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These are the OCR results for the 1984 published version of the book Neuromancer written by William Gibson. The OCR results have been produced with tesseract.
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It's published under the label "An Ace Science Fiction Special" </p><p>because it's just that, something fresh and different and, we believe, a novel superior to most of those </p><p>you'll find today. </p><p>I'll tell you why I thinkd so a little later; first, though, I should say a little about the Ace Science Fictions </p><p>Specials series. </p><p>The SF Specials program is specifically designed to present new novels of high quality and imagination, </p><p>books that are as exciting as any tale of adventures in the stars and as convincing as the most careful </p><p>extrapolation of the day after tomorrow's science. Add to that a rigorous insistence on literary quality </p><p>— lucid and evocative writing, fully rounded characterization, and strong underlying themes (but not </p><p>Messages] — and you have a good description of the stories you'll see in this series. </p><p>The publishers of Ace Books believe that there are many readers today who are looking for such books, </p><p>at a time when so many science fiction novels are simply skilled (or not so skilled) rehashings of plots </p><p>and ideas that have been popular in the past. Science fiction by its very nature ought to tell stories that </p><p>are new and unusual, but too many of the science fiction books published have been short on real </p><p>imanination - The are, in fact, timid and literarily defensive. The Ace SF Specials are neither. </p><p>The SF Specials began more than fifteen years ago, when the science fiction field was in a period of </p><p>creative doldrums similar to the present: science fiction novels then were mostly of the traditional sort, </p><p>often hackneyed and familiar stories that relied on fast action and obvious ideas. Ace began the first </p><p>series of SF Specials with the idea that science fiction readers would welcome something more htan </p><p>that, novels that would expand the boundaries of imagination, and that notion provedto be correct: the </p><p>books published in that original series sold well, collected numerous awards, and many of them are </p><p>now considered classics in the field. </p><p>Beginning in 1968 and continuing into 1971, the Ace SF Specials included such novels as Past Master by </p><p>R.A. Lafferty, Rite of Passage by Alexei Panshin, Synthajoy by D. G. Compton, The Left Hand of Darkness </p><p>by Ursula K. Le Guin, Picnic on Paradise and And Chaos Died by Joanna Russ, Pavanne by Keith Roberts,</p><p>Isle of the Dead by Roger Zelazny, The Warlord of the Air by Michael Moorcock, The year of the Quiet </p><p>Sun by Wilson Tucker, Mechasm by John Sladek, The Two-Timers by Bob Shaw, and The Phoenix and the </p><p>Mirror by Avram Davidson . . . among many others that could be mentioned, but the list is already long. </p><p>Most of the books were nominated for awards. Rite of Passage won the Nebula Award; The Left Hand of </p><p>Darkness won both the Nebula and the Hugo; The Year of the Quiet Sun won the John W. Campbell </p><p>award. Other books in the series won more specialized awares. Most of the novels have remained in </p><p>print over the years since they were first published. </p><p>That original series ended when I left Ace Books and moved to California in 1971, but its successes </p><p>hadn't gone unnoticed. Both writers and publishers saw that a more "adult" sort of seventies more </p><p>venturesom sf novels were published than ever before. </p><p>A number of critics have creditied the Ace Science Fiction Specials with bringing about a revolution in </p><p>sf publishing, and I like to think this is at least partly true. But nothing would have changed if there </p><p>hadn't been editors and publishers who wanted to upgrade the product; and in particular, ti required </p><p>science fiction writers who could produce superior novels. Fortunately, such writers were there; some </p><p>of them had contributed to the SF Specials series, some had been writiing quality sf novels already </p><p>(Samuel R. Delany, Philip K. Dick, and Robert Silverberg are examples), and many writers of talent </p><p>entered the science fiction field during this period who didn't feelconstrained by the thud-and-blunder </p><p>traditions of earlier sf. </p><p>So in the Seventies science fiction was an exciting sold very well, and science fiction moved toward the </p><p>front of literary achievement. It was reviewed in The New York Times and analyzed by academic critics; </p><p>major universities offered courses studying science fiction It seemed that science fiction had finally </p><p>become respectable. </p><p>But other trends began to be felt, and although they brought many new readers to science fiction, for </p><p>the most part the caused sf to look back instead of forward. The television series Star Trek attracted an </p><p>enormous following, as did the Star Wars movies, Alien, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, E. T., and </p><p>others; these products of the visual media introduced millions of people to science fiction, but though </p><p>many were enthusiastic enough to buy sf books too, what they wanted wre stores ans simple and </p><p>familiar as the films they had enjoyed. When they found science fiction books that were like the</p><p>television and movie productions, they bought them in great numbers; when the books were more </p><p>complex or unusual, sales were much lower. </p><p>So in recent years sf publishers have catered to this vast new market. The result has been that most of </p><p>the science fiction puglished today is no more advanced and imaninative than the sf stores of the fifties, </p><p>or even the fourties; basic ideas and plots are reworked time and again, and when a novel proves to be </p><p>popular, a sequel or a series will come along soon. </p><p>There's nothing wrong with such books; when ther're well written they can be very good. But when </p><p>authors are constrained to writing nothing but variations on the plots and styles of the past, much of the </p><p>excitement of science fiction disappears. Science fiction nis a literature of change; more than any other </p><p>kind of writing, sf needs to keep moving forward if it's to be exciting. </p><p>The novels in this new series of Ace SF Specials do look forward rather than back. They're grounded in </p><p>the traditions of Science Fiction but they all have something new to add in ideas or literary </p><p>development. And they are all written by authors who are comparativly new to science fiction, because </p><p>it's usually the new writers who have the freshest ideas. (Most of those novels in the original series that </p><p>came to be called classics were written by authors who were them at the beginning of their careers.) </p><p>Ace Books aksed me to edit this new SF Specials series because they believe the time is right for such </p><p>adventurous books. The new readers who swelled the science fiction market in the last several years </p><p>are by now familiar with the4 basic ideas and plots, and many of them will want something more. This </p><p>new SF Specials series offers stories that explore more imaginative territory. </p><p>William Gibson's Neuromancer is set on Earth and in orbit around Earth not too many decades hence, </p><p>but its world is greaatly changed from the one we know. Technology is already effecting changes in our </p><p>lives and surroundings rapidly, and the changes seem to be increasing at an eponential rate; Gibson </p><p>shows how strangely warped our future might be if this trend continues. Neuromancer isa look at the </p><p>21st Century's criminal underground as it (literally) interfaces wth the high ground of tomorrow's rich </p><p>and powerful coorporations, people . . . and not-quite-people. </p><p>There's a great deal of science here, in the form of applied future technology, but it's always presented </p><p>as part of a fast-moving adventure story that will sweep you along with its tension and surprises. The </p><p>story is extremely visual, too: Gibson has a knack for imagining scenes so well that you may find</p><p>yourself seeing this novel much as you'd see a movie like Bladerunner. The effect is gripping, and </p><p>chilling at times, and always emotionally moving. Gibson's characters come to life and make us feel for </p><p>them and fear for them. </p><p>There will be more Ace Science Fiction Specials coming soon, each one as unusual as this one. Besides </p><p>Neuromancer, three have already been published: The Wild Shore By Kim Stanley Robinson, Green Eyes </p><p>by Lucius Shepard, and Palimpsests by Carter Scholz and Glenn Harcourt. I hope you'll look for them all. </p><p>Table of Contents </p><p>Neuromancer William Gibson </p><p>CHIBA CITY BLUES </p><p>1 </p><p>2 </p><p>The Shopping Expedition </p><p>3 </p><p>4 </p><p>5 </p><p>6 </p><p>Z </p><p>MIDNIGHT IN THE RUE )ULES VERNE </p><p>8 </p><p>9 </p><p>10 </p><p>11 </p><p>12 </p><p>THE STRAYLIGHT RUN </p><p>13 </p><p>14 </p><p>15 </p><p>16 </p><p>17</p><p>18 </p><p>19 </p><p>20 </p><p>22 </p><p>23 </p><p>DEPARTURE AND ARRIVAL </p><p>24 </p><p>PART 1 </p><p>CHIBA CITY BLUES </p><p>1 </p><p>The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel. </p><p>"It’s not like I’m using," Case heard someone say, as he shouldered his way through the crowd around </p><p>the door of the Chat. "It’s like my body’s developed this massive drug deficiency." It was a Sprawl voice </p><p>and a Sprawl joke. The Chatsubo was a bar for professional expatriates; you could drink there for a </p><p>week and never hear two words in Japanese. Ratz was tending bar, his prosthetic arm jerking </p><p>monotonously as he filled a tray of glasses with draft Kirin. He saw Case and smiled, his teeth a web </p><p>work of East European steel and brown decay. Case found a place at the bar, between the unlikely tan </p><p>on one of Lonny Zone’s whores and the crisp naval uniform of a tall African whose cheekbones were </p><p>ridged with precise rows of tribal scars. "Wage was in here early, with two Joe boys," Ratz said, shoving </p><p>a draft across the bar with his good hand. "Maybe some business with you, Case?" Case shrugged. The </p><p>girl to his right giggled and nudged him. </p><p>The bartender’s smile widened. His ugliness was the stuff of legend. In an age of affordable beauty, </p><p>there was something heraldic about his lack of it. The antique arm whined as he reached for another </p><p>mug. It was a Russian military prosthesis, a seven-function force-feedback manipulator, cased in </p><p>grubby pink plastic. "You are too much the artiste, Herr Case." Ratz grunted; the sound served him as </p><p>laughter. He scratched his overhang of white-shirted belly with the pink claw. "You are the artiste of </p><p>the slightly funny deal." </p><p>"Sure," Case said, and sipped his beer. "Somebody’s gotta be funny around here. Sure the fuck isn’t you." </p><p>The whore’s giggle went up an octave. </p><p>"Isn’t you either, sister. So you vanish, okay? Zone, he’s a close personal friend of mine." </p><p>She looked Case in the eye and made the softest possible spitting sound, her lips barely moving. But she </p><p>left. "Jesus," Case said, "what kind a creep joint you running here? </p><p>Man can’t have a drink." </p><p>"Ha," Ratz said, swabbing the scarred wood with a rag, "Zone shows a percentage. You I let work here </p><p>for entertainment value." </p><p>As Case was picking up his beer, one of those strange instants of silence descended, as though a </p><p>hundred unrelated conversations had simultaneously arrived at the same pause. Then the whore’s </p><p>giggle rang out, tinged with a certain hysteria. </p><p>Ratz grunted. "An angel passed." </p><p>"The Chinese," bellowed a drunken Australian, "Chinese bloody invented nerve-splicing. Give me the </p><p>mainland for a nerve job any day. Fix you right, mate . . ." </p><p>"Now that," Case said to his glass, all his bitterness suddenly rising in him like bile, "that is so much </p><p>bullshit." </p><p>The Japanese had already forgotten more neurosurgery than the Chinese had ever known. The black </p><p>clinics of Chiba were the cutting edge, whole bodies of technique supplanted monthly, and still they </p><p>couldn’t repair the damage he’d suffered in that Memphis hotel. </p><p>A year here and he still dreamed of cyberspace, hope fading nightly. All the speed he took, all the turns </p><p>he’d taken and the corners he’d cut in Night City, and still he’d see the matrix in his sleep, bright lattices </p><p>of logic unfolding across that colorless void . . . The Sprawl was a long strange way home over the </p><p>Pacific now, and he was no console man, no cyberspace cowboy. Just another hustler, trying to make it </p><p>through. But the dreams came on in the Japanese night like live wire voodoo and he’d cry for it, cry in </p><p>his sleep, and wake alone in the dark, curled in his capsule in some coffin hotel, his hands clawed into </p><p>the bedslab, temper foam bunched between his fingers, trying to reach the console that wasn’t there. </p><p>"I saw your girl last night," Ratz said, passing Case his second Kirin. </p><p>"I don’t have one," he said, and drank.</p><p>"Miss Linda Lee." </p><p>Case shook his head. </p><p>"No girl? Nothing? Only biz, friend artiste? Dedication to commerce?" The bartender’s small brown </p><p>eyes were nested deep in wrinkled flesh. "I think I liked you better, with her. You laughed more. Now, </p><p>some night, you get maybe too artistic, you wind up in the clinic tanks, spare parts." </p><p>"You’re breaking my heart, Ratz." He finished his beer, paid and left, high narrow shoulders hunched </p><p>beneath the rain-stained khaki nylon of his windbreaker. Threading his way through the Ninsei crowds, </p><p>he could smell his own stale sweat. </p><p>Case was twenty-four. At twenty-two, he’d been a cowboy a rustler, one of the best in the Sprawl. He’d </p><p>been trained by the best, by McCoy Pauley and Bobby Quine, legends in the biz. He’d operated on an </p><p>almost permanent adrenaline high, a byproduct of youth and proficiency, jacked into a custom </p><p>cyberspace deck that projected his disembodied consciousness into the con sensual hallucination that </p><p>was the matrix. A thief he’d worked for other, wealthier thieves, employers who provided the exotic </p><p>software required to penetrate the bright walls of corporate systems, opening windows into rich fields </p><p>of data. He’d made the classic mistake, the one he’d sworn he’d never make. He stole from his </p><p>employers. He kept something for himself and tried to move it through a fence in Amsterdam. He still </p><p>wasn’t sure how he’d been discovered, not that it mattered now. He’d expected to die, then, but they </p><p>only smiled. Of course he was welcome, they told him, welcome to the money. And he was going to </p><p>need it. Because — still smiling — they were going to make sure he never worked again. They damaged </p><p>his nervous system with a wartime Russian mycotoxin. </p><p>Strapped to a bed in a Memphis hotel, his talent burning out micron by micron, he hallucinated for </p><p>thirty hours. The damage was minute, subtle, and utterly effective. For Case, who’d lived for the </p><p>bodiless exultation of cyberspace, it was the Fall. In the bars he’d frequented as a cowboy hotshot, the </p><p>elite stance involved a certain relaxed contempt for the flesh. The body was meat. Case fell into the </p><p>prison of his own flesh. </p><p>His total assets were quickly converted to New Yen, a fat sheaf of the old paper currency that circulated </p><p>endlessly through the closed circuit of the world’s black markets like the seashells of the Trobriand </p><p>islanders. It was difficult to transact legitimate business with cash in the Sprawl; in Japan, it was </p><p>already illegal.