The Difference Engine by William Gibson, Bruce Sterling Read Free Book Online

Majesty’s Government don’t know their own mind! There’s factions among ‘em. Some don’t trust Sam Houston — but the French will help us anyhow! Their Mexican clients have a border war with the Texians. They need the General!”
    “You’re going to war, then, Mick?” She found it difficult to imagine Dandy Mick leading a cavalry charge.
    “Coup d’etat, more like,” he assured her. “We won’t see much bloodshed. I’m Houston’s political man, you see, and his man I’ll stay, for I’m the one’s arranged this London speaking-tour, and on to France, and I’m the one’s made certain approaches as resulted in him being granted his audience with the French Emperor . . . ” But could that be true, really? “And I’m the one as runs Manchester’s newest and best through the kino for him, sweetens the press and British public opinion, hires the bill-stickers . . . ” He drew on his cigar, his fingers kneading her there, and she heard him puff out a great satisfied cloud of cherry smoke.
    But he mustn’t have felt like doing it again, not then, because she was soon asleep and dreaming, dreaming of Texas, a Texas of rolling downs, contented sheep, the windows of gray manors glinting in late-afternoon sunlight.

    Sybil sat in an aisle seat, third row back in the Garrick, thinking unhappily that General Sam Houston, late of Texas, was not drawing much of a crowd. People were filtering in as the five-man orchestra squeaked and sawed and honked. A family party was settling in the row before her, two boys, in bluejackets and trousers, with laid-down shirt-collars, a little girl in a shawl and a braided frock, then two more little girls, ushered in by their governess, a thin-looking sort with a hooked nose and watery eyes, sniffling into her handkerchief. Then the oldest boy, sauntering in, a sneer on his face. Then papa with dress-coat and cane and whiskers, and fat mama with long ringlets and a big nasty hat and three gold rings on her plump soft fingers. Finally all were seated, amid a shuffling of coats and shawls and a munching of candied orange-peel, quite patently well-behaved and expecting improvement. Clean and soaped and prosperous, in their snug machine-made clothes.
    A clerky fellow with spectacles took the next seat to Sybil’s, an inch-wide blue strip showing at his hairline, where he’d shaved his forehead to suggest intellect. He was reading Mick’s program and sucking an acidulated lemon-drop. And past him a trio of officers, on furlough from the Crimea, looking very pleased with themselves, come to hear about an old-fashioned war in Texas, fought the old-fashioned way. There were other soldiers speckled through the crowd, bright in their red coats, the respectable sort, who didn’t go for drabs and gin, but would take the Queen’s pay, and learn gunnery arithmetic, and come back to work in the railroads and shipyards, and better themselves.
    The place was full of bettering-blokes, really: shopkeepers and store-clerks and druggists, with their tidy wives and broods. In her father’s day, such people, Whitechapel people, had been angry and lean and shabby, with sticks in their hands, and dirks in their belts. But times had changed under the Rads, and now even Whitechapel had its tight-laced scrubfaced women and its cakey clock-watching men, who read the ‘Dictionary of Useful Knowledge’ and the ‘Journal of Moral Improvement’, and looked to get ahead.
    Then the gas-lights guttered in their copper rings, and the orchestra swung into a flat rendition of “Come to the Bower.” With a huff, the limelight flared, the curtain drew back before the kinotrope screen, the music covering the clicking of kino-bits spinning themselves into place. Broken frills and furbelows grew like black frost on the edges of the screen. They framed tall letters, in a fancy alphabet of sharp-edged Engine-Gothic, black against white:

    Editions
    Panoptique
    Presents

    And below the kinotrope, Houston entered