entertaining, but probably also fatal, consequences. This is the world of mind processing. First of all, downloading human consciousness is just a hobby for professionals ...
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Book Welcome to another world. The year is 2027. Greenspace monitors space, the virtual computer world Gamespace has been infiltrated by Tibetan zombies and tantric viruses. And while users are still enjoying the interactive sushi and Tai Chi students are communicating with their long-dead masters, neurotechnology is starting to go crazy - with highly entertaining, but probably also fatal, consequences. This is the world of mind processing. First of all, downloading human consciousness is just a hobby for Professor Frank Gobi. But now Satori, the largest and seediest corporation in the world, needs his help. Only Gobi is able to find a missing manager, to find the missing algorithm and to bring Satori's crashed virtual Metropolis back online. And it's not just about the battered image of the group - but also about the life of Gobi's son ... "Highly original, eccentric and brilliant - a single pleasure." Booklist "A fascinating mixture of William Gibson and Douglas Adams. This is exactly how science fiction should be today. «Entertainment Weekly» Alexander Besher only begins where ›Neuromancer‹ and ›Blade Runner‹ end. Satori City 2.0 opens up never-before-trodden territory for science fiction. «Douglas Rushkoff» A virtual rollercoaster ride that makes you dizzy. Fascinating from the first to the last page. «San Francisco Chronicle author Alexander Besher, born to Belarusian parents in China and raised in Japan, was editor-in-chief of the Chicago Review and has among other things developed a successful Japanese crime series. Satori City 2.0 is his first novel. Alexander Besher lives in California., Alexander Besher


Novel From the American by Michael Nagula GOLDMANN VERLAG, The American original edition was published in 1994 under the title "RIM: A Novel of Virtual Reality" by HarperCollins Publishers, New York. Goldmann Verlag is a company of the Bertelsmann publishing group American original edition 1994 by Alexander Besher. All rights reserved. Excerpt from Cult of Tara: Magic and Ritual in Tibet, by Stephan Beyer. Copyright © 1973 by the Regents of the University of California, University of California Press. "Pigs (Three Different Ones)" by Roger Waters. Copyright © 1977 Pink Floyd Music. Copyright © of the German-language edition 1996 by Wilhelm Goldmann Verlag, Munich Cover design: Design Team Munich Cover illustration: Bob Warner Typesetting: Uhl + Massopust, Aalen Printing: Eisnerdruck, Berlin Publishing number: 23691 Editing: Sky Nonhoff Editing: Cornelia Köhler Production: Heidrun Nawrot Made in Germany ISBN 3-442-23691-6, For Nicholas who inspired me to write this story For Françoise who kept it going and For the Family Everywhere, Acknowledgments I would like to thank Geoff Leach in Japan, who first discovered Rim and did it MacPower magazine in Tokyo recommended, which was running an early draft of the manuscript in Japanese. Geoff also introduced me to my Japanese literary agent Kiyoshi Asano, who gave my first novel, which had never been written, a home at the Chrest-sha publishing house in Tokyo. I would also like to thank chief editor Makoto Satoh for his patience and trust in the project. In addition, I would like to especially thank the Kyoto Journal, which published an excerpt from Rim for the first time in Japan, in English. I am no less grateful to my American literary agent Bill Gladstone and my editor at HarperCollins West, Joann Moschella. To all the others, including Joe Holzer, Christophe Marcant, Choni Yangzom, Renee Wildman, David Bunnell, Paul Saffo, Tom Peters, Bernie Krisher and Leonard Koren, who have supported and encouraged me on my way, I say: domo arigato . Alexander Besher San Francisco March 7, 1994, The Keiretsu Wars were bloody even by virtual world standards. One day before the megaquake of '26 erased Neo-Tokyo from the matrix, the first unsuspecting CEO was sitting in his garden in New Nippon enjoying his trumpet when the enemy downloaded him. His honorable consciousness was captured in a bio-ROM and carried away in a brocade box to be given as a present to the Lord of the Rim. The others fell just as quickly. This remained largely hidden from the world. In the West, it would be several years before the scientific establishment recognized the fact that energy can be manipulated through consciousness. After that, there were only two keiretsu corporations left - one owned by the Lord of the Rim and another inhabited by