</p><p>In Japan, he’d known with a clenched and absolute certainty, he’d find his cure. In Chiba. Either in a </p><p>registered clinic or in the shadow land of black medicine. Synonymous with implants, nerve-splicing, </p><p>and micro bionics, Chiba was a magnet for the Sprawl’s techno-criminal subcultures. </p><p>In Chiba, he’d watched his New Yen vanish in a two-month round of examinations and consultations. </p><p>The men in the black clinics, his last hope, had admired the expertise with which he’d been maimed, </p><p>and then slowly shaken their heads. Now he slept in the cheapest coffins, the ones nearest the port, </p><p>beneath the quartz-halogen floods that lit the docks all night like vast stages; where you couldn’t see </p><p>the lights of Tokyo for the glare of the television sky, not even the towering hologram logo of the Fuji </p><p>Electric Company, and Tokyo Bay was a black expanse where gulls wheeled above drifting shoals of </p><p>white styrofoam. Behind the port lay the city, factory domes dominated by the vast cubes of corporate </p><p>arcologies. Port and city were divided by a narrow borderland of older streets, an area with no official </p><p>name. Night City, with Ninsei its heart. By day, the bars down Ninsei were shuttered and featureless, </p><p>the neon dead, the holograms inert, waiting, under the poisoned silver sky. </p><p>Two blocks west of the Chat, in a teashop called the Jarre de The, Case washed down the night’s first pill </p><p>with a double espresso. It was a flat pink octagon, a potent species of Brazilian dex he bought from one </p><p>of Zone’s girls. The Jarre was walled with mirrors, each panel framed in red neon. </p><p>At first, finding himself alone in Chiba, with little money and less hope of finding a cure, he’d gone into a </p><p>kind of terminal overdrive, hustling fresh capital with a cold intensity that had seemed to belong to </p><p>someone else. In the first month, he’d killed two men and a woman over sums that a year before would </p><p>have seemed ludicrous. Ninsei wore him down until the street itself came to seem the externalization </p><p>of some death wish, some secret poison he hadn’t known he carried. Night City was like a deranged </p><p>experiment in social Darwinism, designed by a bored researcher who kept one thumb permanently on </p><p>the fast-forward button. Stop hustling and you sank without a trace, but move a little too swiftly and </p><p>you’d break the fragile surface tension of the black market; either way, you were gone, with nothing </p><p>left of you but some vague memory in the mind of a fixture like Ratz, though heart or lungs or kidneys </p><p>might survive in the service of some stranger with New Yen for the clinic tanks. </p><p>Biz here was a constant subliminal hum, and death the accepted punishment for laziness, carelessness, </p><p>lack of grace, the failure to heed the demands of an intricate protocol. Alone at a table in the Jarre de</p><p>The, with the octagon coming on, pinheads of sweat starting from his palms, suddenly aware of each </p><p>tingling hair on his arms and chest, Case knew that at some point he’d started to play a game with </p><p>himself, a very ancient one that has no name, a final solitaire. He no longer carried a weapon, no longer </p><p>took the basic precautions. He ran the fastest, loosest deals on the street, and he had a reputation for </p><p>being able to get whatever you wanted. A part of him knew that the arc of his self-destruction was </p><p>glaringly obvious to his customers, who grew steadily fewer, but that same part of him basked in the </p><p>knowledge that it was only a matter of time. And that was the part of him, smug in its expectation of </p><p>death, that most hated the thought of Linda Lee. </p><p>He’d found her, one rainy night, in an arcade. Under bright ghosts burning through a blue haze of </p><p>cigarette smoke, holograms of Wizard’s Castle, Tank War Europa, the New York skyline . . . And now he </p><p>remembered her that way, her face bathed in restless laser light, features reduced to a code: her </p><p>cheekbones flaring scarlet as Wizard’s Castle burned, forehead drenched with azure when Munich fell </p><p>to the Tank War, mouth touched with hot gold as a gliding cursor struck sparks from the wall of a </p><p>skyscraper canyon. He was riding high that night, with a brick of Wage’s ketamine on its way to </p><p>Yokohama and the money already in his pocket. He’d come in out of the warm rain that sizzled across </p><p>the Ninsei pavement and somehow she’d been singled out for him, one face out of the dozens who stood </p><p>at the consoles, lost in the game she played. The expression on her face, then, had been the one he’d </p><p>seen, hours later, on her sleeping face in a port side coffin, her upper lip like the line children draw to </p><p>represent a bird in flight. </p><p>Crossing the arcade to stand beside her, high on the deal he’d made, he saw her glance up. Gray eyes </p><p>rimmed with smudged black paintstick. Eyes of some animal pinned in the headlights of an oncoming </p><p>vehicle. </p><p>Their night together stretching into a morning, into tickets at the hover port and his first trip across the </p><p>Bay. The rain kept up, falling along Harajuku, beading on her plastic jacket, the children of Tokyo </p><p>trooping past the famous boutiques in white loafers and cling wrap capes, until she’d stood with him in </p><p>the midnight clatter of a pachinko parlor and held his hand like a child. </p><p>It took a month for the gestalt of drugs and tension he moved through to turn those perpetually startled</p><p>eyes into wells of reflexive need. He’d watched her personality fragment, calving like an iceberg, </p><p>splinters drifting away, and finally he’d seen the raw need, the hungry armature of addiction. He’d </p><p>watched her track the next hit with a concentration that reminded him of the mantises they sold in </p><p>stalls along Shiga, beside tanks of blue mutant carp and crickets caged in bamboo. He stared at the </p><p>black ring of grounds in his empty cup. It was vibrating with the speed he’d taken. The brown laminate </p><p>of the table top was dull with a patina of tiny scratches. With the dex mounting through his spine he </p><p>saw the countless random impacts required to create a surface like that. The Jarre was decorated in a </p><p>dated, nameless style from the previous century, an uneasy blend of Japanese traditional and pale </p><p>Milanese plastics, but everything seemed to wear a subtle film, as though the bad nerves of a million </p><p>customers had somehow attacked the mirrors and the once glossy plastics, leaving each surface fogged </p><p>with something that could never be wiped away. "Hey. Case, good buddy . . ." </p><p>He looked up, met gray eyes ringed with paintstick. She was wearing faded French orbital fatigues and </p><p>new white sneakers. </p><p>"I been lookin’ for you, man." She took a seat opposite him, her elbows on the table. The sleeves of the </p><p>blue zip suit had been ripped out at the shoulders; he automatically checked her arms for signs of terms </p><p>or the needle. "Want a cigarette?" She dug a crumpled pack of Yeheyuan filters from an ankle pocket </p><p>and offered him one. He took it, let her light it with a red plastic tube. "You sleep in’ okay, Case? You </p><p>look tired." Her accent put her south along the Sprawl, toward Atlanta. The skin below her eyes was </p><p>pale and unhealthy-looking, but the flesh was still smooth and firm. She was twenty. New lines of pain </p><p>were starting to etch themselves permanently at the corners of her mouth. Her dark hair was drawn </p><p>back, held by a band of printed silk. The pattern might have represented microcircuits, or a city map. </p><p>"Not if I remember to take my pills," he said, as a tangible wave of longing hit him, lust and loneliness </p><p>riding in on the wavelength of amphetamine. He remembered the smell of her skin in the overheated </p><p>darkness of a coffin near the port; her locked across the small of his back. </p><p>All the meat, he thought, and all it wants. "Wage," she said, narrowing her eyes. "He wants to see you </p><p>with a hole in your face." She lit her own cigarette. "Who says? Ratz? You been talking to Ratz?" </p><p>"No. Mona. Her new squeeze is one of Wage’s boys." </p><p>"I don’t owe him enough. He does me, he’s out the money anyway." He shrugged. </p><p>"Too many people owe him now, Case. Maybe you get to be the example. You seriously better watch it."</p><p>"Sure. How about you, Linda? You got anywhere to sleep?" </p><p>"Sleep." She shook her head. "Sure, Case." She shivered, hunched forward over the table. Her face was </p><p>filmed with sweat. </p><p>"Here," he said, and dug in the pocket of his windbreaker, coming up with a crumpled fifty. He </p><p>smoothed it automatically, under the table, folded it in quarters, and passed it to her. "You need that, </p><p>honey. You better give it to Wage." There was something in the gray eyes now that he couldn’t read, </p><p>something he’d never seen there before. </p><p>"I owe Wage a lot more than that. Take it. I got more coming," he lied, as he watched his New Yen vanish </p><p>into a zippered pocket. </p><p>"You get your money, Case, you find Wage quick." </p><p>"I'll see you, Linda," he said, getting up. </p><p>"Sure." A millimeter of white showed beneath each of her pupils. Sanpaku. "You watch your back, man." </p><p>He nodded, anxious to be gone. </p><p>He looked back as the plastic door swung shut behind him, saw her eyes reflected in a cage of red neon. </p><p>Friday night on Ninsei. </p><p>He passed yakitori stands and massage parlors; a franchised coffee shop called Beautiful Girl, the </p><p>electronic thunder of an arcade. He stepped out of the way to let a dark-suited sarariman by, spotting </p><p>the Mitsubishi-Genentech logo tattooed across the back of the man’s right hand. </p><p>Was it authentic? If that’s for real, he thought, he’s in for trouble. If it wasn’t, served him right. M-G </p><p>employees above a certain level were implanted with advanced microprocessors that monitored </p><p>mutagen levels in the bloodstream. Gear like that would get you rolled in Night City, rolled straight into </p><p>a black clinic. </p><p>The sarariman had been Japanese, but the Ninsei crowd was a gaijin crowd. Groups of sailors up from </p><p>the port, tense solitary tourists hunting pleasures no guidebook listed, Sprawl heavies showing off </p><p>grafts and implants, and a dozen distinct species of hustler, all swarming the street in an intricate dance </p><p>of desire and commerce. </p><p>There were countless theories explaining why Chiba City tolerated the Ninsei enclave, but Case tended </p><p>toward the idea that the Yakuza might be preserving the place as a kind of historical park, a reminder</p><p>of humble origins. But he also saw a certain sense in the notion that burgeoning technologies require </p><p>outlaw zones, that Night City wasn’t there for its inhabitants, but as a deliberately unsupervised </p><p>playground for technology itself. </p><p>Was Linda right, he wondered, staring up at the lights? Would Wage have him killed to make an </p><p>example? It didn’t make much sense, but then Wage dealt primarily in proscribed biologicals, and they </p><p>said you had to be crazy to do that. But Linda said Wage wanted him dead. Case’s primary insight into </p><p>the dynamics of street dealing was that neither the buyer nor the seller really needed him. A </p><p>middleman’s business is to make himself a necessary evil. The dubious niche Case had carved for </p><p>himself in the criminal ecology of Night City had beep cut out with lies, scooped out a night at a time </p><p>with betrayal. Now, sensing that its walls were starting to crumble, he felt the edge of a strange </p><p>euphoria. </p><p>The week before, he’d delayed transfer of a synthetic glandular extract, retailing it for a wider margin </p><p>than usual. He knew Wage hadn’t liked that. Wage was his primary supplier, nine years in Chiba and </p><p>one of the few gaijin dealers who’d Mao aged to forge links with the rigidly stratified criminal </p><p>establishment beyond Night City’s borders. Genetic materials and hormones trickled down to Ninsei </p><p>along an intricate ladder of fronts and blinds. Somehow Wage had managed to trace something back, </p><p>once, and now he enjoyed steady connections in a dozen cities. </p><p>Case found himself staring through a shop window. The place sold small bright objects to the sailors. </p><p>Watches, flic-knives, lighters, pocket VTRs, Sims Tim decks, weighted man-riki chains, and shuriken. </p><p>The shuriken had always fascinated him, steel stars with knife-sharp points. Some were chromed, </p><p>others black, others treated with a rainbow surface like oil on water. But the chrome stars held his </p><p>gaze. They were mounted against scarlet ultra suede with nearly invisible loops of nylon fish line; their </p><p>centers stamped with dragons or yin yang symbols. They caught the street’s neon and twisted it, and it </p><p>came to Case that these were the stars under which he voyaged, his destiny spelled out in a </p><p>constellation of cheap chrome. "Julie," he said to his stars. "Time to see old Julie. He’ll know." </p><p>Julius Deane was one hundred and thirty-five years old, his metabolism assiduously warped by a </p><p>weekly fortune in serums and hormones. His primary hedge against aging was a yearly pilgrimage to </p><p>Tokyo, where genetic surgeons reset the code of his DNA, a procedure unavailable in Chiba. Then he’d</p><p>fly to Hongkong and order the year’s suits and shirts. Sexless and inhumanly patient, his primary </p><p>gratification seemed to he in his devotion to esoteric forms of tailor-worship. Case had never seen him </p><p>wear the same suit twice, although his wardrobe seemed to consist entirely of meticulous </p><p>reconstruction’s of garments of the previous century. He affected prescription lenses, framed in spidery </p><p>gold, ground from thin slabs of pink synthetic quartz and beveled like the mirrors in a Victorian doll </p><p>house. His offices were located in a warehouse behind Ninsei, part of which seemed to have been </p><p>sparsely decorated, years before, with a random collection of European furniture, as though Deane had </p><p>once intended to use the place as his home. Neo-Aztec bookcases gathered dust against one wall of the </p><p>room where Case waited. A pair of bulbous Disney-styled table lamps perched awkwardly on a low </p><p>Kandinsky-look coffee table in scarlet-lacquered steel. A Dali clock hung on the wall between the </p><p>bookcases, its distorted face sagging to the bare concrete floor. Its hands were holograms that altered </p><p>to match the convolutions of the face as they rotated, but it never told the correct time. The room was </p><p>stacked with white fiberglass shipping modules that gave off the tang of preserved ginger. "You seem to </p><p>be clean, old son," said Deane’s disembodied voice. "Do come in." </p><p>Magnetic bolts thudded out of position around the massive imitation-rosewood door to the left of the </p><p>bookcases. JULIUS DEANE IMPORT EXPORT was lettered across the plastic in peeling self-adhesive </p><p>capitals. If the furniture scattered in Deane’s makeshift foyer suggested the end of the past century, the </p><p>office itself seemed to belong to its start. Deane’s seamless pink face regarded Case from a pool of light </p><p>cast by an ancient brass lamp with a rectangular shade of dark green glass. The importer was securely </p><p>fenced behind a vast desk of painted steel, flanked on either side by tall, drawer Ed cabinets made of </p><p>some sort of pale wood. The sort of thing, Case supposed, that had once been used to store written </p><p>records of some kind. The desktop was littered with cassettes, scrolls of yellowed printout, and various </p><p>parts of some sort of clockwork typewriter, a machine Deane never seemed to get around to </p><p>reassembling. </p><p>"What brings you around, boyo?" Deane asked, offering Case a narrow bonbon wrapped in </p><p>blue-and-white checked paper. "Try one. Tins Ting Djahe, the very best." Case refused the ginger, took a </p><p>seat in a yawing wooden swivel chair, and ran a thumb down the faded seam of one black jeans-leg. </p><p>"Julie I hear Wage wants to kill me." </p><p>Ah. Well then. And where did you hear this, if I may?</p><p>'People." </p><p>"People," Deane said, around a ginger bonbon. "What sort of people? Friends? </p><p>Case nodded. </p><p>"Not always that easy to know who your friends are, is it?" </p><p>"I do owe him a little money, Deane. He say anything to you?" </p><p>"Haven’t been in touch, of late." Then he sighed. "If 1 did know, of course, I might not be in a position to </p><p>tell you. Things being what they are, you understand." </p><p>"Things?" </p><p>"He’s an important connection Case." </p><p>"Yeah. He want to kill me, Julie?" </p><p>"Not that I know of." Deane shrugged. They might have been discussing the price of ginger. "If it proves </p><p>to be an unfounded rumor, old son, you come back in a week or so and I'll let you in on a little </p><p>something out of Singapore." </p><p>"Out of the Nan Hai Hotel, Bencoolen Street?" </p><p>"Loose lips, old son!" Deane grinned. The steel desk was jammed with a fortune in debugging gear. </p><p>"Be seeing you, Julie. I’ll say hello to Wage." Deane’s fingers came up to brush the perfect knot in his </p><p>pale silk tie. </p><p>He was less than a block from Deane’s office when it hit, the sudden cellular awareness that someone </p><p>was on his ass, and very close. </p><p>The cultivation of a certain tame paranoia was something Case took for granted. The trick lay in not </p><p>letting it get out of control. But that could be quite a trick, behind a stack of octagons. He fought the </p><p>adrenaline surge and composed his narrow features in a mask of bored vacancy, pretending to let the </p><p>crowd carry him along. When he saw a darkened display window, he managed to pause by it. The place </p><p>was a surgical boutique, closed for renovations. With his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he stared </p><p>through the glass at a flat lozenge of vat grown flesh that lay on a carved pedestal of imitation jade. The </p><p>color of its skin reminded him of Zone’s whores; it was tattooed with a luminous digital display wired </p><p>to a subcutaneous chip. Why bother with the surgery, he found himself thinking, while sweat coursed </p><p>down his ribs, when you could just carry the thing around in your pocket? </p><p>Without moving his head, he raised his eyes and studied the reflection of the passing crowd. </p><p>There. </p><p>Behind sailors in short-sleeved khaki. Dark hair, mirrored glasses, dark clothing, slender. . . </p><p>And gone. </p><p>Then Case was running, bent low, dodging between bodies. </p><p>"Rent me a gun, Shin?" </p><p>The boy smiled. "Two hour." They stood together in the smell of fresh raw seafood at the rear of a Shiga </p><p>sushi stall. "You come back, two hour." </p><p>"I need one now, man. Got anything right now?" Shin rummaged behind empty two-liter cans that had </p><p>once been filled with powdered horseradish. He produced a slender package wrapped in gray plastic. </p><p>"Taser. One hour, twenty New Yen. Thirty deposit." </p><p>"Shit. I don’t need that. I need a gun. Like I maybe wanna shoot somebody, understand?" </p><p>The waiter shrugged, replacing the taser behind the horse-radish cans. "Two hour." </p><p>He went into the shop without bothering to glance at the display of shuriken. He’d never thrown one in </p><p>his life. He bought two packs of Yeheyuans with a Mitsubishi Bank chip that gave his name as Charles </p><p>Derek May. It beat Truman Starr, the best he’d been able to do for a passport. The Japanese woman </p><p>behind the terminal looked like she had a few years on old Deane, none of them with the benefit of </p><p>science. He took his slender roll of New Yen out of his pocketand showed itto her. "I want to buy a </p><p>weapon." She gestured in the direction of a case filled with knives. </p><p>"No," he said, "I don’t like knives." </p><p>She brought an oblong box from beneath the counter. The lid was yellow cardboard, stamped with a </p><p>crude image of a coiled cobra with a swollen hood. Inside were eight identical tissue-wrapped </p><p>cylinders. He watched while mottled brown fingers stripped the paper from one. She held the thing up </p><p>for him to examine, a dull steel tube with a leather thong at one end and a small bronze pyramid at the </p><p>other. She gripped the tube with one hand, the pyramid between her other thumb and forefinger, and </p><p>pulled. Three oiled, telescoping segments of tightly wound coil spring slid out and locked. "Cobra," she </p><p>said.