Resident Evil Zero volverá en Wii

Foro para jugones.

Resident Evil Zero volverá en Wii

Notapor Redfield » 28 Feb 2008, 00:11

Capcom ha anunciado a través de las páginas de la revista japonesa Famitsu que Resident Evil Zero se está adaptando para Wii, la nueva consola doméstica de Nintendo, de manera similar a lo que sucedió con Resident Evil 4.
El juego se basará completamente en el original de GameCube y todo indica que no va a cambiar la cámara para parecerse al estilo jugable de Resident Evil 4, aunque el sistema de control sí se ha adaptado al mando remoto de Wii.
Se espera que se incluya algún tipo de contenido adicional, aunque esto no ha sido confirmado por Capcom. Su lanzamiento en Japón se espera para los meses de verano, sin fecha todavía en Europa.

Fuente: ... ra-en-wii/

Nos vemos :wink:
Un verdadero amigo es aquel que sabe todo de ti y sin embargo te quiere. ;)
Avatar de Usuario
Mensajes: 331
Registrado: 05 Abr 2003, 12:47
Ubicación: Madrid (España)

Resident Evil 0 para Wii sólo está previsto en Japón

Notapor Redfield » 28 Feb 2008, 13:45

En declaraciones a Computer & Videogames, los representantes de Capcom Europa han afirmado que no hay planes sobre un posible lanzamiento internacional de Resident Evil Zero para Wii, y que en estos momentos sólo se contempla su lanzamiento en Japón. Tal y como se supo ayer, la compañía de Osaka tiene planes de sacar partido a un título que pasó sin pena ni gloria por las listas de ventas pero que cuenta con interesantes ideas y planteamientos únicos dentro de la saga Biohazard.
A pesar de estas palabras, puede que todavía sea pronto para descartar la presencia de este título fuera de Japón ya que todavía se conocen muy pocos detalles sobre el mismo. Cabe la posibilidad de que Capcom quiera jugar sobre seguro y espere a ver las ventas en Japón antes de plantearse el esfuerzo de localizarlo para el mercado extranjero.

Fuente: ... aa&pic=GEN

Nos vemos :wink:
Un verdadero amigo es aquel que sabe todo de ti y sin embargo te quiere. ;)
Avatar de Usuario
Mensajes: 331
Registrado: 05 Abr 2003, 12:47
Ubicación: Madrid (España)