the Lord of Dream. One drew the sword and the other imagined a scabbard around the sword. Who was the more powerful? In this story, that is what you have to decide. But before you do that, you must know that the world is not what it seems to be. No more. First of all, when Neo-Tokyo ceased to exist, something bigger was created. A new matrix was born. Which was real, which was more imaginary? Traveling from one empire to another became the new form of commuting. Being at home in both matrices at the same time cost expensive money. However, when both worlds were connected to one another via an interface, such differences disappeared altogether. But before that happened, before the celebration of consciousness became a sophisticated art form, and before dreams became the most sought-after commodity on the market, there were difficult times when the keiretsu wars seemed to go on and one learned to fear hope. even if the love lasted This is part of the story, a small part that I know well. I dedicate the report to my father, who is now a ronin in the realm of the unknown. Trevor Gobi from: »The Keiretsu-Monogatari« (»Annals of the Megacorporate Wars«) Vector 16, Matrix Zwo Taihei 43 (2067A.E.), Prologue A Japanese Tea Garden, Neo-Tokyo, Autumn 2025 The older Japanese opened up with determination the entrance to the inner garden. It was an exclusive neighborhood in Neo-Tokyo, where members of the imperial family and high-ranking clan members of the company lived. The cuckoos called from the pine grove that bordered Prince S.'s villa. Somewhere in the twilight of the garden a chime rang in the wind. It was a lonely sound. "Wait outside," the man commanded his entourage in a harsh voice. The four people in dark suits bowed and stood motionless while his gray kimono-clad figure paused for a moment and then stormed off through the five-hundred-year-old thatched gate. Two of them were bodyguards of the old man and were attentive on the threshold of the Roji, their senses awake, but their bodies relaxed. The other two were his personal assistants. One carried a briefcase with the old man's backup consciousness, which he put down wearily between his legs. His colleague lit a ginko cigarette and enjoyed the quiet of the facility. It was hard to believe that there was so much peace minutes away from the hustle and bustle of the city center. On the other side of the bamboo fence, the old man paused for a moment and admired a group of yellow and white chrysanthemums. This simple, breathtaking beauty. Despite the pain caused by the relentlessly eating cancer inside, he inhaled the fresh, cleansing smell of the pine trees and felt instantly strengthened. The cancer was incurable, but it was a minor inconvenience compared to the battles it had fought in the eighty-three active years of its life. And that wouldn't stop him now. Irregularly shaped stepping stones zigzagged toward the small tea house at the end of the winding path. The moss was so green and so thick. For a moment the color reminded him of the Mekong that flows through Indochina. Those had been happier times; perhaps not entirely free of worries, but exciting as it broke market after market in Southeast Asia. Times when the empire was built. And how could he not think of Mai while remembering the Mekong? Sweet, ravishing Mai, who for him combined all the characteristics of a woman and a woman, offered him body and soul, a young girl who sacrificed herself for an old man. He could still smell the scent of sandalwood on her soft brown skin ... The pine needles crackled under his footsteps and he noticed a thin thread of smoke curling up from the teahouse chimney. Mai was behind him now, as was everything else. All his past lives that fell like dates from a tree that no longer existed. Long ago he had been felled and uprooted, without a trace, obliterated by his thoughts, which were now running toward the border beyond which his next life awaited him. If everything went according to plan, this would be the most important day of his life: the climax of his career and the beginning of a new era for the Kobayashi House. He went to the stone water basin, lifted the bamboo ladle and filled it with the cool water that he poured over his hands. He pulled a folded sheet of hand-scooped paper out of his sleeve and dried his hands, then turned to look at the opening through which one had to squeeze into the tea room. That was the ritual approach that meant humility and turning away from worldliness. He put his wooden clogs on the stone, pulled the small parchment door aside, then bent down low and crawled into the cool interior of the chamber, which was