</p><p>Beyond the neon shudder of Ninsei, the sky was that mean shade of gray. The air had gotten worse; it </p><p>seemed to have teeth tonight, and half the crowd wore filtration masks. Case had spent ten minutes in a </p><p>urinal, trying to discover a convenient way to conceal his cobra; finally he’d settled for tucking the </p><p>handle into the waistband of his jeans, with the tube slanting across his stomach. The pyramidal </p><p>striking tip rode between his ribcage and the lining of his windbreaker. The thing felt like it might </p><p>clatter to the pavement with his next step, but it made him feel better. </p><p>The Chat wasn’t really a dealing bar, but on weeknights it attracted a related clientele. Fridays and </p><p>Saturdays were different. The regulars were still there, most of them, but they faded behind an influx of </p><p>sailors and the specialists who preyed on diem. As Case pushed through the doors, he looked for Ratz, </p><p>but the bartender wasn’t in sight. Lonny Zone, the bar’s resident pimp, was observing with glazed </p><p>fatherly interest as one of his girls went to work on a young sailor. Zone was addicted to a brand of </p><p>hypnotic the Japanese called Cloud Dancers. Catching the pimp’s eye, Case beckoned him to the bar. </p><p>Zone came drifting through the crowd in slow motion, his long face slack and placid. </p><p>"You seen Wage tonight, Lonny?" </p><p>Zone regarded him with his usual calm. He shook his head. </p><p>"You sure, man?" </p><p>"Maybe in the Namban. Maybe two hours ago." </p><p>Got some Joeboys with him? One of 'em thin, dark hair, maybe a black jacket? </p><p>"No," Zone said at last, his smooth forehead creased to indicate the effort it cost him to recall so much </p><p>pointless detail. "Big boys. Graftees." Zone’s eyes showed very little white and less iris; under the </p><p>drooping lids, his pupils were dilated and enormous. He stared into Case’s face for a long time, then </p><p>lowered his gaze. He saw the bulge of the steel whip. "Cobra," he said, and raised an eyebrow. "You </p><p>wanna fuck somebody up?" </p><p>"See you, Lonny." Case left the bar. </p><p>His tail was back. He was sure of it. He felt a stab of elation the octagons and adrenaline mingling with </p><p>something else. You’re enjoying this, he thought; you’re crazy. Because, in some weird and very </p><p>approximate way, it was like a run in the matrix. Get just wasted enough, find yourself in some</p><p>desperate but strangely arbitrary kind of trouble, and it was possible to see Ninsei as a field of data, the </p><p>way the matrix had once reminded him of proteins linking to distinguish cell specialties. Then you </p><p>could throw yourself into a highspeed drift and skid, totally engaged but set apart from it all, and all </p><p>around you the dance of biz, information interacting, data made flesh in the mazes of the black market . </p><p>. . Go it, Case, he told himself. Suck 'em in. Last thing they'll expect. He was half a block from the games </p><p>arcade where he’d first met Linda Lee. </p><p>He bolted across Ninsei, scattering a pack of strolling sailors. One of them screamed after him in </p><p>Spanish. Then he was through the entrance, the sound crashing over him like surf, subsonics throbbing </p><p>in the pit of his stomach. Someone scored a ten-megaton hit on Tank War Europa, a simulated air burst </p><p>drowning the arcade in white sound as a lurid hologram fireball mushroomed overhead. He cut to the </p><p>right and loped up a flight of unpainted chip board stairs. He’d come here once with Wage, to discuss a </p><p>deal in proscribed hormonal triggers with a man called Matsuga. He remembered the hallway, its </p><p>stained matting, the row of identical doors leading to tiny office cubicles. One door was open now. A </p><p>Japanese girl in a sleeveless black t-shirt glanced up from a white terminal, behind her head a travel </p><p>poster of Greece, Aegian blue splashed with streamlined ideograms. </p><p>"Get your security up here," Case told her. Then he sprinted down the corridor, out of her sight. The last </p><p>two doors were closed and, he assumed, locked. He spun and slammed the sole of his nylon running </p><p>shoe into the blue-lacquered composition door at the far end. It popped, cheap hardware falling from </p><p>the splintered frame. Darkness there, the white curve of a terminal housing. Then he was on the door to </p><p>its right, both hands around the transparent plastic knob, leaning in with everything he had. Something </p><p>snapped, and he was inside. This was where he and Wage had met with Matsuga, but whatever front </p><p>company Matsuga had operated was long gone. No terminal, nothing. Light from the alley behind the </p><p>arcade, filtering in through soot blown plastic. He made out a snake like loop of fiber optics protruding </p><p>from a wall socket, a pile of discarded food containers, and the blade less nacelle of an electric fan. </p><p>The window was a single pane of cheap plastic. He shrugged out of his jacket, bundled it around his </p><p>right hand, and punched. It split, requiring two more blows to free it from the frame. Over the muted </p><p>chaos of the games, an alarm began to cycle, triggered either by the broken window or by the girl at the </p><p>head of the corridor. </p><p>Case turned, pulled his jacket on, and flicked the cobra to full extension.</p><p>With the door closed, he was counting on his tail to assume he’d gone through the one he’d kicked half </p><p>off its hinges. The cobra’s bronze pyramid began to bob gently, the spring-steel shaft amplifying his </p><p>pulse. </p><p>Nothing happened. There was only the surging of the alarm, the crashing of the games, his heart </p><p>hammering. When the fear came, it was like some half-forgotten friend. Not the cold rapid mechanism </p><p>of the dex-paranoia, but simple animal fear. He’d lived for so long on a constant edge of anxiety that </p><p>he’d almost forgotten what real fear was. </p><p>This cubicle was the sort of place where people died. He might die here. They might have guns ... A </p><p>crash, from the far end of the corridor. A man’s voice, shouting something in Japanese. A scream, shrill </p><p>terror. Another crash. </p><p>And footsteps, unhurried, coming closer. Passing his closed door. Pausing for the space of three rapid </p><p>beats of his heart. And returning. One, two, three. A bootheel scraped the matting. </p><p>The last of his octagon-induced bravado collapsed. He snapped the cobra into its handle and scrambled </p><p>for the window, blind with fear, his nerves screaming. He was up, out, and falling, all before he was </p><p>conscious of what he’d done. The impact with pavement drove dull rods of pain through his shins. A </p><p>narrow wedge of light from a half-open service hatch framed a heap of discarded fiber optics and the </p><p>chassis of a junked console. He’d fallen face forward on a slab of soggy chip board, he rolled over, into </p><p>the shadow of the console. The cubicle’s window was a square of faint light. The alarm still oscillated, </p><p>louder here, the rear wall dulling the roar of the games. </p><p>A head appeared, framed in the window, back lit by the fluorescents in the corridor, then vanished. It </p><p>returned, but he still couldn’t read the features. Glint of silver across the eyes. "Shit," someone said, a </p><p>woman, in the accent of the northern Sprawl. </p><p>The head was gone. Case lay under the console for a long count of twenty, then stood up. The steel </p><p>cobra was still in his hand, and it took him a few seconds to remember what it was. He limped away </p><p>down the alley, nursing his left ankle. Shin’s pistol was a fifty-year-old Vietnamese imitation of a South </p><p>American copy of a Walther PPK, double-action on the first shot, with a very rough pull. It was </p><p>chambered for .22 long rifle, and Case would’ve preferred lead azide explosives to the simple Chinese </p><p>hollow points Shin had sold him. Still it was a handgun and nine rounds of ammunition, and as he made</p><p>his way down Shiga from the sushi stall he cradled it in his jacket pocket. The grips were bright red </p><p>plastic molded in a raised dragon motif, something to run your thumb across in the dark. He’d </p><p>consigned the cobra to a dump canister on Ninsei and dry-swallowed another octagon. </p><p>The pill lit his circuits and he rode the rush down Shiga to Ninsei, then over to Baiitsu. His tail, he’d </p><p>decided, was gone and that was fine. He had calls to make, biz to transact, and it wouldn’t wait. A block </p><p>down Baiitsu, toward the port, stood a featureless ten-story office building in ugly yellow brick. Its </p><p>windows were dark now, but a faint glow from the roof was visible if you craned your neck. An unlit </p><p>neon sign near the main entrance offered CHEAP HOTEL under a cluster of ideograms. If the place had </p><p>another name, Case didn’t know it; it was always referred to as Cheap Hotel. You reached it through an </p><p>alley off Baiitsu, where an elevator waited at the foot of a transparent shaft. The elevator, like Cheap </p><p>Hotel, was an afterthought, lashed to the building with bamboo and epoxy. Case climbed into the plastic </p><p>cage and used his key, an unmarked length of rigid magnetic tape. </p><p>Case had rented a coffin here, on a weekly basis, since he’d arrived in Chiba, but he’d never slept in </p><p>Cheap Hotel. He slept in cheaper places. </p><p>The elevator smelled of perfume and cigarettes; the sides of the cage was scratched and thumb- </p><p>smudged. As it passed the fifth floor, he saw the lights of Ninsei. He drummed his fingers against the </p><p>pistol grip as the cage slowed with a gradual hiss. As always, it came to a full stop with a violent jolt, but </p><p>he was ready for it. He stepped out into the courtyard that served the place as some combination of </p><p>lobby and lawn. Centered in the square carpet of green plastic turf, a Japanese teenager sat behind a </p><p>C -shaped console, reading a textbook. The white fiberglass coffins were racked in a framework of </p><p>industrial scaffolding. Six tiers of coffins, ten coffins on a side. Case nodded in the boy’s direction and </p><p>limped across the plastic grass to the nearest ladder. The compound was roofed with cheap laminated </p><p>matting that rattled in a strong wind and leaked when it rained, but the coffins were reasonably </p><p>difficult to open without a key. </p><p>The expansion-grate catwalk vibrated with his weight as he edged his way along the third tier to </p><p>Number 92. The coffins were three meters long, the oval hatches a meter wide and just under a meter </p><p>and a half tall. He fed his key into the slot and waited for verification from the house computer. </p><p>Magnetic bolts thudded reassuringly and the hatch rose vertically with a creak of springs. Fluorescents</p><p>flickered on as he crawled in, pulling the hatch shut behind him and slapping the panel that activated </p><p>the manual latch. </p><p>There was nothing in Number 92 but a standard Hitachi pocket computer and a small white styrofoam </p><p>cooler chest. The cooler contained the remains of three ten-kilo slabs of dry ice carefully wrapped in </p><p>paper to delay evaporation, and a spun aluminum lab flask. Crouching on the brown temper foam slab </p><p>that was both floor and bed, Case took Shin’s .22 from his pocket and put it on top of the cooler. Then he </p><p>took off his jacket. The coffin’s terminal was molded into one concave wall, opposite a panel listing </p><p>house rules in seven languages. Case took the pink handset from its cradle and punched a Hongkong </p><p>number from memory. He let it ring five times, then hung up. His buyer for the three megabytes of hot </p><p>RAM in the Hitachi wasn’t taking calls. </p><p>He punched a Tokyo number in Shinjuku. </p><p>A woman answered, something in Japanese. </p><p>"Snake Man there?" </p><p>"Very good to hear from you," said Snake Man, coming in on an extension. "I’ve been expecting your </p><p>call." </p><p>"I got the music you wanted." Glancing at the cooler. </p><p>"I’m very glad to hear that. We have a cash flow problem. </p><p>Can you front?" </p><p>"Oh, man, I really need the money bad . . ." </p><p>Snake Man hung up. </p><p>"You shit " Case said to the humming receiver. He stared at the cheap little pistol. </p><p>"Iffy," he said, "it’s all looking very iffy tonight." </p><p>Case walked into the Chat an hour before dawn, both hands in the pockets of his jacket; one held the </p><p>rented pistol, the other the aluminum flask. </p><p>Ratz was at a rear table, drinking Apollonaris water from a beer pitcher, his hundred and twenty kilos </p><p>of doughy flesh tilted against the wall on a creaking chair. A Brazilian kid called Kurt was on the bar, </p><p>tending a thin crowd of mostly silent drunks. Ratz’s plastic arm buzzed as he raised the pitcher and</p><p>drank. His shaven head was filmed with sweat. "You look bad, friend artiste," he said, flashing the wet </p><p>ruin of his teeth. "I’m doing just fine," said Case, and grinned like a skull. "Super fine." He sagged into the </p><p>chair opposite Ratz, hands still in his pockets. </p><p>"And you wander back and forth in this portable bombshelter built of booze and ups, sure. Proof </p><p>against the grosser emotions, yes?" </p><p>"Why don’t you get off my case, Ratz? You seen Wage?" </p><p>"Proof against fear and being alone," the bartender continued. "Listen to the fear. Maybe it’s your </p><p>friend." </p><p>"You hear anything about a fight in the arcade tonight, Ratz? </p><p>Somebody hurt?" </p><p>"Crazy cut a security man." He shrugged. "A girl, they say." </p><p>"I gotta talk to Wage, Ratz, I . . ." </p><p>"Ah." Ratz’s mouth narrowed, compressed into a single line. He was looking past Case, toward the </p><p>entrance. "I think you are about to." </p><p>Case had a sudden flash of the shuriken in their window. The speed sang in his head. The pistol in his </p><p>hand was slippery with sweat. </p><p>"Herr Wage," Ratz said, slowly extending his pink manipulator as if he expected it to be shaken. "How </p><p>great a pleasure. Too seldom do you honor us." </p><p>Case turned his head and looked up into Wage’s face. It was a tanned and forgettable mask. The eyes </p><p>were vat grown sea-green Nikon transplants. Wage wore a suit of gunmetal silk and a simple bracelet </p><p>of platinum on either wrist. He was flanked by his Joe boys, nearly identical young men, their arms and </p><p>shoulders bulging with grafted muscle. "How you doing, Case?" </p><p>"Gentlemen," said Ratz, picking up the table’s heaped ash-tray in his pink plastic claw, "I want no </p><p>trouble here." The ashtray was made of thick, shatterproof plastic, and advertised Tsingtao beer. Ratz </p><p>crushed it smoothly, butts and shards of green plastic cascading onto the table top. "You understand?" </p><p>"Hey, sweetheart," said one of the Joe boys, "you wanna try that thing on me?" </p><p>"Don’t bother aiming for the legs, Kurt," Ratz said, his tone conversational. Case glanced across the </p><p>room and saw the Brazilian standing on the bar, aiming a Smith & Wesson riot gun at the trio. The </p><p>thing’s barrel, made of paper-thin alloy wrapped with a kilometer of glass filament, was wide enough</p><p>to swallow a fist. The skeletal magazine revealed five fat orange cartridges, subsonic sandbag jellies. </p><p>"Technically nonlethal," said Ratz. </p><p>"Hey, Ratz," Case said, "I owe you one." The bartender shrugged. "Nothing, you owe me. These," and he </p><p>glowered at Wage and the Joe boys, "should know better. You don’t take anybody off in the Chatsubo." </p><p>Wage coughed. "So who’s talking about taking anybody off? We just wanna talk business. Case and me, </p><p>we work together.' </p><p>Case pulled the .22 out of his pocket and level led it at Wage’s crotch. "I hear you wanna do me." Ratz’s </p><p>pink claw closed around the pistol and Case let his hand go limp. "Look, Case, you tell me what the fuck </p><p>is going on with you, you wig or something? What’s this shit I’m trying to kill you?" Wage turned to the </p><p>boy on his left. "You two go back to the Namban. Wait for me." </p><p>Case watched as they crossed the bar, which was now entirely deserted except for Kurt and a drunken </p><p>sailor in khakis, who was curled at the foot of a barstool. The barrel of the Smith & Wesson tracked the </p><p>two to the door, then swung back to cover Wage. The magazine of Case’s pistol clattered on the table. </p><p>Ratz held the gun in his claw and pumped the round out of the chamber. </p><p>"Who told you I was going to hit you, Case?" Wage asked. </p><p>Linda. </p><p>"Who told you, man? Somebody trying to set you up?" </p><p>The sailor moaned and vomited explosively. "Get him out of here," Ratz called to Kurt, who was sitting </p><p>on the edge of the bar now, the Smith & Wesson across his lap, lighting a cigarette. </p><p>Case felt the weight of the night come down on him like a bag of wet sand settling behind his eyes. He </p><p>took the flask out of his pocket and handed it to Wage. "All I got. Pituitaries. Get you five hundred if you </p><p>move it fast. Had the rest of my roll in some RAM, but that’s gone by now." </p><p>"You okay, Case?" The flask had already vanished behind a gunmetal lapel. "I mean, fine, this’ll square </p><p>us, but you look bad. Like hammered shit. You better go somewhere and sleep." </p><p>"Yeah." He stood up and felt the Chat sway around him. </p><p>"Well, I had this fifty, but I gave it to somebody." He giggled. He picked up the ,22’s magazine and the</p><p>one loose cartridge and dropped them into one pocket, then put the pistol in the other. "I gotta see Shin, </p><p>get my deposit back." </p><p>"Go home," said Ratz, shifting on the creaking chair with something like embarrassment. "Artiste. Go </p><p>home." He felt them watching as he crossed the room and shouldered his way past the plastic doors. </p><p>"Bitch," he said to the rose tint over Shiga. Down on Ninsei the holograms were vanishing like ghosts, </p><p>and most of the neon was already cold and dead. He sipped thick black coffee from a street vendor’s </p><p>foam thimble