Re: Resident Evil 0 para Wii sólo está previsto en Japón

Notapor {HAYATO} » 28 Feb 2008, 20:29

Shareware License
Cyberpunk, by Bruce Bethke
Page 1 of 2
This book file is distributed as shareware. You may freely copy, email,
post on a web site, or otherwise distribute this book file, provided you
observe the specific license conditions listed below.
If you enjoy this book and want to support this experiment in electronic
publishing, please send a check or money order for $5 (USD) to:
Bruce Bethke
P.O. Box 28094
Oakdale, MN 55128
If you do not have access to US funds, please send the approximate
equivalent in your local currency. Prizes will be awarded for the most
colorful, exotic, and/or amusing bank notes.
Specific License Conditions
1. The contents of this book file are the copyrighted property of Bruce
Bethke. This book is NOT in the public domain. All copies of this file
must retain this authorship statement and copyright information.
2. All copies of this book file must retain this shareware license
3. The content of this book file may not be altered in any material way.
4. You may print one (1) paper copy of this file for your personal use.
5. You may NOT print this file in bound book form, except by express
written agreement with the author.
Shareware License
Cyberpunk, by Bruce Bethke
Page 2 of 2
6. You may NOT create derivative works based upon this work, except
by express written agreement with the author. “Derivative works”
includes language translations, ports to other file types, adaptations
for live performance or other media, works of fiction based upon the
characters or situations described in this work, or other forms of
derivation and/or adaptation yet to be identified.
7. Read #6 again. I’d love to have people port this thing to Palm Pilot
format or translate it into other languages, but I want to KNOW
about such work BEFORE it’s done.
8. No warranty is express or implied. The reader assumes all risks and
agrees to hold the author harmless in the event of computer damages,
real or imagined, that may or may not be attributed to receipt or use
of this file. This file as originally released was thoroughly scanned
and determined to be virus-free, but Lord knows there are enough
sociopathic a-holes out there and no doubt someone is working right
now on an embedded .pdf virus.
9. In the event of litigation arising from the terms of this license
agreement, all parties agree that the terms of this agreement shall be
adjudicated according to the laws of the state of Minnesota, republic
of the United States of America, Planet Earth, Quadrant Alpha,
Galaxy Milky Way. In the event that any provision of this license
agreement is held null and void, the remaining provisions shall remain
in effect.
10. Can you believe I have to include this kind of crap in a book that I’m
giving away for free?
A novel by
Bruce Bethke
©2001 Bruce Bethke
All Rights Reserved
This version ©2001 Bruce Bethke. All Rights Reserved.
Portions of this work have been previously published in different formats. This
work incorporates material copyrighted in 1980, 1982, 1988, and 1989 by
Bruce Bethke.
Inquiries regarding publication and/or subsidiary rights to this material should
be directed to:
Ashley D. Grayson
Ashley Grayson Literary Agency
1342 18th Street
San Pedro, CA 90732
(310) 548-4672
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any persons, living, dead, or
undead (“We prefer the term postmortal”), is purely accidental.
Cyberpunk 1.0 1
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
0/ 0/ : Warmstart
Okay, so it’s morning. Sparrows are arguing in the dwarf maples
outside my bedroom window. Metallic coughs and sputters echo down
the street; old man Xiang must have scored some pirate gasoline and
tried to start his Mercedes again. Skateboard wheels grind and clatter on
cracked pavement. Boombox music Doppler-shifts as a squad of middle
school AnnoyBoys roll past.
Ah, the sounds of Spring.
Closer by, I flag soft noises filtering up from the kitchen: Mr.
HotBrew wheezing through another load of caffix. The pop and crinkle
of yummy shrinkwrap being split and peeled. Solid thunk of the
microwave oven door slamming closed, chaining into the bleats, chimes
and choppy vosynthed th-an-k-yo-us of someone doing the program job
on breakfast.
Someone? Mom, for sure. Like, nuking embalmed meadow muffins
is her domestic duty. Dad only cooks raw things that can be immolated
on the hibachi. I listen closer, hear her cheerful mindless morning babble
and him making with the occasional simian grunt in acknol, or maybe
they aren’t even talking to each other. Once Mom gives the appliances a
start they can do a pretty fair sim of a no-brain conversation all by
I roll over. Brush the long black hair back from my face. Get my left
eye open and find the bedside clock.
Okay, so it’s not morning. Not official, not yet. School day rules:
true morning doesn’t start until 0/7:0/ 0/ :0/ 0/ , exact. I scrunch the covers up
around my cheeks, snuggle a little deeper in the comfty warm, work at
getting both eyes open.
Jerky little holo of a space shuttle comes out from behind the left
Cyberpunk 1.0 2
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
edge of the clock. Chick. Chick. Chick. Stubby white wings flash as the
ugly blunt thing banks to pass in front. Chick. Chick. Numbers change.
I hate that clock.
I mean, when I was a twelve, I thought that clock was total derzky.
Cooler than utter cool. The penultimax: A foot-high lump of jagged
blue-filled Lucite, numbers gleaming like molten silver poured on a
glacier, orbited forever by a Classic Shuttle. Every five minutes the
cargo doors open and a satellite does the deploy. Every hour on the hour
the ‘nauts come out for a little space spindance.
Shuttle swings around the right side of the clock. Chick. Chick.
Stupid thing. Not even a decent interfill routine, just a little white brick
moving in one-second jerks. A couple months back me and Georgie
tried to hack the video PROMs, reprogram it to do the Challenger every
hour on the hour. Turned out the imager wasn’t a holosynth at all, just a
glob of brainless plastic and a couple hundred laser diodes squirting
canned stillframes.
Chick. The shuttle vanishes behind the right edge of the clock. Gone
for thirty seconds.
I lie there, looking at the clock, and mindlock once more on just how
Dad the thing truly is. I mean, I can almost see the motivationals
hanging off it like slimey, sticky strings: “Is good for you, Mikey. Think
space, Mikey. Science is future, honorable son. Being gifted is not
enough; you must study ‘til eyes bleed, claw way through Examination
Hell, and perhaps one day if you are extra special good just maybe you
get to go Up!”
Yeah, up. To the High Pacific. Get a Brown Nose in nemawashi—
the Nipponese art of kissing butt—and become a deck wiper on the
Nakamura industrial platform. Or maybe the PanEuros will decide they
need some good public relations, let us and the Russians kill a few more
people trying to get to Mars again. Boy oh boy.
When you’re 13.75 years old and almost a sophomore in high
school, you start to think about these things.
Cyberpunk 1.0 3
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
Outside my window, old man Xiang’s car door creaks open with a
rusty squeal, slams shut with a sharp krummp. The sparrows explode in a
flutter of stubby wings and terrified cheeping, fly off chased by a boiling
stream of Chinese obscenities. I hear a deep grunt and the scrape of
shoes on pavement as he gets behind the car, starts pushing.
Shuttle comes back out from behind the clock. Chick. Chick. Cargo
doors pop open, in prep for the 6:55 satellite deploy. I roll over, pull a
pillow onto my head, try to find another minute or two of sleep.
No good. There’s light seeping in; not much, but enough to show
that I’m lying between Voyager sheets and pillowcases. Wearing dorky
NASA Commander AmericaTM cosmo-jammies (only ‘cause all my other
nightclothes are in the wash, honest). Close my eyes, and I can still see
Mom and Dad smiling stupid at me as I tear open the Christmas wrap,
recognize the dumb fake roboto and cyberlightpipe pattern and start to
gag, then scratch my true response and give them what they want to
hear: “Geez, Mom, these are real neat!” Almost said far out and groovy,
but figured that’d tip them off.
Rayno explained it to me real good once, how Olders brains are
stuck in a kind of wishful self-sim’d past. Like, his bio-dad used to build
model privatecars. Whenever his mom kicked him out for the weekend
he’d go over to his bio-dad’s, get bored to death and halfway back again
hearing about Chryslers, Lincolns. Wasn’t ‘til he was fifteen years old
that he finally met his bio-grandfather, learned that the family’s true last
privatecar was a brainless little 3-cylinder Latka.
Chime. Downstairs, the microwave announces that breakfast is
ready. The oven door opens with a sproing. Mom says something
cheerful as she slaps the foodpods on the table; Dad rustles his faxsheets
and grumbles something low in reply. I make a tunnel out of my pillow,
peek at the clock. 6:57.
Nope. Still isn’t morning.
Anyway, that’s where Rayno’s bio-dad’s brain got stuck. Georgie’s
old man scrounges parts, rebuilds obsolete American computers, never
stops ranting about how great they really were and it’s all Management
Cyberpunk 1.0 4
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
and Wall Street’s fault that the domestic industry is dead. My Dad’s too
busy to build/rebuild anything, what with his job and his first wife’s
grownup kids, so he buys me space shuttle clocks. Flying model Saturn-
Five’s. Apollo Hi-Lites video singles. A full-bandwidth membership in
AstraNet and a Nitachi telescope.
A telescope? Hey, this is Dad we’re talking about! No mere hunk of
glass could be half expensive enough for the trophy son of David
Richard Harris, Fuji-DynaRand’s Fuku Shacho of Marketing
(American). He bought me a zillion-power CCD-retinated fused-silicate
photon amplification device with all the optional everythings. Set it on
this monster tripod out on the deck—looks like Mung the Magnificent’s
fritzin’ Interplanetary Death Cannon—and every night when he’s in
town and not working late we have to go out there, burn our ten minutes
of Quality Time shivering in the cold and damp and trying to spot
something educational.
Of course, being Dad, he’s also got to shut off the programmables
and insist on using the dumb manual controls. Meaning most nights we
wind up looking at cloud projos, comm satellites, wreckage from the
Freedom, and other stuff that might be stars or planets but he’s never
real sure which. Then he swings the ‘scope around to point at the Fuji-
DynaRand platform, hanging there fat and low in geosync like a big
green ‘n’ gold corporate logo—which, thanks to a gigundo holo laser on