only two and a half tatami mats. The late afternoon sun threw its last soft golden rays through the strips of the bamboo lattice windows onto the brown plaster walls. The man turned to the alcove where a scroll hung. The thick black Japanese kanji ideograms were appropriate for the occasion, he thought. "Look into the universe through what lies in front of you." A stick of incense had been lit in the burner and a single chrysanthemum was stuck in a bamboo vase without a head. Wait a minute, headless? The man froze and stared at the stem. Then suddenly, above the stem, the yellow petals of the chrysanthemum appeared, a graphic marvel, as splendid as the flowers outside. The flowers were of course online. Mitsubishi Mummenschanz. In the fading light of the room he heard the sound of boiling water, almost like a brook rippling through a forest. The coal glowed faintly in the stove under the kettle. On one side was the small tea room, in which all the utensils for the ceremony were already laid out. He heard the host approach the other entrance. The parchment door slid open and the master of ceremonies squeezed inside. He bowed to the old man, who returned the bow without saying a word. Strange, thought the old man. He was such a young master. A master of nothing. All his life the old man had struggled to amass wealth, to gain great power and greater influence, and yet none of that compared to the power possessed by the pale youth with the pencil-thin arched eyebrows and the searing Look. Even without this look meeting his own, these eyes saw everything, absorbed everything. They understood that the old man's power had reached its climax and that there was only one thing that could bring him the peace of mind that he so longed for: by mastering the emptiness that awaited him, by willingly accepting it in his heart of hearts Structure of its powerful worldwide organization. This nothingness would ensure that he left something behind after his death. It would be like the seal of his signature that he had put on everything he encountered, all business transactions and all worldly contexts. The youth did not mind that he should be the medium for the transfer of this power, because that meant little to him personally. At this level, nothing was just a game. It had other effects on other levels. There were many levels of nothing. At the current stage of his personal development, the old man could hardly appreciate this knowledge. The youth bowed and brought out a small bundle wrapped in brocade. He held it up with both hands and then placed it on the mat between them. The old man sat petrified. He didn't dare to doubt. He had witnessed the beta test himself. With the help of a K700 downsizer from Kobayashi, an entire boulder weighing four tons from the Ryoanji Zen garden was digitized from a distance of four hundred kilometers. He had saved the picture in a file that he kept in an amulet on his neck. When the proof was first before him, he had gazed at it with a feeling of almost religious contemplation. For him, the picture had the full weight, appearance and character of the large boulder that had once been buried in this famous Zen garden. If there was an illusion, it was that it was once a solid rock. It was still a rock. It had the essence of a rock. The old man held his breath as the master unwrapped the bundle. He took the ceremonial glove and, almost casually, slipped it over his right hand. The understatement was extremely subtle. Then, with another brief bow, the youth began the virtual reality ceremony: Vacharu-no-yu. The new way to serve reality - and savor it. For tea traditionalists, of course, this meant a deviation. They were hopelessly behind the times. For them, nothing could replace the original Cha-no-yu tea ceremony established by the tea master Sen Rikyu in the sixteenth century. Fool! No wonder that New Nippon was again ravaged by strife and strife, just as it was during the feudal civil wars. As for Rikyu, the traditionalists even refused to recognize the Master in his present holocarnation. Oh my goodness! Thanks to a Kobayashi Chajin projector, Rikyu had already served him personally in the same tea room. These fools! What had to be done to finally convince her that times had really changed !? Did Shogun Nobunaga himself have to appear and claim their heads? The old man grinned several levels beneath his mask of expressionlessness. That could be arranged. In fact, he'd done it before. A few cowardly Keiretsu gentlemen could confirm this - that is, if they were still able to speak. With the help of the compression technology which the young master had so expertly