and watched the sun come up. "You fly away, honey. Towns like this are for people who </p><p>like the way down." But that wasn’t it, really, and he was finding it increasingly hard to maintain the </p><p>sense of betrayal. She just wanted a ticket home, and the RAM in his Hitachi would buy it for her, if she </p><p>could find the right fence. And that business with the fifty; she’d almost turned it down, knowing she </p><p>was about to rip him for the rest of what he had. When he climbed out of the elevator, the same boy was </p><p>on the desk. Different textbook. "Good buddy," Case called across the plastic turf, "you don’t need to tell </p><p>me. I know already. Pretty lady came to visit, said she had my key. Nice little tip for you, say fifty New </p><p>ones?" The boy put down his book. "Woman," Case said, and drew a line across his forehead with his </p><p>thumb. "Silk." He smiled broadly. The boy smiled back, nodded. "Thanks, ass hole," Case said. </p><p>On the catwalk, he had trouble with the lock. She’d messed it up somehow when she’d fiddled it, he </p><p>thought. Beginner. He knew where to rent a black box that would open anything in Cheap Hotel. </p><p>Fluorescents came on as he crawled in. "Close the hatch real slow, friend. You still got that Saturday </p><p>night special you rented from the waiter?" She sat with her back to the wall, at the far end of the coffin. </p><p>She had her knees up, resting her wrists on them, the pepper box muzzle of a flechette pistol emerged </p><p>from her hands. "That you in the arcade?" He pulled the hatch down. </p><p>"Where’s Linda?" </p><p>"Hit that latch switch." </p><p>He did. </p><p>"That your girl? Linda?" </p><p>He nodded. </p><p>"She’s gone. Took your Hitachi. Real nervous kid. What about the gun, man?" She wore mirrored</p><p>glasses. Her clothes were black, the heels of black boots deep in the temper foam. "I took it back to </p><p>Shin, got my deposit. Sold his bullets back to him for half what I paid. You want the money?" </p><p>"No." </p><p>"Want some dry ice? All I got, right now." </p><p>"What got into you tonight? Why’d you pull that scene at the arcade? I had to mess up this rentacop </p><p>came after me with nun chucks. " </p><p>"Linda said you were gonna kill me." </p><p>"Linda said? I never saw her before I came up here." </p><p>"You aren’t with Wage?" </p><p>She shook her head. He realized that the glasses were surgically inset, sealing her sockets. The silver </p><p>lenses seemed to grow from smooth pale skin above her cheekbones, framed by dark hair cut in a </p><p>rough shag. The fingers curled around the fletcher were slender, white, tipped with polished burgundy. </p><p>The nails looked artificial. "I think you screwed up, Case. I showed up and you just fit me right into your </p><p>reality picture." </p><p>"So what do you want, lady?" He sagged back against the hatch. </p><p>"You. One live body, brains still somewhat intact. Molly, Case. My name’s Molly. I’m collecting you for </p><p>the man I work for. Just wants to talk, is all. Nobody wants to hurt you " </p><p>"That’s good." </p><p>"'Cept I do hurt people sometimes, Case. I guess it’s just the way I'm wired." She wore tight black glove </p><p>leather jeans and a bulky black jacket cut from some matte fabric that seemed to absorb light. "If I put </p><p>this dart gun away, will you be easy, Case? You look like you like to take stupid chances." </p><p>"Hey, I’m very easy. I’m a pushover, no problem." </p><p>"That’s fine, man." The fletcher vanished into the black jacket. "Because you try to fuck around with me, </p><p>you’ll be taking one of the stupidest chances of your whole life." She held out her hands, palms up, the </p><p>white fingers slightly spread, and with a barely audible click, ten double-edged, four-centimeter scalpel </p><p>blades slid from their housings beneath the burgundy nails. </p><p>She smiled. The blades slowly withdrew. </p><p>2 </p><p>After a year of coffins, the room on the twenty-fifth floor of the Chiba Hilton seemed enormous. It was </p><p>ten meters by eight, half of a suite. A white Braun coffee maker steamed on a low table by the sliding </p><p>glass panels that opened onto a narrow balcony. </p><p>"Get some coffee in you. Look like you need it." She took off her black jacket, the fletcher hung beneath </p><p>her arm in a black nylon shoulder rig. She wore a sleeveless gray pullover with plain steel zips across </p><p>each shoulder. Bulletproof, Case decided, slopping coffee into a bright red mug. His arms and legs felt </p><p>like they were made out of wood. "Case." He looked up, seeing the man for the first time. "My name is </p><p>Armitage." The dark robe was open to the waist, the broad chest hairless and muscular, the stomach </p><p>flat and hard. Blue eyes so pale they made Case think of bleach. "Sun’s up, Case. This is your lucky day, </p><p>boy." </p><p>Case whipped his arm sideways and the man easily ducked the scalding coffee. Brown stain running </p><p>down the imitation rice paper wall. He saw the angular gold ring through the left lobe. Special Forces. </p><p>The man smiled. </p><p>"Get your coffee, Case," Molly said. "You’re okay, but you’re not going anywhere 'til Armitage has his </p><p>say." She sat cross legged on a silk futon and began to fieldstrip the fletcher without bothering to look at </p><p>it. Twin mirrors tracking as he crossed to the table and refilled his cup. </p><p>"Too young to remember the war, aren’t you, Case?" Armitage ran a large hand back through his </p><p>cropped brown hair. A heavy gold bracelet flashed on his wrist. "Leningrad, Kiev, Siberia. We invented </p><p>you in Siberia, Case." </p><p>"What’s that supposed to mean?" </p><p>"Screaming Fist, Case. You’ve heard the name." </p><p>"Some kind of run, wasn’t it? Tried to burn this Russian nexus with virus programs. Yeah, I heard about </p><p>it. And nobody got out." </p><p>He sensed abrupt tension. Armitage walked to the window and looked out over Tokyo Bay. "That isn’t </p><p>true. One unit made it back to Helsinki, Case." </p><p>Case shrugged, sipped coffee. </p><p>"You’re a console cowboy. The prototypes of the programs you use to crack industrial banks were</p><p>developed for Screaming Fist. For the assault on the Kirensk computer nexus. Basic module was a </p><p>Nightwing micro light, a pilot, a matrix deck, a jockey. We were running a virus called Mole. The Mole </p><p>series was the first generation of real intrusion programs." </p><p>"Icebreakers," Case said, over the rim of the red mug. </p><p>"Ice from ICE, intrusion countermeasures electronics." </p><p>"Problem is, mister, I'm no jockey now, so I think I'll just be going . . ." </p><p>"I was there, Case; I was there when they invented your kind." </p><p>"You got zip to do with me and my kind, buddy. You’re rich enough to hire expensive razor girls to haul </p><p>my ass up here, is all. I’m never gonna punch any deck again, not for you or anybody else." He crossed to </p><p>the window and looked down. "That’s where I live now." </p><p>"Our profile says you’re trying to con the street into killing you when you’re not looking." </p><p>"Profile?" </p><p>"We've built up a detailed model. Bought a go-to for each of your aliases and ran the skim through some </p><p>military software. You’re suicidal, Case. The model gives you a month on the outside. And our medical </p><p>projection says you’ll need a new pancreas inside a year." </p><p>"’We.’" He met the faded blue eyes. "’We’ who?" </p><p>"What would you say if I told you we could correct your neural damage, Case’?" Armitage suddenly </p><p>looked to Case as if he were carved from a block of metal; inert, enormously heavy. A statue. He knew </p><p>now that this was a dream, and that soon he’d wake. Armitage wouldn’t speak again. Case’s dreams </p><p>always ended in these freeze frames, and now this one was over. </p><p>"What would you say, Case?" </p><p>Case looked out over the Bay and shivered. </p><p>"I’d say you were full of shit." </p><p>Armitage nodded. </p><p>"Then I’d ask what your terms were." </p><p>"Not very different than what you’re used to, Case." </p><p>"Let the man get some sleep, Armitage," Molly said from her futon, the components of the fletcher </p><p>spread on the silk like some expensive puzzle. "He’s coming apart at the seams." </p><p>"Terms," Case said, "and now. Right now." </p><p>He was still shivering. He couldn’t stop shivering. </p><p>The clinic was nameless, expensively appointed, a cluster of sleek pavilions separated by small formal </p><p>gardens. He remembered the place from the round he’d made his first month in Chiba. </p><p>"Scared, Case. You’re real scared." It was Sunday afternoon and he stood with Molly in a sort of </p><p>courtyard. White boulders, a stand of green bamboo, black gravel raked into smooth waves. A </p><p>gardener, a thing like a large metal crab, was tending the bamboo. </p><p>"It’ll work, Case. You got no idea, the kind of stuff Armitage has. Like he’s gonna pay these nerve boys </p><p>for fixing you with the program he’s giving them to tell them how to do it. He’ll put them three years </p><p>ahead of the competition. You got any idea what that’s worth?" She hooked thumbs in the belt loops of </p><p>her leather jeans and rocked backward on the lacquered heels of cherry red cowboy boots. The narrow </p><p>toes were sheathed in bright Mexican silver. The lenses were empty quicksilver, regarding him with an </p><p>insect calm. "You’re street samurai," he said. "How long you work for him?" </p><p>"Couple of months." </p><p>"What about before that?" </p><p>"For somebody else. Working girl, you know?" </p><p>He nodded. </p><p>"Funny, Case." </p><p>"What’s funny?" </p><p>"It’s like I know you. That profile he’s got. I know how you’re wired." </p><p>"You don’t know me, sister." </p><p>"You’re okay, Case. What got you, it’s just called bad luck." </p><p>"How about him? He okay, Molly?" The robot crab moved toward them, picking its way over the waves </p><p>of gravel. Its bronze carapace might have been a thousand years old. When it was within a meter of her </p><p>boots, it fired a burst of light, then froze for an instant, analyzing data obtained. "What I always think </p><p>about first, Case, is my own sweet ass." The crab had altered course to avoid her, but she kicked it with </p><p>a smooth precision, the silver boot-tip clanging on the carapace. The thing fell on its back, but the </p><p>bronze limbs soon righted it. </p><p>Case sat on one of the boulders, scuffing at the symmetry of the gravel waves with the toes of his shoes.</p><p>He began to search his pockets for cigarettes. "In your shirt," she said. "You want to answer my </p><p>question?" He fished a wrinkled Yeheyuan from the pack and she lit it for him with a thin slab of </p><p>German steel that looked as though it belonged on an operating table. </p><p>"Well, I'll tell you, the man’s definitely on to something. He’s got big money now, and he’s never had it </p><p>before, and he gets more all the time." Case noticed a certain tension around her mouth. "Or maybe, </p><p>maybe something’s on to him . . ." She shrugged. </p><p>"What’s that mean?" </p><p>"I don’t know, exactly. I know I don’t know who or what we’re really working for." </p><p>He stared at the twin mirrors. Leaving the Hilton, Saturday morning, he’d gone back to Cheap Hotel and </p><p>slept for ten hours . Then he’d taken a long and pointless walk along the port’s security perimeter, </p><p>watching the gulls turn circles beyond the chain link. If she’d followed him, she’d done a good job of it. </p><p>He’d avoided Night City. He’d waited in the coffin for Armitage’s call. Now this quiet courtyard, Sunday </p><p>afternoon, this girl with a gymnast’s body and conjurer’s hands. "If you’ll come in now, sir, the </p><p>anesthetist is waiting to meet you." The technician bowed, turned, and reentered the clinic without </p><p>waiting to see if Case would follow. </p><p>Cold steel odor. Ice caressed his spine. </p><p>Lost, so small amid that dark, hands grown cold, body image fading down corridors of television sky. </p><p>Voices. </p><p>Then black fire found the branching tributaries of the nerves, pain beyond anything to which the name </p><p>of pain is given. . . </p><p>Hold still. Don’t move. </p><p>And Ratz was there, and Linda Lee, Wage and Lonny Zone, a hundred faces from the neon forest, sailors </p><p>and hustlers and whores, where the sky is poisoned silver, beyond chain link and the prison of the skull. </p><p>Goddamn don’t you move. </p><p>Where the sky faded from hissing static to the non color of the matrix, and he glimpsed the shuriken, </p><p>his stars. "Stop it, Case, I gotta find your vein!" </p><p>She was straddling his chest, a blue plastic syrette in one hand. "You don’t lie still, I’ll slit your fucking</p><p>throat. You’re still full of endorphin inhibitors." </p><p>He woke and found her stretched beside him in the dark. His neck was brittle, made of twigs. There was </p><p>a steady pulse of pain midway down his spine. Images formed and reformed: a flickering montage of </p><p>the Sprawl’s towers and ragged Fuller domes, dim figures moving toward him in the shade beneath a </p><p>bridge or overpass . . . </p><p>"Case? It’s Wednesday, Case." She moved, rolling over, reaching across him. A breast brushed his upper </p><p>arm. He heard her tear the foil seal from a bottle of water and drink. "Here." She put the bottle in his </p><p>hand. "I can see in the dark, Case. </p><p>Micro channel image-amps in my glasses." </p><p>"My back hurts." </p><p>"That’s where they replaced your fluid. Changed your blood too. Blood 'cause you got a new pancreas </p><p>thrown into the deal. And some new tissue patched into your liver. The nerve stuff I dun no. Lot of </p><p>injections. They didn’t have to open anything up for the main show." She settled back beside him. "It’s </p><p>2:43:12 AM, Case. Got a readout chipped into my optic nerve." He sat up and tried to sip from the bottle. </p><p>Gagged, coughed, lukewarm water spraying his chest and thighs. "I gotta punch deck, ' he heard himself </p><p>say. He was groping for his clothes. "I gotta know . . ." </p><p>She laughed. Small strong hands gripped his upper arms. "Sorry, hotshot. Eight day wait. Your nervous </p><p>system would fall out on the floor if you jacked in now. Doctor’s orders. Besides, they figure it worked. </p><p>Check you in a day or so." He lay down again. </p><p>"Where are we?" </p><p>"Home. Cheap Hotel." </p><p>"Where’s Armitage?" </p><p>"Hilton, selling beads to the natives or something. We’re out of here soon, man. Amsterdam, Paris, then </p><p>back to the Sprawl." She touched his shoulder. "Roll over. 1 give a good massage." </p><p>He lay on his stomach, arms stretched forward, tips of his fingers against the walls of the coffin. She </p><p>settled over the small of his back, kneeling on the temper foam, the leather jeans cool against his skin. </p><p>Her fingers brushed his neck. "How come you’re not at the Hilton?" </p><p>She answered him by reaching back, between his thighs and gently encircling his scrotum with thumb</p><p>and forefinger. She rocked there for a minute in the dark, erect above him, her other hand on his neck. </p><p>The leather of her jeans creaked softly with the movement. Case shifted, feeling himself harden against </p><p>the temper foam. </p><p>His head throbbed, but the brittleness in his neck seemed to retreat. He raised himself on one elbow, </p><p>rolled, sank back against the foam, pulling her down, licking her breasts, small hard nipples sliding wet </p><p>across his cheek. He found the zip on the leather jeans and tugged it down. </p><p>"It’s okay," she said, "I can see." Sound of the jeans peeling down. She struggled beside him until she </p><p>could kick them away. She threw a leg across him and he touched her face. Unexpected hardness of the </p><p>implanted lenses. "Don’t," she said, "fingerprints." </p><p>Now she straddled him again, took his hand, and closed it over her, his thumb along the cleft of her </p><p>buttocks, his fingers spread across the labia. As she began to lower herself, the images came pulsing </p><p>back, the faces, fragments of neon arriving and receding. She slid down around him and his back arched </p><p>convulsively. She rode him that way, impaling herself, slipping down on him again and again, until they </p><p>both had come, his orgasm flaring blue in a timeless space, a vastness like the matrix, where the faces </p><p>were shredded and blown away down hurricane corridors, and her inner thighs were strong and wet </p><p>against his hips. </p><p>On Nisei, a thinner, weekday version of the crowd went through the motions of the dance. Waves of </p><p>sound rolled from the arcades and pachinko parlors. Case glanced into the Chat and saw Zone watching </p><p>over his girls in the warm, beer-smelling twilight. Ratz was tending bar. </p><p>"You seen Wage, Ratz?" </p><p>"Not tonight." Ratz made a point of raising an eyebrow at Molly. </p><p>"You see him, tell him I got his money." </p><p>"Luck changing, my artiste?" </p><p>"Too soon to tell." </p><p>"Well, I gotta see this guy," Case said, watching his reflection in her glasses. "I got biz to cancel out of." </p><p>"Armitage won’t like it, I let you out of my sight." She stood beneath Deane’s melting clock, hands on her </p><p>hips. "The guy won’t talk to me if you’re there. Deane I don’t give two shits about. He takes care of </p><p>himself. But I got people who’ll just go under if I walk out of Chiba cold. It’s my people, you know?" </p><p>Her mouth hardened. She shook her head. "I got people in Singapore, Tokyo connections in Shinjuku</p><p>and Asakuza, and they’ll go down, understand?" he lied, his hand on the shoulder of her black jacket. </p><p>"Five. Five minutes. By your clock, okay?" </p><p>"Not what I'm paid for." </p><p>"What you’re paid for is one thing. Me letting some tight friends die because you’re too literal about </p><p>your instructions is something else." </p><p>"Bullshit. Tight friends my ass. You’re going in there to check us out with your smuggler." She put a </p><p>booted foot up on the dust-covered Kandinsky coffee table. "Ah, Case, sport, it does look as though your </p><p>companion there is definitely armed, aside from having a fair amount of silicon in her head. What is this </p><p>about, exactly?" Deane ' s ghostly cough seemed to hang in the air between them. "Hold on, Julie. </p><p>Anyway, I'll be coming in alone." </p><p>"You can be sure of that, old son. Wouldn’t have it any other way." </p><p>"Okay," she said. "Go. But five Minutes. Any more and I'll come in and cool your tight friend </p><p>permanently. And while you’re at it, you try to figure something out." </p><p>"What’s that?" </p><p>"Why I’m doing you the favor." She turned and walked out, past the stacked white modules of preserved </p><p>ginger. "Keeping stranger company than usual, Case?" asked Julie. </p><p>"Julie, she’s gone. You wanna let me in? Please, Julie?" </p><p>The bolts worked. "Slowly, Case," said the voice. "Turn on the works, Julie, all the stuff in the desk," Case </p><p>said, taking his place in the swivel chair. "It’s on all the time," Deane said mildly, taking a gun from </p><p>behind the exposed works of his old mechanical typewriter and aiming it carefully at Case. It was a </p><p>belly gun, a magnum revolver with the barrel sawn down to a nub. The front of the trigger-guard had </p><p>been cut away and the grips wrapped with what looked like old masking tape. Case thought it looked </p><p>very strange in Dean’s manicured pink hands. "Just taking care, you Understand. Nothing personal. Now </p><p>tell me what you want." </p><p>"I need a history lesson, Julie. And a go-to on somebody." </p><p>"What’s moving, old son’?" Deane’s shirt was candy-striped cotton, the collar white and rigid, like </p><p>porcelain. "Me, Julie. I'm leaving. Gone. But do me the favor, okay?" </p><p>"Go-to on whom, old son?"