the platform, is just exactly what it does look like through the ‘scope—
and he launches into the standard lecture about why I should want to Go
Smile? Yup, I can feel a true smile coming on. No doubt about it,
I’m going to wake up this morning with a smile, ‘cause right now I’m
thinking deep about Dad, and the Death Cannon, and Dad’s library of
standard lectures. Last winter, when he was out of town for a week, me
and Georgie started pu** with the telescope’s brainbox. Discovered
we could run a lightfiber from my bedroom to the deck, patch the Death
Cannon straight into MoJo —my Miko-Gyoja 260/0/ /ex supermicro—and
auto-aim the thing just by clicking on stuff from the encyclopedia. Pipe
Cyberpunk 1.0 5
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
the images to any screen in the HouseSys, or better yet, compress ‘em,
save ‘em, and look at them “later.”
When I showed Dad what we’d done, his reaction was classic. First,
that little vein on the side of his forehead started throbbing. Then, his
face shifted down to this deep magenta beet-look, and I thought sure he
was gonna blow all his new heartgaskets.
And then, running on pure improv and with absolute no rehearsal at
all, he proceeded to coredump a truly marvelous all-new version of his
famous lecture, That’s What’s Wrong With You Damned Kids. Brilliant
performance. There are fathers and there are bio-parents; there are
Olders and even a few dads; but only my old man can be so total, utter
Solid proof that I’m a mutant, you ask me.
A burst of static. A crackle, a buzz or two, and then the clock speaks
up in that stupid pseudo space-radio voice it uses: “Good morning,
captain. Rise and shine. --crackle— It’s oh-seven-hundred —pssht—
and you are go for throttle up.” I cop a glance at the clock, flag that the
cargo doors are open and seven little ‘nauts are out, spinning on their
head buckets.
Okay, it’s true morning, at last, official. No avoiding it any longer. I
roll over onto my back, flip the pillow off my face, hear it land
somewhere with a flumpf but it doesn’t sound like it’s hit anything
breakable. I brush the hair back from my face again, take a deep breath:
standard morning smells are percolating up the stairs. De-licious hot
microwaved plastic. Yummy bitter fresh-brewed caffix. True inspiring
yeasty reek of irradiated sugar-glazed pastryoid. I sit up in bed, yawn,
open both eyes at the same time, and finally, turn to my desk.
MoJo is black, silent. Dead.
In a nano I’m total awake. Covers fly everywhere as I roll off the
bed, hit the floor barefoot, kick aside the dirty clothes and bounce to my
desk. Already in my head I’m pleading as my fingers zip over the cables,
testing, tugging, tweaking. Geez, don’t let this be the Sikh Ambush virus
again! I’m just about to crack open MoJo’s CityLink box when I flag the
Cyberpunk 1.0 6
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
Gyoja Gerbil is tottering, vague and dim, across the flatscreen. He turns
slow, mouths some silent words, then bows deep and whacks the gong
with his walking stick. No sound. A faint, dark dialog box pops open and
my morning news start to scroll in, utter quiet and almost unreadable.
Oh. That’s right; I forgot. I was up late last night, studying Death
Cannon coordinates F0/14 0/A22 15FF—Meghan Gianelli’s bedroom
window—and I turned the sound and contrast way down. Sighing relief,
I spin them back up to normal, plop down in my chair, and re-exec the
boot script.
The Gyoja Gerbil winks out a mo, winks back in, and bows again.
“Good morning, Michael Harris,” he starts over. Inward, I shudder. Only
Mom and my Miko-Gyoja 260/ 0/ /ex still call me Michael. Mom I can’t do
anything about, but one of these days me and Georgie are going to have
to reburn the boot ROMs and grease the gerbil.
“Now checking CityNet mail for you,” the Gyoja says. He closes his
eyes, like he’s concentrating; I bite my lip and tough it out. Just six more
ROM commands to execute before the rodent surrenders control. Just six
more, unless...
The Gyoja Gerbil frowns, freezes. A flashing red-border dialog box
pops open; a hardware interrupt, generated by the CityLink deep security
program. Warning! it says. Possible buffer contamination! I acknol the
alert, bang into the hex monitor, dump out the contents of the flytrap and
look it over.
No big deal. Two Dark Avenger viruses, one Holland Girl, an idiotsimple
Gobbler and a mess of raw data that’s probably an adfax that got
sent to me by mistake. Typical CityNet wildlife. For a mo, I hesitate.
Nah. Nice that the rodent was interrupted, but I don’t dare try to
look for a way around him with a copy of Dark Avenger in the CityLink.
I flush the buffer, and a nano later the Gyoja has seized control again.
“Now checking CityNet mail for you,” he says.
Huh? That’s odd. The samurai rat doesn’t repeat himself, usual. I
lean close, watch real careful.
Cyberpunk 1.0 7
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
“I have found these messages waiting for you, Honorable Harrissan,”
he says, and he opens a window between his hands like he’s
pulling open a scroll. I start to read the first line.
The top of the window slips out of the gerbil’s grip, slams shut on
his right hand. Arterial blood jets bright red as little hairy fingers are
lopped off neat, go tumbling down to the bottom of the screen.
“Now checking CityNet mail for you,” he says again, then freezes.
Jerks back to the start. “Now checking—” Freeze. Restart. “Now ch—”
I pounce on the keyboard, start banging out interrupts. Oh no, it is
the Sikh Ambush virus! Break. Nothing. Ctrl-C. Nothing. Option E.
“Now—,” he starts. Freeze.
Ctrl-Alt-right fist.
Desperate and frantic, I take a deep breath, then stab my thumb
down on the warmstart reboot button. The Gyoja Gerbil’s head explodes,
blood and brains and teeth spraying truly gross all over the flatscreen.
Golly. It’s never done that before.
Feeling just a little stunned, I sag back in my chair, pu** my chin in
my left hand, and start wondering just what the Hell kind of virus I
picked up this time. And why my flytrap didn’t catch it. And what it’s
going to do to MoJo. I don’t have to wonder for long; two little cartoon
men in white uniforms—nobody out of any of my programs, I’m sure—
shuffle out onto the screen, one pushing a garbage can on squeaky
wheels, the other carrying a big shovel. They stop, shake their heads and
tsk-tsk at the mess, then shovel what’s left of the gerbil into the trash can
and amble off. The flatscreen blanks.
I give it five seconds. Ten seconds. I’m reaching for the manual
reset button when a new character darts out onto the screen. This one’s a
robopunk—a real techno looking ‘bot with a blue chrome mohawk—and
he stops centerscreen, looks around furtive, then whips out a can of
Cyberpunk 1.0 8
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
spray paint and leaves me a hot green message:
Oh, shiite.
The ‘bot vanishes. The message hangs there a mo, doing the slow
fade. “Damn,” I say, quiet. Then a little more aggressive. “Damn!” I
look around as if afraid someone’s looking over my shoulder, turn back
to MoJo, and kick the leg of my desk. “Oh, damn!” The message
finishes its fade and I jerk into action, bouncing up out of my chair,
punching power switches, yanking cables. CityLink box switched off
and unplugged. NetLine yanked, on both ends. HouseFiber unplugged.
“Damn, damn, damn!” I hesitate a mo over MoJo’s master power
switch. It’s been almost two years since the last time I shut him off utter
I scowl, and hit the switch. Then I yank the power cord for good
It wasn’t a virus, it was a message from Rayno. He caught
somebody else poking around in OurNet. And if that’s true/true, I’m in
trouble so deep I need a snorkel.
Cyberpunk 1.0 9
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
Chapter 0/ 1
Soon as I’d finished with the total disconnect, I tore off my cosmojammies
and threw them in the corner, grabbed my blue spatterzag
jumpsuit off the floor and zipped it on, then dug out my blitz yellow
hightops from under the bed and laced them up loose. Subroutining off
to the bathroom for a mo to flush my bladder buffer and run a brush
across my teeth, I popped back into my bedroom, threw my video slate
and a couple textbook ROMs into my backpack, and hit the stairs flying.
Mom and Dad were still at breakfast when I bounced into the
kitchen. “Good Morning, Michael,” said Mom with a smile. “You were
up so late last night I thought I wouldn’t see you before you caught your
“Had a tough program to crack,” I lied.
“Well,” she said, “now you can sit down and have a decent
breakfast.” She turned around to pull another pod of steaming
muffinoids out of the microwave and slap them down on the table.
“If you’d do your schoolwork when you’re supposed to, you
wouldn’t have to cram at the end of the semester,” Dad growled from
behind his caffix and faxsheet. I sloshed some juice in a plastic glass,
gulped it down, and started for the door.
“What?” Mom asked. “That’s all the breakfast you’re going to
“Haven’t got time,” I said. “Gotta get to school early to see if the
program checks.” Bobbing around her, I faked a dribble, lobbed the
empty glass into the sink. Two points.
She looked at me, shook her head, and took a slow step forward like
she was going to block me. “You’re not going to school dressed like
that, I hope?”
Cyberpunk 1.0 10
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
“Aw, Mom.” Ducking back around the table, I grabbed a muffin—
rice bran, sawdust and rabbit raisin, I think.
“I mean, look at you, you’re nothing but a mass of wrinkles. Where
did you find that jumpsuit anyway, in the laundry hamper?”
“No, Mom.” Faking a step back towards the hall door, I stuffed the
muffin into my backpack and velcroed the pouch.
She followed the feint. “And what about your hair? I don’t mind if
you wear it long, but honestly Michael, it looks like there’s something
nesting in it.”
Dad lowered his faxsheet long enough to peer over the top edge.
“Kid needs a flea bath and a haircut, if you ask me.” Oh, perfect, Dad.
Just the exact reaction I wanted. That’s why I got the horsemane style!
Mom turned on Dad and spoke to quiet him—ragging on me before
school is her job—but I didn’t hear the rest ‘cause I’d seen my opening,
taken it, and was already out the door and halfway across the porch.
“Don’t forget to boot Muffy!” Mom yelled after me.
Hand on the outside doorknob, I stopped, turned around. “Yes,
mother.” Taking a quick scan around, I spotted Mom’s Mutt lying in the
corner, curled up around the battery charger. Oh, I wanted to boot that
dog all right! But then, foot cocked, I remembered Muffy was a lot
heavier than it looked and decided I didn’t need the pain. So I bent over,
lifted the dog’s stubby little tail, and unplugged the power feed.
“Arf,” Muffy said. It stood up and began twitching through its servo
