"All fiction is propaganda, and the fiction we like is the propaganda we believe in, and the fiction we don't like is the propaganda we don't believe in."
- Samuel R. Delany
||Kuang Grade Mark Eleven Penetration Program
||Chinese virus software for breaking the ICE.
How can you get past the barriers that computers put up against intrusion. You need some really good virus software.
|Maelcum produced a white lump of foam slightly smaller than Case's
head, fished a pearl-handled switchblade on a green nylon lanyard out of
the hip pocket of his tattered shorts and carefully slit the plastic. He
extracted a rectangular object and passed it to Case. `Thas part some
`No,' Case said, turning it over, `but it's a weapon. It's virus.'
`Not on thisboy tug, mon,' Maelcum said firmly, reaching for the steel
`A program. Virus program. Can't get into you, can't even get into your
software. I've got to interface it through the deck, before it can work on
`What is this thing?' he asked the Hosaka. `Parcel for me.'
`Data transfer from Bockris Systems GmbH, Frankfurt, advises, under
coded transmission, that content of shipment is Kuang Grade Mark Eleven
penetration program. Bockris further advises that interface with
Ono-Sendai Cyberspace 7 is entirely compatible and yields optimal
penetration capabilities, particularly with regard to existing military
He slotted the Chinese virus, paused, then drove it home.
`Okay,' he said, `we're on..."
`Christ on a crutch,' the Flatline said, `take a look at this.'
The Chinese virus was unfolding around them. Polychrome shadow,
countless translucent layers shifting and recombining. Protean, enormous,
it towered above them, blotting out the void.
`Big mother,' the Flatline said.
by William Gibson.
Published by Phantasia Press in 1984
Additional resources -
Gibson does a great job of giving us a mental picture for a tech concept; here's the virus a bit later:
Something dark was forming at the core of the Chinese program. The
density of information overwhelmed the fabric of the matrix, triggering
hypnagogic images. Faint kaleidoscopic angles centered in to a
silver-black focal point. Case watched childhood symbols of evil and bad
luck tumble out along translucent planes: swastikas, skulls and
crossbones, dice flashing snake eyes. If he looked directly at that null
point, no outline would form. It took a dozen quick, peripheral takes
before he had it, a shark thing, gleaming like obsidian, the black
mirrors of its flanks reflecting faint distant lights that bore no
relationship to the matrix around it.
`That's the sting,' the construct said. `When Kuang's good and
bellytight with the Tessier-Ashpool core, we're ridin'~ that through.'
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