</p><p>"Gaijin name of Armitage, suite in the Hilton." Deane put the pistol down. "Sit still, Case." He tapped </p><p>something out on a lap terminal. "It seems as though you know as much as my net does, Case. This </p><p>gentleman seems to have a temporary arrangement with the Yakuza, and the sons of the neon </p><p>chrysanthemum have ways of screening their allies from the likes of me. I wouldn’t have it any other </p><p>way. Now, history. You said history." He picked up the gun again, but didn’t point it directly at Case. </p><p>"What sort of history?" </p><p>"The war. You in the war, Julie?" </p><p>"The war? What’s there to know? Lasted three weeks." </p><p>"Screaming Fist." </p><p>"Famous. Don’t they teach you history these days? Great bloody postwar political football, that was. </p><p>Watergated all to hell and back. Your brass, Case, your Sprawlside brass in, where was it, McLean? In </p><p>the bunkers, all of that . . . great scandal. Wasted a fair bit of patriotic young flesh in order to test some </p><p>new technology. They knew about the Russians’ defenses, it came out later. Knew about the emps, </p><p>magnetic pulse weapons. Sent these fellows in regardless, just to see." Deane shrugged. "Turkey shoot </p><p>for Ivan." </p><p>Any of those guys make it out? </p><p>"Christ/' Deane said, "it’s been bloody years . . . Though I do think a few did. One of the teams. Got hold </p><p>of a Sov gunship. Helicopter, you know. Flew it back to Finland. Didn’t have entry codes, of course, and </p><p>shot hell out of the Finnish defense forces in the process. Special Forces types." Deane sniffed. "Bloody </p><p>hell." </p><p>Case nodded. The smell of preserved ginger was overwhelming. </p><p>"I spent the war in Lisbon, you know," Deane said, putting the gun down. "Lovely place, Lisbon." </p><p>"In the service, Julie?" </p><p>"Hardly. Though I did see action." Deane smiled his pink smile. "Wonderful what a war can do for one’s </p><p>markets." </p><p>"Thanks, Julie. I owe you one." </p><p>"Hardly, Case. And goodbye." </p><p>And later he’d tell himself that the evening at Sammi’s had felt wrong from the start, that even as he’d </p><p>followed Molly along that corridor, shuffling through a trampled mulch of ticket stubs and styrofoam </p><p>cups, he’d sensed it. Linda’s death, waiting . . . </p><p>They’d gone to the Namban, after he’d seen Deane, and paid off his debt to Wage with a roll of </p><p>Armitage’s New Yen. Wage had liked that, his boys had liked it less, and Molly had grinned at Case’s side </p><p>with a kind of ecstatic feral intensity, obviously longing for one of them to make a move. Then he’d </p><p>taken her back to the Chat for a drink. </p><p>"Wasting your time, cowboy," Molly said, when Case took an octagon from the pocket of his jacket. </p><p>"How’s that? You want one?" He held the pill out to her. </p><p>"Your new pancreas, Case, and those plugs in your liver. Armitage had them designed to bypass that </p><p>shit." She tapped the octagon with one burgundy nail. "You’re biochemically incapable of getting off on </p><p>amphetamine or cocaine." </p><p>"Shit," he said. He looked at the octagon, then at her. </p><p>"Eat it. Eat a dozen. Nothing’ll happen." </p><p>He did. Nothing did. </p><p>Three beers later, she was asking Ratz about the fights. </p><p>"Sammi’s," Ratz said. </p><p>"I’ll pass," Case said, "I hear they kill each other down there." </p><p>An hour later, she was buying tickets from a skinny Thai in a white t-shirt and baggy rugby shorts. </p><p>Sammi’s was an inflated dome behind a port side warehouse, taut gray fabric reinforced with a net of </p><p>thin steel cables. The corridor, with a door at either end, was a crude airlock preserving the pressure </p><p>differential that supported the dome. Fluorescent rings were screwed to the plywood ceiling at </p><p>intervals, but most of them had been broken. The air was damp and close with the smell of sweat and </p><p>concrete. </p><p>None of that prepared him for the arena, the crowd, the tense hush, the towering puppets of light </p><p>beneath the dome. Concrete sloped away in tiers to a kind of central stage, a raised circle ringed with a </p><p>glittering thicket of projection gear. No light but the holograms that shifted and flickered above the </p><p>ring, reproducing the movements of the two men below. Strata of cigarette smoke rose from the tiers, </p><p>drifting until it struck currents set up by the blowers that supported the dome. No sound but the muted</p><p>purring of the blowers and the amplified breathing of the fighters. </p><p>Reflected colors flowed across Molly’s lenses as the men circled. The holograms were ten-power </p><p>magnifications; at ten, the knives they held were just under a meter long. The knife-fighter’s grip is the </p><p>fencer’s grip, Case remembered, the fingers curled, thumb aligned with blade. The knives seemed to </p><p>move of their own accord, gliding with a ritual lack of urgency through the arcs and passes of their </p><p>dance, point passing point, as the men waited for an opening. Molly’s upturned face was smooth and </p><p>still, watching. </p><p>"I’ll go find us some food," Case said. She nodded, lost in contemplation of the dance. </p><p>He didn’t like this place. </p><p>He turned and walked back into the shadows. Too dark. </p><p>Too quiet. </p><p>The crowd, he saw, was mostly Japanese. Not really a Night City crowd. Teaks down from the </p><p>arcologies. He supposed that meant the arena had the approval of some corporate recreational </p><p>committee. He wondered briefly what it would be like, working all your life for one zaibatsu. Company </p><p>housing, company hymn, company funeral. </p><p>He’d made nearly a full circuit of the dome before he found the food stalls. He bought yakitori on </p><p>skewers and two tall waxy cartons of beer. Glancing up at the holograms, he saw that blood laced one </p><p>figure’s chest. Thick brown sauce trickled down the skewers and over his knuckles. Seven days and </p><p>he’d jack in. If he closed his eyes now, he’d see the matrix. </p><p>Shadows twisted as the holograms swung through their dance. Then the fear began to knot between his </p><p>shoulders. A cold trickle of sweat worked its way down and across his ribs. The operation hadn’t </p><p>worked. He was still here, still meat, no Molly waiting, her eyes locked on the circling knives, no </p><p>Armitage waiting in the Hilton with tickets and a new passport and money. It was all some dream, </p><p>some pathetic fantasy . . . Hot tears blurred his vision. </p><p>Blood sprayed from a jugular in a red gout of light. And now the crowd was screaming, rising, </p><p>screaming — as one figure crumpled, the hologram fading, flickering . . . Raw edge of vomit in his throat. </p><p>He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, opened them, and saw Linda Lee step past him her gray eyes </p><p>blind with fear. She wore the same French fatigues. </p><p>And gone. Into shadow.</p><p>Pure mindless reflex: he threw the beer and chicken down and ran after her. He might have called her </p><p>name, but he’d never be sure. </p><p>Afterimage of a single hair-fine line of red light. Seared concrete beneath the thin soles of his shoes. Her </p><p>white sneakers flashing, close to the curving wall now and again the ghost line of the laser branded </p><p>across his eye, bobbing in his vision as he ran. </p><p>Someone tripped him. Concrete tore his palms. He rolled and kicked, failing to connect. A thin boy, </p><p>spiked blond hair lit from behind in a rainbow nimbus, was leaning over him. Above the stage, a figure </p><p>turned, knife held high, to the cheering crowd. The boy smiled and drew something from his sleeve. A </p><p>razor, etched in red as a third beam blinked past them into the dark. Case saw the razor dipping for his </p><p>throat like a dowser’s wand. </p><p>The face was erased in a humming cloud of microscopic explosions. Molly’s fletchettes, at twenty </p><p>rounds per second. The boy coughed once, convulsively, and toppled across Case’s legs. </p><p>He was walking toward the stalls, into the shadows. He looked down, expecting to see that needle of </p><p>ruby emerge from his chest. Nothing. He found her. She was thrown down at the foot of a concrete </p><p>pillar, eyes closed. There was a smell of cooked meat. The crowd was chanting the winner’s name. A </p><p>beer vendor was wiping his taps with a dark rag. One white sneaker had come off, somehow, and lay </p><p>beside her head. Follow the wall. Curve of concrete. Hands in pockets. Keep walking. Past unseeing </p><p>faces, every eye raised to the victor’s image above the ring. Once a seamed European face danced in the </p><p>glare of a match, lips pursed around the short stem of a metal pipe. Tang of hashish. Case walked on, </p><p>feeling nothing. "Case." Her mirrors emerged from deeper shadow. "You okay?" </p><p>Something mewled and bubbled in the dark behind her. </p><p>He shook his head. </p><p>"Fight’s over, Case. Time to go home." </p><p>He tried to walk past her back into the dark, where something was dying. She stopped him with a hand </p><p>on his chest. "Friends of your tight friend. Killed your girl for you. You haven’t done too well for friends </p><p>in this town, have you? We got a partial profile on that old bastard when we did you, man. He’d fry </p><p>anybody, for a few New ones. The one back there said they got on to her when she was trying to fence </p><p>your RAM. Just cheaper for them to kill her and take it. Save a little money ... I got the one who had the</p><p>laser to tell me all about it. Coincidence we were here, but I had to make sure." Her mouth was hard, </p><p>lips pressed into a thin line. Case felt as though his brain were jammed. "Who," he said, "who sent </p><p>them?" </p><p>She passed him a blood-flecked bag of preserved ginger. He saw that her hands were sticky with blood. </p><p>Back in the shadows, someone made wet sounds and died. </p><p>After the postoperative check at the clinic, Molly took him to the port. Armitage was waiting. He’d </p><p>chartered a hovercraft. The last Case saw of Chiba were the dark angles of the arcologies. Then a mist </p><p>closed over the black water and the drifting shoals of waste. </p><p>PART 2 </p><p>The Shopping Expedition </p><p>3 </p><p>Home. </p><p>Home was BAMA, the Sprawl, the Boston-Atlanta Metropolitan Axis. </p><p>Program a map to display frequency of data exchange, every thousand megabytes a single pixel on a </p><p>very large screen. Manhattan and Atlanta burn solid white. Then they start to pulse, the rate of traffic </p><p>threatening to overload your simulation. Your map is about to go nova. Cool it down. Up your scale. </p><p>Each pixel a million megabytes. At a hundred million megabytes per second, you begin to make out </p><p>certain blocks in midtown Manhattan, outlines of hundred-year-old industrial parks ringing the old </p><p>core of Atlanta . . . </p><p>Case woke from a dream of airports, of Molly’s dark leathers moving ahead of him through the </p><p>concourses of Narita, Schipol, Orly ... He watched himself buy a flat plastic flask of Danish vodka at </p><p>some kiosk, an hour before dawn. Somewhere down in the Sprawl’s ferro-concrete roots, a train drove </p><p>a column of stale air through a tunnel. The train itself was silent, gliding over its induction cushion, but </p><p>displaced air made the tunnel sing, bass down into subsonics. Vibration reached the room where he lay </p><p>and caused dust to rise from the cracks in the desiccated parquet floor. Opening his eyes, he saw Molly, </p><p>naked and just out of reach across an expanse of very new pink temper foam. Overhead, sunlight</p><p>filtered through the soot-stained grid of a skylight. One half-meter square of glass had been replaced </p><p>with chip-board, a fat gray cable emerging there to dangle within a few centimeters of the floor. He lay </p><p>on his side and watched her breathe, her breasts, the sweep of a flank defined with the functional </p><p>elegance of a war plane’s fuselage. Her body was spare, neat, the muscles like a dancer’s. </p><p>The room was large. He sat up. The room was empty, aside from the wide pink bedslab and two nylon </p><p>bags, new and identical, that lay beside it. Blank walls, no windows, a single white-painted steel fire </p><p>door. The walls were coated with countless layers of white latex paint. Factory space. He knew this </p><p>kind of room, this kind of building; the tenants would operate in the inter zone where art wasn’t quite </p><p>crime, crime not quite art. </p><p>He was home. </p><p>He swung his feet to the floor. It was made of little blocks of wood, some missing, others loose. His head </p><p>ached. He remembered Amsterdam, another room, in the Old City section of the Centrum, buildings </p><p>centuries old. Molly back from the canal’s edge with orange juice and eggs. Armitage off on some </p><p>cryptic foray, the two of them walking alone past Dam Square to a bar she knew on a Damrak </p><p>thoroughfare. Paris was a blurred dream. Shopping. She’d taken him shopping. He stood, pulling on a </p><p>wrinkled pair of new black jeans that lay at his feet, and knelt beside the bags. The first one he opened </p><p>was Molly’s: neatly folded clothing and small expensive-looking gadgets. The second was stuffed with </p><p>things he didn’t remember buying: books, tapes, a Simstim deck, clothing with French and Italian </p><p>labels. Beneath a green t-shirt, he discovered a flat, origami-wrapped package, recycled Japanese </p><p>paper. </p><p>The paper tore when he picked it up; a bright nine-pointed star fell — to stick upright in a crack in the </p><p>parquet. "Souvenir," Molly said. "I noticed you were always looking at 'em." He turned and saw her </p><p>sitting cross legged on the bed, sleepily scratching her stomach with burgundy nails. </p><p>"Someone’s coming later to secure the place," Armitage said. He stood in the open doorway with an </p><p>old-fashioned magnetic key in his hand. Molly was making coffee on a tiny German stove she took from </p><p>her bag. </p><p>"I can do it," she said. "I got enough gear already. Infrascan perimeter, screamers ..."