diagnostics. I gave the charger cord a sharp yank, watched it retract.
“Arf,” Muffy said again, and it began toddling towards the kitchen. I
turned around, gave one last fleeting thought to the cheery mind image
of Muffy being drop-kicked into the mock oranges, and then zipped out
the door.
I caught the transys for school, just in case Mom and Dad were
watching. Two blocks down the line I got off and caught the northbound
tram, and then I started off on a big loop that kept me off the routes
Mom and Dad used to get to work and took me back past home and in
the complete opposite direction from school. Half an hour and six
Cyberpunk 1.0 11
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
transfers later I came whipping into Buddy’s All-Nite Burgers. Rayno
was sitting in our booth, glaring into his caffix. It was 0/7:55:23 and I’d
beat Georgie and Lisa there.
“What’s on line?” I asked as I dropped into my seat, across from
Rayno. He just looked up at me, eyes piercing blue through his fine,
white-blond eyebrows, and I knew better than to ask again.
I sat down. I shut up. Whatever it was had to be important, to make
it worth dumping MoJo like that, but there was no point trying to talk to
Rayno when he was clammed, so I locked eyes on him. He went back to
looking at his caffix, taking the occasional sip. For a mo I had this crazy
idea he was being too derzky to talk just ‘cause he wanted me to flag his
new hair. This week it was bleached Utter Aryan White, side-shaved,
and stiffed out into The Wedge. Geez, it did look sharp!
Of course it did. Rayno always looked sharp. Rayno was seventeen,
and a junior. He wore scruff black leather and flash plastic; he kept his
style current to the nanosecond and cranked to the max. Rayno was
derzky realitized.
But after a minute or so I realized he wasn’t being derzky, he was
being too pissed to talk. Which was reassuring, in a way, given how
worried he had me, but watching it got old real fast so I craned my neck,
looked over the booth divider, gave Buddy’s the quick scan. Nope,
nobody else interesting in the place. Somebody back in the kitchen must
have flagged me when I stuck my head up, though, ‘cause as soon as I
was back down solid in my seat the little trademark snatch of fifties
music swooped by, stereo shifting to a focus at the wall end of the table,
and the foot-high holo of Buddy McFry came jitterbugging out from
behind the napkin dispenser.
“Good morning and welcome to Buddy’s!” the holo said, all bright
and enthusiastic, looking just dweeby as could be in his peaked cap,
white shirt, pegged chinos and penny loafers. “Today’s breakfast special
is two genuine high-cholesterol eggs fried in bacon fat, two strips of real
hickory-smoked bacon, and a cup of our world famous double-caffeine
coffee! Sure, it’s unhealthy and ecologically unsound, but don’t you
Cyberpunk 1.0 12
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
deserve a little guilty pleasure today?” The holo grinned, danced to a
stop; pulled a pencil out from behind his ear and a pad out of his back
pocket, set pencil point to paper, and froze. The pseudosax hit a peak
and the music stopped.
The holo wasn’t true interactive, of course. It was just waiting for
me to say something that it could compress, stick in the fryboy’s
voicemail queue. I checked my watch. Ten. Eleven. Twelve...
At fifteen seconds, the program timed out. The music started up
again. The holo lifted the pencil off the order pad and shook his head.
“Well I can see that you’re not interested in today’s special. Would you
like to see a menu, or are you ready to order now?” Again, the music
peaked and died. The little dork froze, grinning.
This time it took twenty seconds to time out, and then the holo
stayed frozen. Instead, a realtime voice from an actual human came
through, raspy. “Look kid, you sit in the booth, there’s a two-dollar
minimum. So you gonna order or what?”
Rayno cracked out of his big silence. “We are waiting for the rest of
our party,” he said, in a great low and sullen. “We will order then. In the
meantime, don’t ‘bug’ us, ‘man’.”
There was a lag of a coupla seconds, then the music started up again.
“Oh, you need more time to think?” the holo said cheerful, as it started
to dance back towards the napkin dispenser. “Okay, I’ll be back—”
Rayno closed his eyes, tilted his head back, raised his voice. “And
lose the goddam holo!” Buddy McFry vanished. Rayno went back to
scowling at his caffix.
I decided to see how long it’d take him to time out.
At 0/8:0/ 0/ :20/ Lisa zagged in, her lank blonde hair swinging in lazy
circles, her feet moving in that slow, twitchy walk that meant she had
her earcorks in and tuned for music. She was wearing her mirrored
contacts today, which gave her eyes a truly appropriate utter vacant
look; Lisa is Rayno’s girl, or at least she hopes she is. I can see why.
Rayno’s seventeen, and a junior—a year older than Georgie, two years
and a grade up on Lisa. And where Georgie tends to fat and a touch of
Cyberpunk 1.0 13
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
dweebism, like most true cyberpunks (and little Mikey Harris just ain’t
in the game, no matter how gifted his headworks are supposed to be),
Rayno is the Master Controller of our little gang and he has looks and
style to burn.
So, no surprise Lisa’s got it locked for him. Every move she makes
says she’s begging for it, but he’s too robo, too tough to notice. He
dances with himself; he won’t even touch her. She bopped over to the
booth and slid into her seat next to Rayno, trying hard to get a thigh
under his hand. He just pu** both hands on his caffix cup and didn’t give
her so much as a blink.
For a flicker, Lisa looked miserable. There she was, wearing her best
white tatterblouse and no bra, and she couldn’t even get Rayno to look at
her. I’m not so good at robo yet so I copped a quick, guilty peek down
her cleavage, but it’s certified Boolean true/true she wasn’t flashing that
skin for me. Basic rules of the game: Sharp haircut beats 160/ IQ.
Those who can’t play, heckle. I opened my mouth to tell her she’d
make more progress on Rayno if she had a cleavage to show off, first,
but killed my words in the output queue. Her fingernails were getting
long and nasty and that green nailpolish looked toxic.
Then the DJ in her head zapped out another tune and her miserable
look flickered off. She went back to face dancing. Never even noticed it
when the little trademark sample of fifties music swooped by and Buddy
McFry came dancing on out from behind the napkin dispenser.
“Good morning and welcome to Buddy’s!” the holo started.
“We are still waiting for our fourth,” Rayno growled, low and
sullen. You’d of thought he said I love you forever, the way Lisa’s eyes
lit up. Buddy McFry zapped off in mid-step.
Rayno went back to glaring into his caffix. Lisa took over the job of
locking eyes on him. I watched her watch him watch his caffix for a
while, Rayno looking like a warped black mantis in her mirrored pinball
eyes, and couldn’t decide if I should yawn or puke, she was being so
uncool and glandular.
Georgie still wasn’t there at 8:0/ 5:0/0/ . Rayno checked his watch one
Cyberpunk 1.0 14
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
more time, then finally looked up. “Hellgate’s been cracked,” he said,
I swore. Georgie and I’d spent a lot of time working up a truly
wicked secure for Hellgate. It was the sole entry point to OurNet, and we
had some real strong reasons for wanting to keep that little piece of the
virtual universe ultra-private.
Not from other cyberkids. They were just minor-league nuisances.
We could deal with them. It was our parents we were worried about:
They would truly smoke their motherboards if they ever found out what
we were really up to, and now a parent—or somebody with no finesse,
anyway—was messing with OurNet.
“Georgie’s old man?” I asked.
“Looks that way.”
I swore again. It figured. Most of OurNet was virtual; not real
hardware at all. The only absolute physical piece, and therefore the only
real vulnerable point, was Hellgate.
Which also happened to be Georgie’s old man’s Honeywell-Bull
office system.
For a mo I felt hot, angry. Why couldn’t Georgie’s old man keep his
big nose out of our business? He’s the one who gave me and Georgie a
partition of the Bull in the first place! He’s the one who kept saying that
when he was a kid he was a hacker or a phreaker or whatever the
chipheads who were too lame to be NuWavers called themselves, and
‘cause of that he understands us and wants to guide us. For chrissakes,
he was the one who had us crack the copy protect on MegaCAD so he
could sell it bootleg!
Isn’t that just like an Older? To tell you something is your private
space, then go snooping through your drawers when he thinks you’re not
looking? It’s just so utter Dad.
I was still working through the fuming mad and clenching teeth
routine when Lisa quit face dancing and spoke. Surprise. She wasn’t
brain-dead after all, she just looked that way.
“Any idea oh, how far in he got?” When Lisa has her earcorks in she
Cyberpunk 1.0 15
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
talks in beat.
Rayno looked through her, at the front door. Georgie’d just walked
in. “We’re gonna find out,” Rayno said. Georgie was coming in smiling,
but when he flicked his hornrimmed videoshades to transparent and saw
that look in Rayno’s eyes, his legs snapped into slow and feeble mode.
Dragging his reluctant chubby carcass up to the booth, he unzipped his
Weathered EarthTones windbreaker, pushed his videoshades back up his
nose (they tended to slide down), and sat down next to me like the seat
might be booby-trapped. “Good Morning Georgie,” Rayno said, smiling
like a shark.
“I didn’t glitch,” Georgie whined. “I didn’t tell him anything.”
“Then how the Hell did he do it?”
“You know how he is, he’s weird. He likes puzzles.” Georgie ran a
hand through his frizzy brown hair and looked to me for backup, but I
didn’t particularly want to get between Rayno and somebody he was
pissed at. “That’s how come I was late. He was trying to weasel more
out of me, but I didn’t tell him a thing. I think he never made it out the
back side of Hellgate. He didn’t ask about the Big One.”
Rayno actually sat back, pointed at us all, and smiled sly and toothy.
“You kids.” He looked down, shook his head, let out a little half laugh
like it was real funny. “Oh, you kids. You just don’t know how lucky
you are. I was in OurNet late last night and flagged somebody who
didn’t know the passwords was dicking around with the gatekeeper. I pu**
in a new blind alley in Hellgate and ringed it with killer crashpoints. By
the time your old man figures out how to get through them, well...”
I sighed relief. See what I mean about being derzky? All the dark