developed for him, he already possessed a considerable collection of her extracted consciousnesses. Neuronetsukes, that's what the old man jokingly called them. Brain bonsai! He had a dozen figurines on display in a glass cabinet. Let's see, there was the traitor Ono, who had secretly conspired against him with the Fuji clan of Osaka. And then there were his other loot - Shigehara, Tamba, and Ikeda. Hadn't they declared themselves opposed to the Kobayashi house? Now they were all part of his precious Netsuke collection. Who else in the world could boast of playing host to such handcrafted guests! All of his former enemies had been turned into one-of-a-kind works of art. Miniatures with a new status. The old man giggled silently at the thought. Tamba was now a wild boar, Ono a rat because of his insolence, and the slippery Ikeda a fish that wriggles in the net ... Those exquisite details! This pathos! There was so much life and movement in them. They should be grateful that they had been allowed to be turned into great art from the scum they were! The old man took a deep breath. He watched as the young master made every little movement of the ceremony with otherworldly grace. From the way he used the glove as if he were a calligrapher wielding the brush, to the way he took the meta-ROM cup out of its place and held it up in awe.It was an old Kyocera ceramic bowl that was bursting with holotropic damage that was brown, almost black. Except for the bowl and the tea caddy, which was a Hitachi vacuum bottle, all utensils were fully functional holograms, from the teaspoon to the ladle. Even the steam boiler was a highly compressed illusion. Priceless! Now the master scooped up a ladle full of water and put it in the bowl. He washed the tea whisk and put the ladle back on the kettle. He emptied the tea bowl. He wiped the bowl with a cloth. He put the cloth on the lid of the kettle. The moment of truth had finally come. Master unscrewed the cap from the Hitachi vacuum bottle and the green glow from the virus lit the room. Incredible! So that was it. The young man had made it here personally from the source. The unreal that has become reality, sighed the old man as he contemplated the radiant shine. The young man took out two spoons of green pixels and put the virus in the Kyocera bowl. He poured a ladle of hot water into the bowl and stirred the tea vigorously. Then he took the tea bowl in his left hand and offered it to the old man with his gloved right hand. The old man turned the tea bowl a little, held it up and peered intently into it. Through the green haze he saw the mountains and rivers of old Yamato. He saw the virtual reality factories of New Nippon and the coded vision of a people. He saw their striving and their fears, their bonds and their longings. He saw the long scroll of their births and the clouds of incense that covered their deaths. He saw the sky over New Nippon, gray, blue and green, and the weather pattern that swept across the islands before it dissipated over the inland sea. He saw everything there was to see from the first moment when creation came to the islands until the moment when the foam of the green tea enveloped it again in the impenetrable presence. Yes, only the present was always impenetrable. The old man, had known this truth for a long time and would take it with him to the grave. Indeed, it was the most impenetrable of all moments. He almost sighed, but that would have been inappropriate in view of this unique gift. He held the bowl in front of his face, inhaled the scent of the mountains and rivers, the lakes and fields, then he drank everything up, sipping loudly to show his appreciation. Nothing had ever tasted so good to him. The youth bowed. He allowed the moment to pass without a word. The old man had taken New Nippon into himself, right down to his very essence. Let him enjoy fleeting fame. The virus was everywhere anyway, and no one could stop it, let alone control it. He hadn't bothered to mention it to the old man. How could it have been possible for him to appreciate the fact that he didn't exist? That it never existed? But let us return for a moment to this harmless dualism and the bubbling tea kettle. Every single moment is connected to every other moment. There is nothing that separates something. Each fragment is firmly attached to every other fragment. Space and time, life and death, everything is so fleeting. Digitized nothing. Gatay gatay paragatay parasamgsatay bodhi svaha. Away, away, away into the afterlife, away into the afterlife behind the afterlife to full enlightenment ... The celebration of virtual reality is only just beginning. So