</p><p>"No," he said, closing the door. "I want it tight." </p><p>"Suit yourself." She wore a dark mesh t-shirt tucked into baggy black cotton pants. </p><p>"You ever the heat, Mr. Armitage?" Case asked, from where he sat, his back against a wall. </p><p>Armitage was no taller than Case, but with his broad shoulders and military posture he seemed to fill </p><p>the doorway. He wore a somber Italian suit; in his right hand he held a briefcase of soft black calf. The </p><p>Special Forces earring was gone. The handsome, inexpressive features offered the routine beauty of the </p><p>cosmetic boutiques, a conservative amalgam of the past decade’s leading media faces. The pale glitter </p><p>of his eyes heightened the effect of a mask. Case began to regret the question. </p><p>"Lots of Forces types wound up cops, I mean. Or corporate security," Case added uncomfortably. Molly </p><p>handed him a steaming mug of coffee. "That number you had them do on my pancreas, that’s like a cop </p><p>routine." </p><p>Armitage closed the door and crossed the room, to stand in front of Case. "You’re a lucky boy, Case. You </p><p>should thank me." </p><p>"Should 1?" Case blew noisily on his coffee. "You needed a new pancreas. The one we bought for you </p><p>frees you from a dangerous dependency." </p><p>"Thanks, but I was enjoying that dependency." </p><p>"Good, because you have a new one." </p><p>"How’s that?" Case looked up from his coffee. Armitage was smiling. </p><p>"You have fifteen toxin sacs bonded to the lining of various main arteries, Case. They’re dissolving. Very </p><p>slowly, but they definitely are dissolving. Each one contains a mycotoxin. You’re already familiar with </p><p>the effect of that mycotoxin. It was the one your former employers gave you in Memphis." Case blinked </p><p>up at the smiling mask. </p><p>"You have time to do what I'm hiring you for, Case, but that’s all. Do the job and I can inject you with an </p><p>enzyme that will dissolve the bond without opening the sacs. Then you’ll need a blood change. </p><p>Otherwise, the sacs melt and you’re back where I found you. So you see, Case, you need us. You need us </p><p>as badly as you did when we scraped you up from the gutter." Case looked at Molly. She shrugged. </p><p>"Now go down to the freight elevator and bring up the cases you find there." Armitage handed him the </p><p>magnetic key. "Go on. You’ll enjoy this, Case. Like Christmas morning." </p><p>Summer in the Sprawl, the mall crowds swaying like wind-blown grass, a field of flesh shot through </p><p>with sudden eddies of need and gratification. </p><p>He sat beside Molly in filtered sunlight on the rim of a dry concrete fountain, letting the endless stream </p><p>of faces recapitulate the stages of his life. First a child with hooded eyes, a street boy, hands relaxed and </p><p>ready at his sides; then a teenager, face smooth and cryptic beneath red glasses. Case remembered </p><p>fighting on a rooftop at seventeen, silent combat in the rose glow of the dawn geodesics. </p><p>He shifted on the concrete, feeling it rough and cool through the thin black denim. Nothing here like the </p><p>electric dance of Ninsei. This was different commerce, a different rhythm, in the smell of fast food and </p><p>perfume and fresh summer sweat. With his deck waiting, back in the loft, an Ono-Sendai Cyberspace 7. </p><p>They’d left the place littered with the abstract white forms of the foam packing units, with crumpled </p><p>plastic film and hundreds of tiny foam beads. The Ono-Sendai; next year’s most expensive Hosaka </p><p>computer; a Sony monitor; a dozen disks of corporate-grade ice; a Braun coffee maker. Armitage had </p><p>only waited for Case’s approval of each piece. "Where’d he go?" Case had asked Molly. "He likes hotels. </p><p>Big ones. Near airports, if he can manage it. Let’s go down to the street." She’d zipped herself into an old </p><p>surplus vest with a dozen oddly shaped pockets and put on a huge pair of black plastic sunglasses that </p><p>completely covered her mirrored insets. </p><p>"You know about that toxin shit, before?" he asked her, by the fountain. She shook her head. "You think </p><p>it’s true?" </p><p>"Maybe, maybe not. Works either way." </p><p>"You know any way I can find out?" </p><p>"No," she said, her right hand coming up to form the jive for silence. "That kind of kink’s too subtle to </p><p>show up on a scan." Then her fingers moved again: wait. "And you don’t care that much anyway. I saw </p><p>you stroking that Sendai; man, it was pornographic." She laughed. </p><p>"So what’s he got on you? How’s he got the working girl kinked?" </p><p>" — Professional pride, baby, that’s all." And again the sign for silence. "We’re gonna get some breakfast, </p><p>okay? Eggs, real bacon. Probably kill you, you been eating that rebuilt Chiba krill for so long. Yeah, </p><p>come on, we’ll tube in to Manhattan and get us a real breakfast." </p><p>Lifeless neon spelled out METRO HOLOGRAFIX in dusty capitals of glass tubing. Case picked at a shred </p><p>of bacon that had lodged between his front teeth. He’d given up asking her where they were going and </p><p>why; jabs in the ribs and the sign for silence were all he’d gotten in reply. She talked about the season’s </p><p>fashions, about sports, about a political scandal in California he’d never heard of. </p><p>He looked around the deserted dead end street. A sheet of newsprint went cart wheeling past the </p><p>intersection. Freak winds in the East side; something to do with convection, and an overlap in the </p><p>domes. Case peered through the window at the dead sign. Her Sprawl wasn’t his Sprawl? he decided. </p><p>She’d led him through a dozen bars and clubs he’d never seen before, taking care of business, usually </p><p>with no more than a nod. Maintaining connections. </p><p>Something was moving in the shadows behind METRO HOLOGRAFIX. </p><p>The door was a sheet of corrugated roofing. In front of it, Molly’s hands flowed through an intricate </p><p>sequence of jive that he couldn’t follow. He caught the sign for cash, a thumb brushing the tip of the </p><p>forefinger. The door swung inward and she led him into the smell of dust. They stood in a clearing, </p><p>dense tangles of junk rising on either side to walls lined with shelves of crumbling paperbacks. The </p><p>junk looked like something that had grown there, a fungus of twisted metal and plastic. He could pick </p><p>out individual objects, but then they seemed to blur back into the mass: the guts of a television so old it </p><p>was studded with the glass stumps of vacuum tubes, a crumpled dish antenna, a brown fiber canister </p><p>stuffed with corroded lengths of alloy tubing. An enormous pile of old magazines had cascaded into the </p><p>open area, flesh of lost summers staring blindly up as he followed her back through a narrow canyon of </p><p>impacted scrap. He heard the door close behind them. He didn’t look back. </p><p>The tunnel ended with an ancient Army blanket tacked across a doorway. White light flooded out as </p><p>Molly ducked past it. Four square walls of blank white plastic, ceiling to match, floored with white </p><p>hospital tile molded in a non slip pattern of small raised disks. In the center stood a square, white- </p><p>painted wooden table and four white folding chairs. The man who stood blinking now in the doorway </p><p>behind them, the blanket draping one shoulder like a cape, seemed to have been designed in a wind </p><p>tunnel. His ears were very small, plastered flat against his narrow skull, and his large front teeth, </p><p>revealed in something that wasn’t quite a smile, were canted sharply backward. He wore an ancient </p><p>tweed jacket and held a handgun of some kind in his left hand. He peered at them, blinked, and dropped</p><p>the gun into a jacket pocket. He gestured to Case, pointed at a slab of white plastic that leaned near the </p><p>doorway. Case crossed to it and saw that it was a solid sandwich of circuitry, nearly a centimeter thick. </p><p>He helped the man lift it and position it in the doorway. Quick, nicotine-stained fingers secured it with a </p><p>white velcro border. A hidden exhaust fan began to purr. </p><p>"Time," the man said, straightening up, "and counting. You know the rate, Moll." </p><p>"We need a scan, Finn. For implants." </p><p>"So get over there between the pylons. Stand on the tape. Straighten up, yeah. Now turn around, gimme </p><p>a full three-sixty." Case watched her rotate between two fragile-looking stands studded with sensors. </p><p>The man took a small monitor from his pocket and squinted at it. "Something new in your head, yeah. </p><p>Silicon, coat of pyrolitic carbons. A clock, right? Your glasses gimme the read they always have, </p><p>low-temp isotropic carbons. Better biocompatibility with pyrolitics, but that’s your business, right? </p><p>Same with your claws." </p><p>"Get over here, Case." He saw a scuffed X in black on the white floor. "Turn around. Slow." </p><p>"Guy’s a virgin." The man shrugged. "Some cheap dental work, is all." </p><p>"You read for biologicals?" Molly unzipped her green vest and took off the dark glasses. </p><p>"You think this is the Mayo? Climb on the table, kid, we’ll run a little biopsy." He laughed, showing more </p><p>of his yellow teeth. "Nah. Finn’s word, sweetmeat, you got no little bugs, no cortex bombs. You want me </p><p>to shut the screen down?" </p><p>"Just for as long as it takes you to leave, Finn. Then we’ll want full screen for as long as we want it." </p><p>"Hey, that’s fine by the Finn, Moll. You’re only paying by the second." </p><p>They sealed the door behind him and Molly turned one of the white chairs around and sat on it, chin </p><p>resting on crossed forearms. "We talk now. This is as private as I can afford." </p><p>"What about?" </p><p>"What we’re doing." </p><p>"What are we doing?" </p><p>"Working for Armitage." </p><p>'And you’re saying this isn’t for his benefit?</p><p>"Yeah. I saw your profile, Case. And I’ve seen the rest of our shopping list, once. You ever work with the </p><p>dead?" </p><p>"No." He watched his reflection in her glasses. "I could, I guess. I’m good at what I do." The present tense </p><p>made him nervous. </p><p>"You know that the Dixie Flat line’s dead?" </p><p>He nodded. "Heart, I heard." </p><p>"You’ll be working with his construct." She smiled. "Taught you the ropes, huh? Him and Ovine. I know </p><p>Quine, by the way. Real ass hole." </p><p>"Somebody’s got a recording of McCoy Pauley? Who?" Now Case sat, and rested his elbows on the table. </p><p>"I can’t see it. He’d never have sat still for it." </p><p>"Sense/Net. Paid him mega, you bet your ass." </p><p>"Ovine dead too?" </p><p>"No such luck. He’s in Europe. He doesn’t come into this." </p><p>"Well, if we can get the Flatline, we’re home free. He was the best. You know he died brain death three </p><p>times?" She nodded. </p><p>"Flat lined on his EEG. Showed me tapes. 'Boy, I was daid.’ " </p><p>"Look, Case, I been trying to suss out who it is is backing Armitage since I signed on. But it doesn’t feel </p><p>like a zaibatsu, a government, or some Yakuza subsidiary. Armitage gets orders. Like something tells </p><p>him to go off to Chiba, pick up a pillhead who’s making one last wobble through the burnout belt, and </p><p>trade a program for the operation that’ll fix him up. We could a bought twenty world class cowboys for </p><p>what the market was ready to pay for that surgical program. You were good, but not that good . . ." She </p><p>scratched the side of her nose. </p><p>"Obviously makes sense to somebody," he said. "Somebody big." </p><p>"Don’t let me hurt your feelings." She grinned. "We’re gonna be pulling one hardcore run, Case, just to </p><p>get the Flat-line’s construct. Sense/Net has it locked in a library vault uptown. Tighter than an eel’s ass, </p><p>Case. Now, Sense/Net, they got all their new material for the fall season locked in there too. Steal that </p><p>and we’d be richer than shit. But no, we gotta get us the Flatline and nothing else. Weird." </p><p>"Yeah, it’s all weird. You’re weird, this hole’s weird, and who’s the weird little gopher outside in the</p><p>hall?" </p><p>"Finn’s an old connection of mine. Fence, mostly. Software. This privacy biz is a sideline. But I got </p><p>Armitage to let him be our tech here, so when he shows up later, you never saw him. Got it?" </p><p>"So what’s Armitage got dissolving inside you?" </p><p>"I’m an easy make." She smiled. "Anybody any good at what they do, that’s what they are, right? You </p><p>gotta jack, I gotta tussle." </p><p>He stared at her. "So tell me what you know about Armitage." </p><p>"For starters, nobody named Armitage took part in any Screaming Fist. I checked. But that doesn’t mean </p><p>much. He doesn’t look like any of the pics of the guys who got out." She shrugged. "Big deal. And starters </p><p>is all I got." She drummed her nails on the back of the chair. "But you are a cowboy, aren’t you? I mean, </p><p>maybe you could have a little look around." She smiled. </p><p>"He’d kill me." </p><p>"Maybe. Maybe not. I think he needs you, Case, and real bad. Besides, you’re a clever john, no? You can </p><p>winkle him, sure." </p><p>"What else is on that list you mentioned?" </p><p>"Toys. Mostly for you. And one certified psychopath name of Peter Riviera. Real ugly customer." </p><p>"Where’s he?" </p><p>"Dun no. But he’s one sick fuck, no lie. I saw his profile." She made a face. "God awful." She stood up and </p><p>stretched, catlike. "So we got an axis going, boy? We’re together in this? Partners?" </p><p>Case looked at her. "I gotta lotta choice, huh?" </p><p>She laughed. "You got it, cowboy." </p><p>"The matrix has its roots in primitive arcade games," said the voice-over, "in early graphics programs </p><p>and military experimentation with cranial jacks." On the Sony, a two-dimensional space war faded </p><p>behind a forest of mathematically generated ferns, demonstrating the spatial possibilities of </p><p>logarithmic spirals — cold blue military footage burned through, lab animals wired into test systems, </p><p>helmets feeding into fire control circuits of tanks and war planes. "Cyberspace. A consensual </p><p>hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation, by children being</p><p>taught mathematical concepts ... A graphic representation of data abstracted from the banks of every </p><p>computer in the human system. Unthinkable complexity. Lines of light ranged in the non space of the </p><p>mind, clusters and constellations of data. Like city lights, receding . . ." </p><p>"What’s that?" Molly asked, as he flipped the channel selector. </p><p>"Kid’s show." A discontinuous flood of images as the selector cycled. "Off," he said to the Hosaka. "You </p><p>want to try now, Case?" </p><p>Wednesday. Eight days from waking in Cheap Hotel with Molly beside him. "You want me to go out, </p><p>Case? Maybe easier for you, alone . . ." He shook his head. "No. Stay, doesn’t matter." He settled the black </p><p>terry sweat-band across his forehead, careful not to disturb the flat Sendai dermatrodes. He stared at </p><p>the deck on his lap, not really seeing it, seeing instead the shop window on Ninsei, the chromed </p><p>shuriken burning with reflected neon. He glanced up; on the wall, just above the Sony, he’d hung her </p><p>gift, tacking it there with a yellow-headed drawing pin through the hole at its center. He closed his </p><p>eyes. </p><p>Found the ridged face of the power stud. And in the bloodlit dark behind his eyes, silver phosphenes </p><p>boiling in from the edge of space, hypnagogic images jerking past like film compiled from random </p><p>frames. Symbols, figures, faces, a blurred, fragmented mandala of visual information. Please, he prayed, </p><p>now — </p><p>A gray disk, the color of Chiba sky. </p><p>Now — </p><p>Disk beginning to rotate, faster, becoming a sphere of paler gray. Expanding — And flowed, flowered </p><p>for him, fluid neon origami trick, the unfolding of his distance less home, his country, transparent 3D </p><p>chessboard extending to infinity. Inner eye opening to the stepped scarlet pyramid of the Eastern </p><p>Seaboard Fission Authority burning beyond the green cubes of Mitsubishi Bank of America, and high </p><p>and very far away he saw the spiral arms of military systems, forever beyond his reach. And </p><p>somewhere he was laughing, in a white-painted loft, distant fingers caressing the deck, tears of release </p><p>streaking his face. </p><p>Molly was gone when he took the erodes off, and the loft was dark. He checked the time. He’d been in</p><p>cyberspace for five hours. He carried the Ono-Sendai to one of the new work-tables and collapsed </p><p>across the bedslab, pulling Molly’s black silk sleeping bag over his head. </p><p>The security package taped to the steel fire door bleeped twice. "Entry requested," it said. "Subject is </p><p>cleared per my program." </p><p>"So open it." Case pulled the silk from his face and sat up as the door opened, expecting to see Molly or </p><p>Armitage. "Christ," said a hoarse voice, "I know that bitch can see in the dark ..." A squat figure stepped </p><p>in and closed the door. "Turn the lights on, okay?" Case scrambled off the slab and found the </p><p>old-fashioned switch. </p><p>"I'm the Finn," said the Finn, and made a warning face at Case. </p><p>"Case." </p><p>"Pleased to meecha, I’m sure. I’m doing some hardware for your boss, it looks like." The Finn fished a </p><p>pack of Partagas from a pocket and lit one. The smell of Cuban tobacco filled the room. He crossed to </p><p>the worktable and glanced at the Ono-Sendai. "Looks stock. Soon fix that. But here is your problem, </p><p>kid." He took a filthy manila envelope from inside his jacket, flicked ash on the floor, and extracted a </p><p>featureless black rectangle from the envelope. "Goddamn factory prototypes," he said, tossing the thing </p><p>down on the table. "Cast 'em into a block of polycarbon, can’t get in with a laser without frying the </p><p>works. Booby-trapped for x-ray, ultrascan, God knows what else. We’ll get in, but there’s no rest for the </p><p>wicked, right?" He folded the envelope with great care and tucked it away in an inside pocket. </p><p>"What is it?" </p><p>"It’s a flip flop switch, basically. Wire it into your Sendai here, you can access live or recorded Sims Tim </p><p>without having to jack out of the matrix." </p><p>"What for?" </p><p>"I haven’t got a clue. Know I’m fitting Moll for a broadcast rig, though, so it’s probably her sensorium </p><p>you’ll access." The Finn scratched his chin. "So now you get to find out just how tight those jeans really </p><p>are, huh?" </p><p>4 </p><p>Case sat in the loft with the dermatrodes strapped across his forehead, watching motes dance in the </p><p>diluted sunlight that filtered through the grid overhead. A countdown was in progress in one corner of</p><p>the monitor screen. Cowboys didn’t get into Simstim, he thought, because it was basically a meat toy. </p><p>He knew that the trodes he used and the little plastic tiara dangling from a Simstim deck were basically </p><p>the same, and that the cyberspace matrix was actually a drastic simplification of the human sensorium, </p><p>at least in terms of presentation, but Simstim itself struck him as a gratuitous multiplication of flesh </p><p>input. The commercial stuff was edited, of course, so that if Tally Isham got a headache in the course of </p><p>a segment, you didn’t feel it. </p><p>The screen bleeped a two-second warning. The new switch was patched into his Sendai with a thin </p><p>ribbon of fiber optics. </p><p>And one and two and — </p><p>Cyberspace slid into existence from the cardinal points. </p><p>Smooth, he thought, but not smooth enough. Have to work on it . . . </p><p>Then he keyed the new switch. </p><p>The abrupt jolt into other flesh. Matrix gone, a wave of sound and color . . . She was moving through a </p><p>crowded street, past stalls vending discount software, prices felt penned on sheets of plastic, fragments </p><p>of music from countless speakers. Smells of urine, free monomers, perfume, patties of frying krill. For a </p><p>few frightened seconds he fought helplessly to control her body. Then he willed himself into passivity, </p><p>became the passenger behind her eyes. </p><p>The glasses didn’t seem to cut down the sunlight at all. He wondered if the built-in amps compensated </p><p>automatically. Blue alphanumerics winked the time, low in her left peripheral field. Showing off, he </p><p>thought. </p><p>Her body language was disorienting, her style foreign. She seemed continually on the verge of colliding </p><p>with someone, but people melted out of her way, stepped sideways, made room. </p><p>"How you doing, Case?" He heard the words and felt her form them. She slid a hand into her jacket, a </p><p>fingertip circling a nipple under warm silk. The sensation made him catch his breath. She laughed. But </p><p>the