looks and danger words were just for style. We’d been outlooped again;
Rayno had total control all along.
BAM! He slammed a fist down on the table. “But dammit, Georgie!”
Rayno lunged halfway across the table, grabbed Georgie by the lapels
and sent his videoshades flying, pushed a tight fist right under his nose.
“From now on, you keep a closer watch on your old man!” For a few
flickers there Georgie looked genuine terrified, like he thought Rayno
Cyberpunk 1.0 16
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
was going to rip his throat out with his bare teeth or something.
I guess that was the effect Rayno wanted to achieve. He let Georgie
sweat a mo more, then relaxed, smiled, pushed Georgie back into his
seat and began straightening his windbreaker, brushing imaginary dust
off his shoulders, picking up his shades and pu** them back on his
The little trademark sample of fifties music swooped in, stereo
shifting to a focus at the wall end of the table. The foot-high holo of
Buddy McFry came jitterbugging out from behind the napkin dispenser.
“Good morning and welcome to Buddy’s!” it said, all bright and
enthusiastic. Lisa unsnapped a teardrop crystal prism from one of her
necklaces, held it in front of the laser diode, and Buddy McFry shattered
into a couple hundred polychromic body fragments, all twitching in
perfect sync. We waited ‘til the holo stopped jabbering, then Rayno
bought us drinks and raisin pie all the way around. Lisa asked for a
Cherry Coke, saying it was symbolic and she hoped to move up to
straight cola soon. Georgie and I ordered caffix, just like Rayno.
God, that stuff tastes awful. I added about a ton of sugar and
CreamesseTM and wound up not drinking it anyway. We talked and
laughed and joked through breakfast—I dunno, not really about
anything, just having a good time. Then the cups and plates were cleared
away, and Rayno looked around, smiled wicked, and started to give his
black jacket the slow unzip.
Lisa’s eyes got big as saucers. I swear, by the time he stopped with
the zipper and started with the slow reach inside she was drooling.
“Kids,” he said quiet, “it is time for some serious fun.” One last
furtive look around, and then he whipped out—
His Zeilemann Nova 30/0/ microportable. “Summer vacation starts
I still drop a bit when I think about that computer—Geez, it was a
beauty! The standard Nova is a pretty hot box to start with, but we’d
spent so much time reworking Rayno’s it was practically custom from
the motherboard up. Not at all like those stupid DynaBooks they give
Cyberpunk 1.0 17
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
you in school—those things are basically dumb color flatscreens with
ROM jacks and scrolling buttons—no, Rayno’s Nova was one truly ace
box. Hi-baud, rammed and rommed, total ported; with the wafer display
and keyboard wings it folded down to about the size of a vidcassette. I’d
have given an ear to have one like it. We’d kludged up a full set of metal
and lightpipe jacks for it and used Georgie’s old man’s chipburner to
tuck some special tricks in ROM, and there wasn’t a system in the city it
couldn’t talk to. About the only thing it didn’t have was a Cellular
But hey, with PhoneCo jacks everywhere, who needs that? Lisa
undid one of her necklaces—the one that was really a twisted-pair
modem wire—Rayno plugged the wire into the booth jack and faxed for
a smartcab, and we piled out of Buddy’s. No more riding the transys for
us; we were going in style! The smartcab rolled up, fat little tires hissing
on the pavement, electric motor thrumming, and we hopped in. (Lisa got
herself squeezed tight against Rayno, of course, and I got stuck in the
jump seat, as usual.) Georgie cracked open the maintenance panel on the
smartcab’s dim little brainbox. Lisa took off another one of her
necklaces—the one that was really a lightfiber—and handed it Rayno,
and he hacked deep into the smartcab’s brain and charged the ride off to
some law company. With the radio blasting out some good loud
‘lectrocrack music—WZAZ, same station as was playing in Lisa’s
head—we cruised all over Eastside, hanging out the windows and
howling like crispy-fried chemheads.
Taking a swing by Lincoln Park, we did a good laugh on the
McPunks hanging out in front of You Know Where. (Sure, we might
look something like them, but there’s this thing called status, y’know?
We are punks with brains.) Then, on a dare, Rayno locked up the
windows and redirected us through Lowertown, and we did another good
laugh on all the boxpeople, MediMaints, and Class 2 Minimum Services
citizens hanging out down there. Almost bagged an old black wino who
was lying in the street, too, but Lisa swore he was dead already.
Cyberpunk 1.0 18
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
Chapter 0/ 2
Riding the boulevards got stale after awhile, so we rerouted to the
library. We do a lot of our fun at the library, ‘cause nobody ever bothers
us there. Nobody ever goes there. We sent the smartcab, still on the law
company account, to hunt for a nonexistent pickup on Westside, and
walked up the steps. Getting past the guards and the librarians was just a
matter of flashing some ID, and then we zipped off into the stacks.
Now, you’ve got to ID away your life to use an actual libsys
terminal—which isn’t worth half a real scare when you have fudged ID,
like we do—and they have this Big Brother program, tracks and
analyzes everything everybody does online down to the least significant
bit. But Big Brother has trouble getting a solid location on anything that
isn’t a legit libsys terminal, and the librarians move their terms around a
lot, so they’ve got open lightpipe ports all over the building. We found
an unused, unwatched node up in the dusty old third-floor State History
room, and me and Georgie kept watch while Lisa undid her third
necklace—the one that was really a braided wideband lightpipe —and
Rayno got hooked up and jacked in.
Why go to all this trouble to find a lightpipe port? Why not just use
a common garden-variety PhoneCo jack—say, the cellular fax port in
the smartcab, for instance? Well, we could, but there’s this thing called
bandwidth. If the libsys hooks you into the Great Data River, then
connecting through the PhoneCo is like pissing through a pipette. Slow,
and I’m told, excruciating painful.
Rayno finished patching in the last of the fibers and booted up.
“Link me up,” he said, handing me the Nova. We don’t have a stored
exefile yet for linking, so Rayno gives me the fast and tricky jobs.
Through the data river I got us out of the libsys and into CityNet.
Cyberpunk 1.0 19
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
Now, Olders will never understand. They’re still hooked on the
hardware paradigm; sequential programs, running on single brains in
big boxes, and maybe if you’re a real forward-thinking Older you’ll use
a network to transmit the results to another big single brain.
Me, I can get the same effect from a hundred little parallel tasks all
running in background in a hundred different places, once I tie them
together. It’s this bandwidth thing again; the secret is to get onto a wide
enough part of a good net, and then there’s only a couple nanosecond
difference between running tasks on parallel processors inside the same
box and running them on discrete computers miles apart. Long as your
programs can talk to each other now and then...
Nearly every computer in the world has a datalink port. CityNet is a
great communications system. The pirate commware in Rayno’s Nova
let me setup my links clean and fast so nobody flags us. pu** it all
together; 256 trojan horse programs buried all over CityNet, with a
secret code to let them communicate—don’t think of OurNet as a
network as in NovaLAN, think network as in spies—
And you wind up with a virtual machine 25 miles across. If you lose
a few nanoseconds owing to the speed of light, no big deal. Just throw
another hundred processors at the problem.
Meaning, from the libsys, I chained into CityNet. From CityNet, I
dialed up Georgie’s old man’s office computer and logged in. Switching
into our private partition, I knocked on Hellgate and got stopped cold,
but only for a mo. After all, I wrote half of Hellgate.
Oh, for a few nanos I played the game and dueled wits with the
gatekeeper, but that got boring fast so I said to hell with it, punched a
hole through the application floor, dropped down and started bypassing
secures on the object level. While I was down in the cellar I took a few
seconds to check out the guts of Rayno’s new blind alley. Cute, but more
scary-looking than actual dangerous.
Half a minute later I was back up on the other side of Hellgate and
into the OurNet control files. Next step was to invoke +Ultra—the
decryption program—and then plunge back into CityNet and run around
Cyberpunk 1.0 20
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
waking up trojan horses.
When everything was activated, I handed the Nova back to Rayno.
“Well, let’s do some fun,” he said. “Any requests?” Georgie wanted to
do something annoying to get even with his old man, and I had a new
concept I was itching to try out, but Lisa’s eyes lit up ‘cause Rayno
turned to her, first.
She sang, “I wanna burn Lewis, burn Lewis.”
“Oh fritz.” Georgie complained. “You did that last week.”
“He gave me another F on a theme!” She was so mad about it, she
missed the beat.
“I never get F’s. If you’d read books once in a—”
“Georgie,” Rayno said softly, “Lisa’s on line.” That settled that.
Lisa’s eyes were absolutely glowing.
With Rayno’s help, Lisa got back up to normal CityNet level and
charged a couple hundred overdue books to Lewis’ libsys account. Then
she ordered the complete Encyclopedia Britannica queued up to start
zapping out whenever Lewis turned on his office telecopier. Lisa could
be nasty, but she was kinda short on style.
I got next turn. Georgie and Lisa kept watch while I took over the
Nova. Rayno looked over my shoulder. “Something new this week?”
“Airline reservations. I was with my Dad two weeks ago when he set
up a business trip, and flagged on maybe getting some fun. I scanned the
ticket clerk real careful and picked up a few of her access codes.”
“Okay, show me what you can do.”
Right. OurNet, to CityNet, to the front door of Alegis. I knocked. It
answered. Getting inside was so easy that I just wiped a couple of
reservations first, to see if there were any bells or whistles.
None. No source checks, no lockwords, no confirm codes. I erased a
couple dozen people without so much as an You Sure About That?
(Y/N). “Geez,” I said, “there’s no deep secures at all!”
Rayno grinned. “I keep telling you, Olders are even dumber than
they look. Georgie? Lisa? C’mon over here and see what we’re
Cyberpunk 1.0 21
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
Georgie was real curious and asked lots of questions, but Lisa just