may it begin., Arroyo US-Mexico Border, Spring 2027 It was a scorching day; the blue sky wavered bright white and dazzling like a worm washed down your throat with a glass of mescal. The man with the silver face was waiting on the American side of the Mexican border between Tijuana and San Ysidoro. He wore a long, tan-colored suede coat and a Rasta hat studded with Pentium processors. He didn't have to wait too long. For about twenty minutes he had watched the mountainside through the shape finder. The chaparral on the Mexican side flickered with waves of chi energy. Now the first person stepped outside, quickly followed by five others. The jeep with the US immigration officials had parked in the Arroyo, in the dry valley, the dry river bed. Chi waves billowed like shimmering veils of heat. The man checked the gestalt meter: 35 Hertz. Not bad. He spat. Vamonos, amigos. It is time we got ahead. Hayaku. He rose from his crouch, then strolled down the dry river bed towards the waiting officers. The next moment he heard the jeep's engine start and purr like a cat. As the illegals set foot on American soil, the purr turned into a roar, and the machine leapt out of the hidden hollow. The six illegals didn't seem to mind. They continued to walk casually towards the US jeep, which was approaching them in the midst of a huge cloud of dust. They didn't try to hide or flee. The jeep creaked to a halt, and the metallic echo sounded far across the river bed. The illegals just stood there and waited. Some of them put their sacks on the floor as the two immigration officers slowly got out of the jeep. The leader of the group waved a greeting to them. “Hola! Konichiwa! ”One of the officers turned when he saw the silver-faced man step out from behind a huge cardoon cactus. "What the ...?" He began, but was interrupted. He suffered a system failure in the middle of a sentence. At the same moment his partner noticed the intruder too. But his ads reacted just as slowly and were disabled by the sudden collapse. The illegals did not move. They were frozen in motion and assessed the new development from their point of view. It wouldn't do them much good. The waves were only reversible by those wearing a chi absorber. For a radius of fifty yards, anything that did not meet the calibrated parameters of chi compatibility cracked through like an overloaded fuse. "Welcome to the Virtual States of America," said the man with the silver face, leaning over the erased figures. "Sorry to ruin your party," he added in a whisper as he scanned their inert CPU units. "Just a few minor formalities, then I'll let you go again." The download was quick, and the buffer with the antivirus protocol protected it. Just in case they were networked. He checked the meter reading carefully. The two fake US officials were extremely high quality in every way except one. The newcomers had an interface on their mind processor that he had never seen before. Very interesting. And one of the illegals was special. Something very special. He turned to one of the figures lying on the ground and turned it around with his foot. She had the face of a young man about twenty-three years old. Short auburn hair, smooth complexion, an innocent look on the smooth features. The silver-faced man patted him and brought out a driver holo. He turned it on. The voiceprint called his name: Thomas Ferris. Date of birth: June 2, 2005. Address: 1862 Hollyo- ake Drive, San Diego. Occupation: Nanopharmaceutical, Western Labs. The medical records listed his immunization, most recently against agoraphobia, depression, gastritis and fear of death. The man with the silver face grinned. You went to a lot of trouble for a puppet, Hombre. Still, he had to admire the tremendous amount of detail that had gone into the droid. It was a Kobayashi from the neuro workshops in Todos Santos. "All right, Mr. Ferris, let's see if you have anything to say to us." With a quick knife cut he pulled the box out of the box, neocortex at the back of his head. While crouching in the dust, he studied the circuit board for a few moments; his eyes lit up. "Direct hit, Tyrone!" He exclaimed happily. "Domo arigato, Mr. Sato!" He slipped the circuit board into the pocket of his long coat. Then he took a pinch from the snuffbox, sneezed, spat out loud, and looked at the other figures lying on the floor. I can go for them right away, he thought to himself. They were older models that were no longer in great demand, but who knows - they might bring him a few extra tapes. When he finished eviscerating, he had all of their neuroplatins. Then he went, the spurs clinking on his lizard-leather boots.