link was one-way. He had no way to reply. </p><p>Two blocks later, she was threading the outskirts of Memory Lane. Case kept trying to jerk her eyes </p><p>toward landmarks he would have used to find his way. He began to find the passivity of the situation </p><p>irritating. </p><p>The transition to cyberspace, when he hit the switch, was instantaneous. He punched himself down a</p><p>wall of primitive ice belonging to the New York Public Library, automatically counting potential </p><p>windows. Keying back into her sensorium, into the sinuous flow of muscle, senses sharp and bright. He </p><p>found himself wondering about the mind he shared these sensations with. What did he know about </p><p>her? That she was another professional; that she said her being, like his, was the thing she did to make a </p><p>living. He knew the way she’d moved against him, earlier, when she woke, their mutual grunt of unity </p><p>when he’d entered her, and that she liked her coffee black, afterward . . . </p><p>Her destination was one of the dubious software rental complexes that lined Memory Lane. There was </p><p>a stillness, a hush. Booths lined a central hall. The clientele were young, few of them out of their teens. </p><p>They all seemed to have carbon sockets planted behind the left ear, but she didn’t focus on them. The </p><p>counters that fronted the booths displayed hundreds of slivers of microsoft, angular fragments of </p><p>colored silicon mounted under oblong transparent bubbles on squares of white cardboard. Molly went </p><p>to the seventh booth along the south wall. Behind the counter a boy with a shaven head stared vacantly </p><p>into space, a dozen spikes of microsoft protruding from the socket behind his ear. </p><p>"Larry, you in, man?" She positioned herself in front of him. The boy’s eyes focused. He sat up in his </p><p>chair and pried a bright magenta splinter from his socket with a dirty thumbnail. "Hey, Larry." </p><p>"Molly." He nodded. </p><p>"I have some work for some of your friends, Larry." Larry took a flat plastic case from the pocket of his </p><p>red sport shirt and flicked it open, slotting the microsoft beside a dozen others. His hand hovered, </p><p>selected a glossy black chip that was slightly longer than the rest, and inserted it smoothly into his </p><p>head. His eyes narrowed. </p><p>"Molly’s got a rider," he said, "and Larry doesn’t like that." </p><p>"Hey," she said, "I didn’t know you were so . . . sensitive. </p><p>I'm impressed. Costs a lot, to get that sensitive." </p><p>"I know you, lady?" The blank look returned. "You looking to buy some softs?" </p><p>"I’m looking for the Moderns." </p><p>"You got a rider, Molly. This says." He tapped the black splinter. "Somebody else using your eyes." </p><p>"My partner." </p><p>"Tell your partner to go." </p><p>"Got something for the Panther Moderns, Larry." </p><p>"What are you talking about, lady?" </p><p>"Case, you take off," she said, and he hit the switch, instantly back in the matrix. Ghost impressions of </p><p>the software complex hung for a few seconds in the buzzing calm of cyberspace. </p><p>"Panther Moderns," he said to the Hosaka, removing the trodes. "Five minute precis." </p><p>"Ready," the computer said. </p><p>It wasn’t a name he knew. Something new, something that had come in since he’d been in Chiba. Fads </p><p>swept the youth of the Sparrow at the speed of light; entire subcultures could rise overnight, thrive for </p><p>a dozen weeks, and then vanish utterly. "Go," he said. The Hosaka had accessed its array of libraries, </p><p>journals, and news services. </p><p>The precis began with a long hold on a color still that Case at first assumed was a collage of some kind, </p><p>a boy’s face snipped from another image and glued to a photograph of a paint-scrawled wall. Dark eyes, </p><p>epicanthic folds obviously the result of surgery, an angry dusting of acne across pale narrow cheeks. </p><p>The Hosaka released the freeze; the boy moved, flowing with the sinister grace of a mime pretending to </p><p>be a jungle predator. His body was nearly invisible, an abstract pattern approximating the scribbled </p><p>brickwork sliding smoothly across his tight one piece. Mimetic polycarbon. Cut to Dr. Virginia Rambali, </p><p>Sociology, NYU, her name, faculty, and school pulsing across the screen in pink alphanumerics. </p><p>"Given their penchant for these random acts of surreal violence," someone said, "it may be difficult for </p><p>our viewers to understand why you continue to insist that this phenomenon isn’t a form of terrorism." </p><p>Dr. Rambali smiled. "There is always a point at which the terrorist ceases to manipulate the media </p><p>gestalt. A point at which the violence may well escalate, but beyond which the terrorist has become </p><p>symptomatic of the media gestalt itself. Terrorism as we ordinarily understand it is innately media- </p><p>related. The Panther Moderns differ from other terrorists precisely in their degree of </p><p>self-consciousness, in their awareness of the extent to which media divorce the act of terrorism from </p><p>the original sociopolitical intent . . ." </p><p>"Skip it," Case said.</p><p>Case met his first Modern two days after he’d screened the Hosaka’s precis. The Moderns, he’d decided, </p><p>were a contemporary version of the Big Scientists of his own late teens. There was a kind of ghostly </p><p>teenage DNA at work in the Sprawl, something that carried the coded precepts of various short-lived </p><p>sub cults and replicated them at odd intervals. The Panther Moderns were a soft head variant on the </p><p>Scientists. If the technology had been available the Big Scientists would all have had sockets stuffed </p><p>with microsofts. It was the style that mattered and the style was the same. The Moderns were </p><p>mercenaries, practical jokers, nihilistic technofetishists. </p><p>The one who showed up at the loft door with a box of diskettes from the Finn was a soft-voiced boy </p><p>called Angelo. His face was a simple graft grown on collagen and shark-cartilage polysaccharides, </p><p>smooth and hideous. It was one of the nastiest pieces of elective surgery Case had ever seen. When </p><p>Angelo smiled, revealing the razor-sharp canines of some large animal, Case was actually relieved. </p><p>Tooth bud transplants. He’d seen that before. </p><p>"You can’t let the little pricks generation-gap you," Molly said. Case nodded, absorbed in the patterns of </p><p>the Sense/Net ice. </p><p>This was it. This was what he was, who he was, his being. He forgot to eat. Molly left cartons of rice and </p><p>foam trays of sushi on the corner of the long table. Sometimes he resented having to leave the deck to </p><p>use the chemical toilet they’d set up in a corner of the loft. Ice patterns formed and reformed on the </p><p>screen as he probed for gaps, skirted the most obvious traps, and mapped the route he’d take through </p><p>Sense/Net’s ice. It was good ice. Wonderful ice. Its patterns burned there while he lay with his arm </p><p>under Molly’s shoulders, watching the red dawn through the steel grid of the skylight. Its rainbow pixel </p><p>maze was the first thing he saw when he woke. He’d go straight to the deck, not bothering to dress, and </p><p>jack in. He was cutting it. He was working. He lost track of days. And sometimes, falling asleep, </p><p>particularly when Molly was off on one of her reconnaissance trips with her rented cadre of Moderns, </p><p>images of Chiba came flooding back. Faces and Ninsei neon. Once he woke from a confused dream of </p><p>Linda Lee, unable to recall who she was or what she’d ever meant to him. When he did remember, he </p><p>jacked in and worked for nine straight hours. </p><p>The cutting of Sense/Net’s ice took a total of nine days. "I said a week," Armitage said, unable to conceal </p><p>his satisfaction when Case showed him his plan for the run. "You took your own good time." </p><p>Balls," Case said, smiling at the screen. "That’s good work, Armitage.' </p><p>"Yes," Armitage admitted, "but don’t let it go to your head. Compared to what you’ll eventually be up </p><p>against, this is an arcade toy." </p><p>"Love you, Cat Mother," whispered the Panther Modern’s link man. His voice was modulated static in </p><p>Case’s headset. "Atlanta, Brood. Looks go. Go, got it?" Molly’s voice was slightly clearer. </p><p>"To hear is to obey." The Moderns were using some kind of chicken wire dish in New Jersey to bounce </p><p>the link man’s scrambled signal off a Sons of Christ the King satellite in geosynchronous orbit above </p><p>Manhattan. They chose to regard the entire operation as an elaborate private joke, and their choice of </p><p>comsats seemed to have been deliberate. Molly’s signals were being beamed up from a one-meter </p><p>umbrella dish epoxyed to the roof of a black glass bank tower nearly as tall as the Sense/Net building. </p><p>Atlanta. The recognition code was simple. Atlanta to Boston to Chicago to Denver, five minutes for each </p><p>city. If anyone managed to intercept Molly’s signal, unscramble it, synth her voice, the code would tip </p><p>the Moderns. If she remained in the building for more than twenty minutes, it was highly unlikely she’d </p><p>be coming out at all. </p><p>Case gulped the last of his coffee, settled the trades in place, and scratched his chest beneath his black </p><p>t-shirt. He had only a vague idea of what the Panther Moderns planned as a diversion for the Sense/Net </p><p>security people. His job was to make sure the intrusion program he’d written would link with the </p><p>Sense/Net systems when Molly needed it to. He watched the countdown in the corner of the screen. </p><p>Two. One. He jacked in and triggered his program. "Mainline," breathed the link man, his voice the only </p><p>sound as Case plunged through the glowing strata of Sense/Net ice. Good. Check Molly. He hit the </p><p>Simstim and flipped into her sensorium. The scrambler blurred the visual input slightly. She stood </p><p>before a wall of gold-flecked mirror in the building’s vast white lobby, chewing gum, apparently </p><p>fascinated by her own reflection. Aside from the huge pair of sunglasses concealing her mirrored </p><p>insets, she managed to look remarkably like she belonged there, another tourist girl hoping for a </p><p>glimpse of Tally Isham. She wore a pink plastic raincoat, a white mesh top, loose white pants cut in a </p><p>style that had been fashionable in Tokyo the previous year. She grinned vacantly and popped her gum. </p><p>Case felt like laughing. He could feel the micro pore tape across her ribcage, feel the flat little units </p><p>under it: the radio, the Simstim unit, and the scrambler. The throat mike, glued to her neck, looked as</p><p>much as possible like an analgesic dermadisk. Her hands, in the pockets of the pink coat, were flexing </p><p>systematically through a series of tension-release exercises. It took him a few seconds to realize that </p><p>the peculiar sensation at the tips of her fingers was caused by the blades as they were partially </p><p>extruded, then retracted. He flipped back. His program had reached the fifth gate. He watched as his </p><p>icebreaker strobed and shifted in front of him, only faintly aware of his hands playing across the deck, </p><p>making minor adjustments. Translucent planes of color shuffled like a trick deck. Take a card, he </p><p>thought, any card. The gate blurred past. He laughed. The Sense/Net ice had accepted his entry as a </p><p>routine transfer from the consortium’s Los Angeles complex. He was inside. Behind him, viral </p><p>sub-programs peeled off, meshing with the gate’ s code fabric, ready to deflect the real Los Angeles data </p><p>when it arrived. He flipped again. Molly was strolling past the enormous circular reception desk at the </p><p>rear of the lobby. 12:01:20 as the readout flared in her optic nerve. </p><p>At midnight, synch Ed with the chip behind Molly’s eye, the link man in Jersey had given his command. </p><p>"Mainline." Nine Moderns, scattered along two hundred miles of the Sprawl, had simultaneously dialed </p><p>MAX EMERG from pay phones. Each Modern delivered a short set speech, hung up, and drifted out into </p><p>the night, peeling off surgical gloves. Nine different police departments and public security agencies </p><p>were absorbing the information that an obscure sub sect of militant Christian fundamentalists had just </p><p>taken credit for having introduced clinical levels of an outlawed psychoactive agent known as Blue </p><p>Nine into the ventilation system of the Sense/Net Pyramid. Blue Nine, known in California as Grievous </p><p>Angel, had been shown to produce acute paranoia and homicidal psychosis in eighty-five percent of </p><p>experimental subjects. </p><p>Case hit the switch as his program surged through the gates of the subsystem that controlled security </p><p>for the Sense/Net research library. He found himself stepping into an elevator. "Excuse me, but are you </p><p>an employee?" The guard raised his eyebrows. Molly popped her gum. "No," she said, driving the first </p><p>two knuckles of her right hand into the man’s solar plexus. As he doubled over, clawing for the beeper </p><p>on his belt she slammed his head sideways, against the wall of the elevator. Chewing a little more </p><p>rapidly now, she touched CLOSE DOOR and STOP on the illuminated panel. She took a black box from </p><p>her coat pocket and inserted a lead in the keyhole of the lock that secured the panel’s circuitry. </p><p>The Panther Moderns allowed four minutes for their first move to take effect, then injected a second </p><p>carefully prepared dose of misinformation. This time, they shot it directly into the Sense/Net building’s </p><p>internal video system. At 12:04:03, every screen in the building strobed for eighteen seconds in a </p><p>frequency that produced seizures in a susceptible segment of Sense/Net employees. Then something </p><p>only vaguely like a human face filled the screens, its features stretched across asymmetrical expanses </p><p>of bone like some obscene Mercator projection. Blue lips parted wetly as the twisted, elongated jaw </p><p>moved. Something, perhaps a hand, a thing like a reddish clump of gnarled roots, fumbled toward the </p><p>camera, blurred, and vanished. Subliminally rapid images of contamination: graphics of the building’s </p><p>water supply system, gloved hands manipulating laboratory glassware, something tumbling down into </p><p>darkness, a pale splash . . . The audio track, its pitch adjusted to run at just less than twice the standard </p><p>playback speed, was part of a month-old newscast detailing potential military uses of a substance </p><p>known as HsG, a biochemical governing the human skeletal growth factor. Overdoses of HsG threw </p><p>certain bone cells into overdrive, accelerating growth by factors as high as one thousand percent. </p><p>At 12:05:00, the mirror-sheathed nexus of the Sense/Net consortium held just over three thousand </p><p>employees. At five minutes after midnight, as the Modems’ message ended in a flare of white screen, the </p><p>Sense/Net Pyramid screamed. Half a dozen NYPD Tactical hovercraft, responding to the possibility of </p><p>Blue Nine in the building’s ventilation system, were converging on the Sense/Net Pyramid. They were </p><p>running full riot lights. A BAMA Rapid Deployment helicopter was lifting off from its pad on Riker’s. </p><p>Case triggered his second program. A carefully engineered virus attacked the code fabric screening </p><p>primary custodial commands for the sub-basement that housed the Sense/Net research materials. </p><p>"Boston," Molly’s voice came across the link, "I'm downstairs." Case switched and saw the blank wall of </p><p>the elevator. She was unzipping the white pants. A bulky packet, exactly the shade of her pale ankle, </p><p>was secured there with micro pore. She knelt and peeled the tape away. Streaks of burgundy flickered </p><p>across the mimetic polycarbon as she unfolded the Modem suit. She removed the pink raincoat, threw </p><p>it down beside the white pants, and began to pull the suit on over the white mesh top. </p><p>12:06:26. </p><p>Case’s virus had bored a window through the library’s command ice. He punched himself through and </p><p>found an infinite blue space ranged with color-coded spheres strung on a tight grid of pale blue neon. In</p><p>the non space of the matrix, the interior of a given data construct possessed unlimited subjective </p><p>dimension; a child’s toy calculator, accessed through Case’s Sendai, would have presented limitless </p><p>gulfs of nothingness hung with a few basic commands. Case began to key the sequence the Finn had </p><p>purchased from a mid-echelon sarariman with severe drug problems. He began to glide through the </p><p>spheres as if he were on invisible tracks. </p><p>Here. This one. </p><p>Punching his way into the sphere, chill blue neon vault above him starless and smooth as frosted glass, </p><p>he triggered a sub-program that effected certain alterations in the core custodial commands. </p><p>Out now. Reversing smoothly, the virus reknitting the fabric of the window. </p><p>Done. </p><p>In the Sense/Net lobby, two Panther Moderns sat alertly behind a low rectangular planter, taping the </p><p>riot with a video camera. They both wore chameleon suits. "Tacticals are spraying foam barricades </p><p>now," one noted, speaking for the benefit of his throat mike. "Rapids are still trying to land their </p><p>copter." </p><p>Case hit the Sims Tim switch. And flipped into the agony of broken bone. Molly was braced against the </p><p>blank gray wall of a long corridor, her breath coming ragged and uneven. Case was back in the matrix </p><p>instantly, a white-hot line of pain fading in his left thigh. </p><p>"What’s happening, Brood?" he asked the link man. </p><p>"I dun no, Cutter. Mother’s not talking. Wait." Case’s program was cycling. A single hair-fine thread of </p><p>crimson neon extended from the center of the restored window to the shifting outline of his icebreaker. </p><p>He didn’t have time to wait. Taking a deep breath, he flipped again. Molly took a single step, trying to </p><p>support her weight on the corridor wall. In the loft, Case groaned. The second step took her over an </p><p>outstretched arm. Uniform sleeve bright with fresh