looked bored, snapped her gum, and tried to dance in closer to Rayno.
Then Rayno said, “Time to get off Sesame Street. Purge a flight.”
I did. It was simple as a save. I punched a few keys, entered, and an
entire plane disappeared from all the reservation files. Boy, they’d be
surprised when they showed up at the airport. I started purging down the
line, but Rayno interrupted.
“Maybe there’s no deep secures, but clean out a whole block of their
data space and it’ll stand out. Watch this.” He took the Nova from me
and cooked up a little worm in RAM that hunted down and wiped every
flight that departed at 17:07, from now ‘til NukeDay or they found the
worm, whichever came first. “That’s how you do these things without
waving a flag.” He pressed ENTER, and it was running wild and free.
“That’s sharp,” Georgie chipped in, to me. “Mike, you’re a genius.
Where do you get these ideas?” Rayno got a real funny look in his eyes.
“My turn,” Rayno said, exiting the airline system.
“What be next in this here stack?” Lisa chanted.
“Yeah, I mean, after garbaging the airlines ... “ Georgie didn’t
realize he was supposed to shut up.
“Georgie, Mike,” Rayno hissed. “Keep watch!” Soft, he added, “It’s
time to run The Big One.”
“You sure?” I asked. “Rayno, I don’t think it’s ready.”
“I’m ready.”
Georgie got whiney. “We’re gonna get in big trouble—”
“Wimp,” spat Rayno. Georgie shut up.
Me and Georgie had been working on The Big One for over two
months, penetrating systems and burying moles, but I still didn’t feel
real solid about it. It almost made a clean if/then/else. If The Big One
worked/then we’d be rich/else ... it was the else part I didn’t have down.
Georgie and me took up lookout while Rayno got down to business.
He got back into CityNet, called the cracker exefile out of its hiding
place, and poked it into Merchant’s Bank & Trust. I’d gotten into them
the old-fashioned way, through the PhoneCo port, but never messed with
Cyberpunk 1.0 22
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
their accounts, just did it to see if I could do it. My tarbaby had been
sitting in their system for about three weeks now and nothing was stuck
to it, so apparently they’d never noticed it. Rayno thought it would be
real poetic to use one bank mainframe to penetrate the secures on
another bank mainframe.
While he was making with the fine-tuning and last-minute dinks to
the cracker, I heard walking nearby and took a closer look. It was just
some old brown underclasser looking for a warm and quiet place to
sleep. Rayno was finished linking the cracker to OurNet by the time I
got back. “Okay kids,” he said, smiling cocky, “it’s showtime!” He
looked around to make sure we were all watching him, then held up the
Nova and punched the ENTER key.
That was it. I stared hard at the display, waiting to see what the else
part of our if/then program was gonna be. Rayno figured it’d take about
ninety seconds.
The Big One, y’see, was all Rayno’s idea. He’d heard about some
kids in Sherman Oaks who almost got away with a five million dollar
electronic fund transfer; they’d created an imaginary company, cut a
bank-to-bank wire draft, and hadn’t hit a major hangup moving the five
mil around until they tried to dump it into a personal savings account
with a 40-dollar balance. That’s when all the flags went up.
Rayno’s subtle; Rayno’s smart. We weren’t going to be greedy, we
were just going to EFT fifty K. And it wasn’t going to look real strange,
‘cause it got strained through some legitimate accounts before we split it
out to twenty dummies.
If it worked.
The display blanked, flickered, and showed: TRANSACTION
COMPLETED. HAVE A NICE DAY. I started to shout, but
remembered I was in a library. Georgie looked less terrified. Lisa looked
like she was going to tear Rayno’s pants off right then and there.
Rayno just cracked his little half smile, and started exiting.
“Funtime’s over, kids.”
“I didn’t get a turn,” Georgie mumbled.
Cyberpunk 1.0 23
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
Rayno was out of all the nets and powering down. He turned, slow,
and looked at Georgie through those eyebrows of his. “You are still on
The List.”
Georgie swallowed it ‘cause there was nothing else he could do.
Rayno folded up the computer and tucked it back inside his jacket.
We got a smartcab from the queue outside the library and went off
to some taco place Lisa picked for lunch. Georgie got this idea about
chip-switching the smartcab’s brain so the next customer would have a
real state fair ride, but Rayno wouldn’t let him do it. Rayno wouldn’t
talk to him, either, so Georgie opaqued his videoshades, jacked into the
cab’s broadcast television receiver, and tuned us out for a good sulk.
Cyberpunk 1.0 24
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
Chapter 0/ 3
After lunch Lisa wanted to go hang out at the mall, but I talked them
into heading over to Martin’s Micros instead. It’s is a grubbish little
shop in a crummy part of UpperEast, deep in the heart of whitest
Butthole Skinhead territory, but it’s also one of my favorite places to
hang out. Martin is the only Older I know who can really work a
computer without blowing out his headchips, and he never talks down to
me, and he never tells me to keep my hands off anything. In fact,
Martin’s been real happy to see all of us, ever since Rayno bought that
$3000 animation package for Lisa the month she thought she wanted to
be a DynaBook novelist if she ever grew up.
Rayno faxed ahead from the smartcab that we were coming, so we
had to stand out on the sidewalk for only a few seconds before the
outside lock buzzed. We stepped into the security entryway. The outside
door clanged shut, the power lock snicked home, and the safety scanner
gave us a quick sweep. It must have been programmed to recognize
cool, ‘cause then the inside door slid open with a starship squeak and we
were allowed into the store.
I love the feel of Martin’s Micros. It’s a funky, dim-’n’-cluttered
kind of place: heavy square gear piled in haphazard clutters on the floor,
making it a true challenge to move in any straight line; big tin racks of
old half-dead Cyberspace decks and i786 motherboards reaching right
up to the ceiling; light filtering in low and angular through the vertical
slits in the front window ghetto armor. When I’m in Martin’s I always
get this feeling that if I can just look in the right corner or blow the dust
off the right old circuit board, I’ll find some incredible treasure—or
maybe a couple of cackling cybergremlins tearing the legs off screaming
IC chips and munching on their silicon hearts. Georgie says going into
Martin’s Micros is kind of like poking around in the ultimate techie
Cyberpunk 1.0 25
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
grandparent’s attic, and he should know, he’s got three living
We threaded into the store, stepping gingerish around the floor junk,
pausing now and again to poke at some particular interesting piece of
wreckage on the shelves like maybe to see if it was alive and would bite.
By and by, we made it to the island of light way in the back of the store.
Martin was sitting there, in front of his customized hodgepodge
monster of a personal workstation, hulking over the keyboard. He sort of
looked up. “Oh, hiya Mikey. Lisa, Georgie. Rayno.” We all nodded, not
smiling, not looking right at him, being total derzky. “Nice to see you
again.” He frowned at the screen, punched in something else, then really
looked up. “What can I do for you today?”
“Just looking,” Rayno said.
“Well, that’s free.” Martin turned back to the tube, poked a few
more keys. “Damn.” he said to the terminal.
“What’s the problem?” Lisa asked.
“The problem is me,” Martin said. “I got this vertical package I’m
‘sposed to be customizing for a client, but it keeps dying the hot photon
death and I can’t grok where it’s at.” Martin talks funny, sometimes.
“You mean it nukes itself?” George asked.
“Yeah.” Martin dug his thick fingers into his bushy black beard and
gave his chin a good scratch. “But not in the way I expect. I mean, it had
this really aggressive copy protect, y’know? Whenever you logged into
CityNet it sent off a little agent program that sniffed around, looked for
other copies of itself. If the agent found another copy with the same
serial number it came back, encrypted your system files, and then
phoned the FBI copyright hotline.”
Martin stopped scratching, sudden, and made with a wide, toothy
smile. “Which is all perfectly correct and legal software behavior, of
course. My client just needs to keep a—uh, offsite backup of the
software. Yeah.”
We all nodded. Offsite backup. Yep. Sure. Darned if I don’t keep a
few of those myself.
Cyberpunk 1.0 26
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
Martin turned back to his workstation, took his hand out of his
beard, laid it on the CityLink box. “I finally beat the copy protect by
trapping the agent in a null buffer and flushing it to the Phantom Zone.
But now I’m trying to make some other mods to the software, and
nothing I do seems to work.” He turned, looked at me, his thick bushy
eyebrows all knitted together in a frown. “Mikey, you don’t suppose
they pu** some kind of fascist code integrity checker in there, do you?”
Rayno pushed in between me and Martin. “Rewind. Let’s start from
the beginning. What’s this thing supposed to do?”
Martin looked at Rayno and shrugged. “You really want to know?
It’s boring as public television.” Rayno nodded.
Martin nodded, too. “Okay.” He turned back to his workstation and
started closing down files and popping up windows. “Kids, what we’ve
got here is a complete real estate investment forecasting system. The
whole future-values-in-current-dollars bit: Depreciation, inflation,
amortization, cost of running-dog capital, rehab incentives, tax credit
“Interrupt,” Rayno said. “You’re right; let’s skip that. What’re the
code objects? What numbers crunch?”
Martin started to explain, and something clicked in my head. Rayno
said to me, “This looks like your kind of work.” Martin found his cane,
levered his three hundred pounds of fat out of the squeaky chair, and
looked real relieved as I dropped down in front of the keyboard. I killed
his windows program, scrolled into the pure source, and started getting a
firm mindlock on the flow concept. Once I had the elemental things
visualized kind of, I scanned his modification parameters, compared
them to the original object definitions, and let my neurons free associate.
Ah. Now it was clear. Martin’d only made a few mistakes. Anybody
could have; from the looks of the object code, the original author was a
total dutz, with only a vague fuzzy of what he was trying to accomplish.
Half the hooks on the two key objects were all wrong. Even if Martin’s
code mods had been perfect, they still wouldn’t have worked. I banged
into the system library, haywired the object defs so they behaved sort of
Cyberpunk 1.0 27
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
right, then went back into Martin’s executable and started keying in code
patches off the top of my head.
“Will you look at that?” Martin asked.
I didn’t answer ‘cause I was thinking in object-oriented language.
Ten minutes later I had his core mod in, linked, and romping through the
test data sets. It worked perfect, of course.
“I just can’t believe that kid,” Martin said. “He can hack object code
easier than I can talk.”
My voice started to come back. “Nothing to it,” I croaked.
“Maybe not for you, Mikey. I knew a kid who grew up speaking
Arabic, used to say the same thing.” He shook his head, tugged his
beard, looked me in the face, and smiled. “Anyhow, thanks loads, man. I
don’t know how to ... “ He snapped his fingers. “Say, I just got
something in the other day, I bet you’d be really interested in.” I found
my feet and got up out of the chair. He hobbled over to the flyspecked
glass display case, pushed aside a pile of old GridPads and ‘Roo PCs,
and pulled out a small, flat, black plastic case. “I’ve gotta tell you,
Mikey, this was a real find. Most of what comes in here is just old junk,
but this you won’t believe. The latest word in microportables.” He set
the little case on the counter. “Mikey Harris, may I present—
“The Zeilemann Starfire 600.”
I dropped a bit! Then I ballsed up enough to touch it. I flipped up the
wafer display, opened the keyboard wings, ran my fingers over the touch
pads, and I just wanted it so bad, right then and there! “It’s smart,”
Martin said. “Rammed, rommed, fully metal and lightpipe ported; a
videoshade jack for your friend there—,” he nodded at Georgie. “Even
has bubble memory, too, so you won’t have to muck around with that
My God, it was beautiful!
Rayno leaned on the counter, gave the Starfire a cold, cold look.
“My 300 is still faster,” he said.
“It should be,” Martin said. “You customized it half to death. But
the 600 is nearly as fast, and it’s stock, and it lists for $1200 new. I
Cyberpunk 1.0 28
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
figure you must have spent around 4K upgrading yours.”
I got my breath back. “Can I try it out?” I asked. Martin waddled
back over to his workstation, plugged a lightfiber into his patch bay, and
threw the coil of plastic at me. I jacked in, booted up, linked through to
CityNet. Took a cruise up to the Northside repeater and logged into
It worked great. Clean, quiet, accurate; so maybe it was a few nanos
slower than Rayno’s Nova, I couldn’t tell the difference. “Rayno, this
thing is the max!” I looked at Martin. “Can we work out some kind of ...
?” Martin looked back to his terminal, where the real estate program was
still running data tests without a glitch.
“I been thinking about that, Mike. You’re a minor dependent of an
employed Class-One citizen, so I can’t legally hire you.” He tugged on
his beard and rolled his tongue around his mouth. “But I’m hitting that
client for some pretty heavy bread on the customizing fees, and it
doesn’t seem fair to me to make you pay full list.” He looked at the
Starfire again, and got his squinty, appraising look.
“On the other hand, that Starfire you’re holding is a, uh, demo
model. Factory new, but it, uh, doesn’t have a serial number plate.” He
chewed on his left index finger for a bit, then stopped, sudden, and made
with a wide and toothy smile.
“Of course, you and I both know that that doesn’t mean a thing, but
some of my other clients might get a little, uh, nervous about that
machine. So—,” he went back to chewing on his index finger, and
giving the Starfire a worried look. He looked at me.
He smiled.
“So tell you what, Mikey! You be my consultant on, say, seven more
projects like this, and it’s yours! What d’ya think? Sound like a good
deal to you?”
Before I could shout yes, Rayno pushed in between me and Martin.
“I’ll buy it. List price.” He flicked a charge card out of his breast pocket.
Martin’s jaw dropped. “Well, what’re you waiting for? My plastic’s
Cyberpunk 1.0 29
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
“Charge it? At list? But I—uh, I owe Mike one.”
“List price. And here,” Rayno grabbed some piece of junk that
Georgie was futzing with and slapped it down on the counter. “Include
this. Write it up as miscellaneous used gear. That way you don’t have to
report any serial numbers.”
Martin smiled. If I didn’t know him better, I’d swear it was major
relief. “Okay, Rayno.” He took the card and ran it through his
magreader. A few seconds later the reader made with a pleasant little
chime and a few measures of We’re In The Money. “It’s approved,”
Martin said, an even bigger smile on his face. He punched up the sale
and started laughing. “Honestly, I don’t know where you kids get this
kind of money.”
“We rob banks,” Rayno said. Martin froze a mo, looked dead
straight at Rayno, then broke up and started laughing so hard he cried.
Rayno picked up on the laugh; he’s got a great Vincent Price kind of evil
laugh that he uses sometimes, especially when he’s fangs-out smiling.
Lisa followed Rayno. Me and Georgie looked at each other for a mo, not
real sure what it was we were laughing at but figuring we should at least
act like we knew, and then jumped in together.
Still laughing, Rayno used the Starfire to fax for a smartcab. Then he
logged out, disconnected, folded up the Starfire and headed for the door.
Laughing, we followed. Laughing, Martin waved goodbye. The
smartcab rolled up; we opened the outside security door and stepped out.
Rayno stopped laughing. Then he handed the Starfire to me. “Here.
“Thanks Rayno. But—but I coulda made the deal myself.”
“Happy Birthday, Mike.”
“Rayno, my birthday is in August.”
He looked at me through his eyebrows, cold and truly utter serious.
“Let’s get one thing straight. You work for me.”
The smartcab chirped for our attention. We piled in. It was near
school endtime, so we routed direct back to Buddy’s. On the way, in the
smartcab, Georgie took my Starfire, gently opened the back of the case,
Cyberpunk 1.0 30
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
and scanned the board. “We could swap out the 4166-8,” he said,
“replace it real easy with a 42C816. That’d just about double your
throughput speed.”
“Leave it stock,” Rayno said.
We split up at Buddy’s, and I took the transys home. I was lucky,
‘cause Mom and Dad weren’t there and I could zip right upstairs and
hide the Starfire in my closet. I wish I had cool parents, like Rayno does.
His dad’s never there, and his mom never asks him any dumb questions.
I’d just finished up pu** MoJo back together when Mom came
home and asked how school was. I didn’t have to say much, ‘cause just
then the stove said that dinner was ready and she started setting the
table. Dad came home fifteen minutes later and we started eating.
Halfway through dinner, the phone chirped.
Cyberpunk 1.0 31
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
Chapter 0/ 4
I jumped up and answered the phone. It was Georgie’s old man, and
he wanted to talk to my Dad. I gave Dad the phone and tried to overhear,
but he took it into the next room and started talking real quiet. I got
unhungry. I never liked tofu, anyway.
Dad didn’t stay quiet for long. “He what? Well thank you for telling
me! I’m going to get to the bottom of this right now!” He came
stomping back into the kitchen and slammed the phone into its cradle.
“Who was that, honey?” Mom asked, sweet.
“Bob Hansen. Georgie’s father. Mike and Georgie were hanging
around with that punk Rayno again!” He snapped around to look at me.
I’d almost made it out the kitchen door. “Michael! Did you cut school
Dad called me Michael? Uh-oh...
I tried to talk confident. I think the tofu had my throat all clogged
up. “No. No, of course not.”
“Then how come Mr. Hansen saw you coming out of the downtown
I started to hang. “I—I got a pass. I was down there doing some
extra research.”
“For what class?”
I froze.
“Come on, Michael. What were you studying?”
Damn! I wish I could be totally slick, totally smart, like Rayno. He’d
know the right thing to say. He could speak the pravda without sweating.
But this was my Dad, and he was pu** the heavy clamp on me, and all
my input and output interrupts were colliding and the words in my head
were turning into a truly enormous mess. I locked up solid—like I
always do when Dad starts yelling.
Cyberpunk 1.0 32
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
“Honey,” Mom said, “aren’t you being a bit hasty? I’m sure there’s
a perfectly good explanation.”
“Sweetheart, Bob was looking over some programs that Georgie and
Michael pu** in his computer. He says he thinks they’re doing something
illegal. He says it looks like they are tampering with a bank.”
“Our Mikey? I’m sorry, David, but this must be some kind of bad
Dad locked a glare on her. That vein on the side of his forehead
started throbbing again. His face shifted down to that deep red beet-look,
and he took a deep, deep breath.
I saw my opening and started to slide for the door.
“Sherri, you airheaded nitwit, this is serious!” He spun, lunged,
grabbed me by the back of the collar. Didn’t think the old guy could
move that fast. “Michael Arthur Harris! What have you been doing with
that computer? What was that program in Hansen’s system? Answer me!
What have you been doing?”
My eyes felt hot, teary. My face muscles went all tight and twisty
and I pouted so hard it hurt. “It’s none of your business!” I screamed.
“Keep your nose out of things you’ll never understand, you obsolete old
relic!” The tears felt like hot burning blood pouring down my cheeks.
“That does it,” Dad said, his voice as cold and calm as death. “I
don’t know what’s wrong with this damn kid of yours, but I know that
thing upstairs sure as hell isn’t helping.” I blinked the tears out of my
eyes long enough to see he was building up to a boiling thunderhead, but
before I could get control enough to move he broke loose and went
storming up to my room. I tried to get ahead of him all the way up the
stairs and just got my hands stepped on. Mom came fluttering up behind
as he was yanking the power cables on my Miko-Gyoja.
“Now honey,” Mom said. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh?
He needs that for his homework, don’t you, Mikey?”
Dad’s voice was a low, gruff thing that barely got out through
clenched teeth. “I’m tired of hearing you make excuses for your son,
Sherri. I mean it.” He unplugged the CityLink.
Cyberpunk 1.0 33
©1982, 1998 Bruce Bethke
“But honey, he’s just a boy. I’m sure it was just a prank.”
With a grunt, Dad picked up all of MoJo, ripping the Death Cannon
fiber right out of its socket. “Somehow Audrey managed to raise three
Avatar de Usuario
Mensajes: 997
Registrado: 24 Dic 2003, 20:22

Notapor MacGyver » 29 Feb 2008, 18:20

Realmente el resident evil zero me parece el capitulo más malillo de toda la saga, asi que mejor lo podian sacar en la play 3 o xbox y hacerlo bastante más largo y con novedosos extras, vamos que merezca la pena comprarselo.


Avatar de Usuario
Mensajes: 1308
Registrado: 13 May 2004, 11:14
Ubicación: En lo más profundo del Volcan junto al Ave Phoenix

Notapor Devian » 03 Mar 2008, 07:44

Personalmente, ya rayan con los ports, ains, Capcom, quien te ha visto y quien te ve :roll:
Avatar de Usuario
Mensajes: 5042
Registrado: 25 Dic 2002, 07:01
Ubicación: Antártida

Notapor Saitoh » 30 Mar 2008, 20:48

El juego esta muy bien yo lo he probado, pero hacer un port lo veo una tonteria, lo que realmente se tendría que hacer es un pequeño levantamiento de los juegos y mandos de cube (por cierto muy demandados y a precios desorbitados) que más hayan triunfado o que puedan vender, ya que en Wii puede ir todo lo que quieras de GameCube pero si no hay material a la venta y a decir verdad, en GameCube se hicieron grandes obras que es una pena que solo las hallamos podido disfrutar los que en su día tuvimos la consola.
Avatar de Usuario
Mensajes: 181
Registrado: 25 Ago 2003, 04:13

Notapor Jose_Hunter » 07 Abr 2008, 14:15

Aún me pregunto como cambiarán el control, dado que el sistema de cámaras del original no se presta a muchos cambios a priori... Y una pena si no sale de japón. Vale que sea un port, pero viendo lo que sale de en Wii ....
Avatar de Usuario
Mensajes: 129
Registrado: 05 Ene 2008, 01:06
Ubicación: Sevilla

Notapor Tenma » 07 Abr 2008, 15:00

A mí me parece bien que lo hagan, me quedé sin el de GC porque la edición fue limitada, casi anecdotica, y en poco tiempo las tiendas empezaron a especular con él (más caro de segunda mano que nuevo lo he visto, por 80 euros y cosas así).

Ahora, no sé que adaptación wii pueden hacerle... pero weno, por mí como si lo dejan tal cual y lo juego con un mando de la GC.
Avatar de Usuario
Mensajes: 2342
Registrado: 26 Mar 2003, 00:25

Notapor Jose_Hunter » 07 Abr 2008, 15:04

¿Tan caro? Yo lo suelo ver en foros por unos 30 euros con los gastos , y si es pal uk aún menos. Y bueno, alguna vez lo vi en tiendas de segunda mano hasta por 12 XD. Aunque como todo, es cuestión de suerte :p.
Avatar de Usuario
Mensajes: 129
Registrado: 05 Ene 2008, 01:06
Ubicación: Sevilla

Notapor Tenma » 07 Abr 2008, 19:46

Supongo que no miré busqué bien... bueno, en realidad no busqué demasiado xD simplemente, siempre que lo he vi en alguna tienda estaba a precio muy alto, y eso, hasta 80 euros lo vi hace unos años en tiempos de navidades O_o
Avatar de Usuario
Mensajes: 2342
Registrado: 26 Mar 2003, 00:25

Notapor Jose_Hunter » 07 Abr 2008, 19:58

Bueno, eso en verdad es cuestión de suerte. Para mi el Paper Mario de gc era también un juego caro, y luego lo llegé a ver hasta por 4 euros OO.

En fin, a ver que para al final con este RE Zero. Espero que traiga algún extra interesante.
Avatar de Usuario
Mensajes: 129
Registrado: 05 Ene 2008, 01:06
Ubicación: Sevilla

Notapor Tenma » 22 Abr 2008, 00:24

Lo volví a ver, el Zero por 80 euros O_o
Y tb vi el Tales of Symphonia por 85 O_O
Avatar de Usuario
Mensajes: 2342
Registrado: 26 Mar 2003, 00:25

Notapor Jose_Hunter » 22 Abr 2008, 08:04

Oo, que burrada de precios. ¿Dónde lo has visto a ese precio? Lo digo para no acercareme nunca por ahí XD.
Avatar de Usuario
Mensajes: 129
Registrado: 05 Ene 2008, 01:06
Ubicación: Sevilla

Volver a Videojuegos

¿Quién está conectado?

Usuarios navegando por este Foro: No hay usuarios registrados visitando el Foro y 1 invitado