blood. Glimpse of a shattered fiberglass shock </p><p>stave. Her vision seemed to have narrowed to a tunnel. With the third step, Case screamed and found </p><p>himself back in the matrix. "Brood? Boston, baby. . ." Her voice tight with pain. She coughed. "Little </p><p>problem with the natives. Think one of them broke my leg." </p><p>"What you need now, Cat Mother?" The link man’s voice was indistinct, nearly lost behind static. </p><p>Case forced himself to flip back. She was leaning against the wall, taking all of her weight on her right </p><p>leg. She fumbled through the contents of the suit’s kangaroo pocket and withdrew a sheet of plastic </p><p>studded with a rainbow of dermadisks. She selected three and thumbed them hard against her left </p><p>wrist, over the veins. Six thousand micrograms of endorphin analog came down on the pain like a </p><p>hammer, shattering it. Her back arched convulsively. Pink waves of warmth lapped up her thighs. She </p><p>sighed and slowly relaxed. </p><p>"Okay, Brood. Okay now. But I'll need a medical team when 1 come out. Tell my people. Cutter, I'm two </p><p>minutes from target. Can you hold?" </p><p>"Tell her I'm in and holding," Case said. </p><p>Molly began to limp down the corridor. When she glanced back, once, Case saw the crumpled bodies of </p><p>three Sense/Net security guards. One of them seemed to have no eyes. "Tacticals and Rapids have </p><p>sealed the ground floor, Cat Mother. Foam barricades. Lobby’s getting juicy." </p><p>"Pretty juicy down here," she said, swinging herself through a pair of gray steel doors. "Almost there, </p><p>Cutter." Case flipped into the matrix and pulled the trodes from his forehead. He was drenched with </p><p>sweat. He wiped his forehead with a towel, took a quick sip of water from the bicycle bottle beside the </p><p>Hosaka, and checked the map of the library displayed on the screen. A pulsing red cursor crept through </p><p>the outline of a doorway. Only millimeters from the green dot that indicated the location of the Dixie </p><p>Flat line’s construct. He wondered what it was doing to her leg, to walk on it that way. With enough </p><p>endorphin analog, she could walk on a pair of bloody stumps. He tightened the nylon harness that held </p><p>him in the chair and replaced the trodes. </p><p>Routine now: trodes, jack, and flip. </p><p>The Sense/Net research library was a dead storage area; the materials stored here had to be physically </p><p>removed before they could be interfaced. Molly hobbled between rows of identical gray lockers. </p><p>"Tell her five more and ten to her left, Brood," Case said. </p><p>"Five more and ten left, Cat Mother," the link man said. She took the left. A white-faced librarian </p><p>cowered between two lockers, her cheeks wet, eyes blank. Molly ignored her. Case wondered what the </p><p>Moderns had done to provoke that level of terror. He knew it had something to do with a hoaxed threat, </p><p>but he’ d been too involved with his ice to follow Molly ' s explanation.</p><p>"That’s it," Case said, but she’d already stopped in front of the cabinet that held the construct. Its lines </p><p>reminded Case of the Neo-Aztec bookcases in Julie Deane’s anteroom in Chiba. </p><p>"Do it, Cutter," Molly said. </p><p>Case flipped to cyberspace and sent a command pulsing down the crimson thread that pierced the </p><p>library ice. Five separate alarm systems were convinced that they were still operative. The three </p><p>elaborate locks deactivated, but considered themselves to have remained locked. The library’s central </p><p>bank suffered a minute shift in its permanent memory: the construct had been removed, per executive </p><p>order, a month before. Checking for the authorization to remove the construct, a librarian would find </p><p>the records erased. </p><p>The door swung open on silent hinges. </p><p>"0467839," Case said, and Molly drew a black storage unit from the rack. It resembled the magazine of </p><p>a large assault rifle, its surfaces covered with warning decals and security ratings. </p><p>Molly closed the locker door; Case flipped. He withdrew the line through the library ice. It whipped </p><p>back into his program, automatically triggering a full system reversal. The Sense/Net gates snapped </p><p>past him as he backed out, subprograms whirling back into the core of the icebreaker as he passed the </p><p>gates where they had been stationed. "Out, Brood," he said, and slumped in his chair. After the </p><p>concentration of an actual run, he could remain jacked in and still retain awareness of his body. It </p><p>might take Sense/Net days to discover the theft of the construct. The key would be the deflection of the </p><p>Los Angeles transfer, which coincided too neatly with the Modern’s terror run. He doubted that the </p><p>three security men Molly had encountered in the corridor would live to talk about it. He flipped. </p><p>The elevator, with Molly’s black box taped beside the control panel, remained where she’d left it. The </p><p>guard still lay curled on the floor. Case noticed the term on his neck for the first time. Something of </p><p>Molly’s, to keep him under. She stepped over him and removed the black box before punching LOBBY. </p><p>As the elevator door hissed open, a woman hurtled backward out of the crowd, into the elevator, and </p><p>struck the rear wall with her head. Molly ignored her, bending over to peel the derm from the guard’s </p><p>neck. Then she kicked the white pants and the pink raincoat out the door, tossing the dark glasses after </p><p>them, and drew the hood of her suit down across her forehead. The construct, in the suit’s kangaroo </p><p>pocket, dug into her sternum when she moved. She stepped out. Case had seen panic before, but never</p><p>in an enclosed area. The Sense/Net employees, spilling out of the elevators, had surged for the street </p><p>doors, only to meet the foam barricades of the Tacticals and the sandbag-guns of the BAMA Rapids. The </p><p>two agencies, convinced that they were containing a horde of potential killers, were cooperating with </p><p>an uncharacteristic degree of efficiency. Beyond the shattered wreckage of the main street doors, </p><p>bodies were piled three deep on the barricades. The hollow thumping of the riot guns provided a </p><p>constant background for the sound the crowd made as it surged back and forth across the lobby’s </p><p>marble floor. Case had never heard anything like that sound. </p><p>Neither, apparently, had Molly. "Jesus," she said, and hesitated. It was a sort of keening, rising into a </p><p>bubbling wail of MW and total fear. The lobby floor was covered with bodies, clothing, blood, and long </p><p>trampled scrolls of yellow printout. "C’mon, sister. We’re for out. " The eyes of the two Moderns stared </p><p>out of madly swirling shades of polycarbon, their suits unable to keep up with the confusion of shape </p><p>and color that raged behind them. "You hurt? C’mon. Tommy’ll walk you." Tommy handed something to </p><p>the one who spoke, a video cam — EM wrapped in polycarbon. </p><p>"Chicago," she said, "I'm on my way." And then she was falling, not to the marble floor, slick with blood </p><p>and vomit, but down some blood warm well, into silence and the dark. </p><p>The Panther Modern leader, who introduced himself as Lupus Yonderboy, wore a polycarbon suit with </p><p>a recording feature that allowed him to replay backgrounds at will. Perched on the edge of Case’s </p><p>worktable like some kind of state of the art gargoyle, he regarded Case and Armitage with hooded eyes. </p><p>He smiled. His hair was pink. A rainbow forest of microsofts bristled behind his left ear; the ear was </p><p>pointed, tufted with more pink hair. His pupils had been modified to catch the light like a cat’s. Case </p><p>watched the suit crawl with color and texture. "You let it get out of control," Armitage said. He stood in </p><p>the center of the loft like a statue, wrapped in the dark glossy folds of an expensive-looking trench coat. </p><p>"Chaos, Mr. Who," Lupus Yonderboy said. "That is our mode and mod us. That is our central kick. Your </p><p>woman knows. We deal with her. Not with you, Mr. Who." His suit had taken on a weird angular pattern </p><p>of beige and pale avocado. "She needed her medical team. She’s with them. We’ll watch out for her. </p><p>Everything’s fine." He smiled again. "Pay him," Case said. </p><p>Armitage glared at him. "We don’t have the goods." </p><p>"Your woman has it," Yonderboy said. </p><p>"Pay him." </p><p>Armitage crossed stiffly to the table and took three fat bundles of New Yen from the pockets of his </p><p>trench coat. "You want to count it?" he asked Yonder boy. </p><p>"No," the Panther Modern said. "You’ll pay. You’re a Mr. Who. You pay to stay one. Not a Mr. Name." </p><p>"I hope that isn’t a threat," Armitage said. "That’s business," said Yonderboy, stuffing the money into the </p><p>single pocket on the front of his suit. </p><p>The phone rang. Case answered. </p><p>"Molly," he told Armitage, handing him the phone. </p><p>The Sprawl’s geodesics were lightening into predawn gray as Case left the building. His limbs felt cold </p><p>and disconnected. He couldn’t sleep. He was sick of the loft. Lupus had gone, then Armitage, and Molly </p><p>was in surgery somewhere. Vibration beneath his feet as a train hissed past. Sirens Doppler Ed in the </p><p>distance. </p><p>He took corners at random, his collar up, hunched in a new leather jacket, flicking the first of a chain of </p><p>Yeheyuans into the gutter and lighting another. He tried to imagine Armitage’s toxin sacs dissolving in </p><p>his bloodstream, microscopic membranes wearing thinner as he walked. It didn’t seem real. Neither </p><p>did the fear and agony he’d seen through Molly’s eyes in the lobby of Sense/Net. He found himself </p><p>trying to remember the faces of the three people he’d killed in Chiba. The men were blanks; the woman </p><p>reminded him of Linda Lee. A battered tricycle-truck with mirrored windows bounced past him, empty </p><p>plastic cylinders rattling in its bed. </p><p>"Case." </p><p>He darted sideways, instinctively getting a wall behind his back. </p><p>"Message for you, Case." Lupus Yonder boy’s suit cycled through pure primaries. "Pardon. Not to startle </p><p>you." Case straightened up, hands in jacket pockets. He was a head taller than the Modern. "You ought a </p><p>be careful, Yonder boy." </p><p>"This is the message. Winter mute." He spelled it out. </p><p>"From you?" Case took a step forward. </p><p>"No," Yonderboy said. "For you." </p><p>"Who from?" </p><p>"Winter mute," Yonderboy repeated, nodding, bobbing his crest of pink hair. His suit went matte black, </p><p>a carbon shadow against old concrete. He executed a strange little dance, his thin black arms whirling, </p><p>and then he was gone. No. There. Hood up to hide the pink, the suit exactly the right shade of gray, </p><p>mottled and stained as the sidewalk he stood on. The eyes winked back the red of a stoplight. And then </p><p>he was really gone. </p><p>Case closed his eyes, massaged them with numb fingers, leaning back against peeling brickwork. </p><p>Ninsei had been a lot simpler. </p><p>5 </p><p>The medical team Molly employed occupied two floors of an anonymous condo-rack near the old hub </p><p>of Baltimore. The building was modular, like some giant version of Cheap Hotel each coffin forty </p><p>meters long. Case met Molly as she emerged from one that wore the elaborately worked logo of one </p><p>GERALD CHIN, DENTIST. She was limping. "He says if I kick anything, it’ll fall off." </p><p>"I ran into one of your pals," he said, "a Modern." </p><p>"Yeah? Which one?" </p><p>"Lupus Yonderboy. Had a message." He passed her a paper napkin with WINTERMUTE printed in </p><p>red felt pen in his neat, laborious capitals. "He said — " But her hand came up in the jive for silence. </p><p>"Get us some crab," she said. </p><p>After lunch in Baltimore, Molly dissecting her crab with alarming ease, they tubed in to New York. Case </p><p>had learned not to ask questions; they only brought the sign for silence. Her leg seemed to be bothering </p><p>her, and she seldom spoke. A thin black child with wooden beads and antique resistors woven tightly </p><p>into her hair opened the Finn’s door and led them along the tunnel of refuse. Case felt the stuff had </p><p>grown somehow during their absence. Or else it seemed that it was changing subtly, cooking itself </p><p>down under the pressure of time, silent invisible flakes settling to form a mulch, a crystalline essence of </p><p>discarded technology, flowering secretly in the Sprawl’s waste places. </p><p>Beyond the army blanket, the Finn waited at the white table. Molly began to sign rapidly, produced a </p><p>scrap of paper, wrote something on it, and passed it to the Finn. He took it between thumb and</p><p>forefinger, holding it away from his body as though it might explode. He made a sign Case didn’t know, </p><p>one that conveyed a mixture of impatience and glum resignation. He stood up, brushing crumbs from </p><p>the front of his battered tweed jacket. A glass jar of pickled herring stood on the table beside a torn </p><p>plastic package of flatbread and a tin ashtray piled with the butts of Partagas. </p><p>"Wait," the Finn said, and left the room. </p><p>Molly took his place, extruded the blade from her index finger, and speared a grayish slab of herring. </p><p>Case wandered aimlessly around the room, fingering the scanning gear on the pylons as he passed. </p><p>Ten minutes and the Finn came bustling back, showing his teeth in a wide yellow smile. He nodded, </p><p>gave Molly a thumbs-up salute, and gestured to Case to help him with the door panel. While Case </p><p>smoothed the velcro border into place, the Finn took a flat little console from his pocket and punched </p><p>out an elaborate sequence. </p><p>"Honey," he said to Molly, tucking the console away, "you have got it. No shit, I can smell it. You wanna </p><p>tell me where you got it?" </p><p>"Yonderboy," Molly said, shoving the herring and crackers aside. "I did a deal with Larry, on the side." </p><p>"Smart," the Finn said. "It’s an AI." </p><p>"Slow it down a little," Case said. </p><p>"Berne," the Finn said, ignoring him. "Berne. It’s got limited Swiss citizenship under their equivalent of </p><p>the Act of '53. Built for Tessier-Ashpool S.A. They own the mainframe and the original software." </p><p>"What’s in Berne, okay?" Case deliberately stepped between them. </p><p>"Wintermute is the recognition code for an AI. I've got the Turing Registry numbers. Artificial </p><p>intelligence." </p><p>"That’s all just fine," Molly said, "but where’s it get us?" </p><p>"If Yonderboy’s right," the Finn said, "this Al is backing Armitage." </p><p>"I paid Larry to have the Modems nose around Armitage a little," Molly explained, turning to Case. </p><p>"They have some very weird lines of communication. Deal was, they’d get my money if they answered </p><p>one question: who’s running Armitage?" </p><p>"And you think it’s this Al? Those things aren’t allowed any autonomy. It’ll be the parent corporation,</p><p>this Tessle . . ." </p><p>"Tessier-Ashpool S.A.," said the Finn. "And 1 got a little story for you about them. Wanna hear?" He sat </p><p>down and hunched forward. </p><p>"Finn," Molly said. "He loves a story." </p><p>"Haven’t ever told anybody this one," the Finn began. </p><p>The Finn was a fence, a trafficker in stolen goods, primarily in software. In the course of his business, he </p><p>sometimes came into contact with other fences, some of whom dealt in the more traditional articles of </p><p>the trade. In precious metals, stamps, rare coins, gems, jewelry, furs, and paintings and other works of </p><p>art. The story he told Case and Molly began with another man’s story, a man he called Smith. </p><p>Smith was also a fence, but in balmier seasons he surfaced as an art dealer. He was the first person the </p><p>Finn had known who’d "gone silicon" — the phrase had an old-fashioned ring for Case — and the </p><p>microsofts he purchased were art history programs and tables of gallery sales. With half a dozen chips </p><p>in his new socket, Smith’s knowledge of the art business was formidable, at least by the standards of his </p><p>colleagues. But Smith had come to the Finn with a request for help, a fraternal request, one </p><p>businessman to another. He wanted a go-to on the Tessier-Ashpool clan, he said, and it had to be </p><p>executed in a way that would guarantee the impossibility of the subject ever tracing the inquiry to its </p><p>source. It might be possible, the Finn had opined, but an explanation was definitely required. "It </p><p>smelled," the Finn said to Case, "smelled of money. And Smith was being very careful. Almost too </p><p>careful." Smith, it developed, had had a supplier known as Jimmy. Jimmy was a burglar and other things </p><p>as well, and just back from a year in high orbit, having carried certain things back down the gravity </p><p>well. The most unusual thing Jimmy had managed to score on his swing through the archipelago was a </p><p>head, an intricately worked bust, cloisonne over platinum, studded with seed pearls and lapis. Smith, </p><p>sighing, had put down his pocket microscope and advised Jimmy to melt the thing down. It was </p><p>contemporary, not an antique, and had no value to the collector. Jimmy laughed. The thing was a </p><p>computer terminal, he said. It could talk. And not in a synth-voice, but with a beautiful arrangement of </p><p>gears and miniature organ pipes. It was a baroque thing for anyone to have constructed, a perverse </p><p>thing, because synth-voice chips cost next to nothing. It was a curiosity. Smith jacked the head into his </p><p>computer and listened as the melodious, inhuman voice piped the figures of last year’s tax return. </p><p>Smith’ s clientele included a Tokyo billionaire whose passion for clockwork automata approached </p><p>fetishism. Smith shrugged, showing Jimmy his upturned palms in a gesture old as pawn shops. He could </p><p>try, he said, but he doubted he could get much for it. </p><p>When Jimmy had gone, leaving the head, Smith went over it carefully, discovering certain hallmarks. </p><p>Eventually he’d been able to trace it to an unlikely collaboration between two Zurich artisans, an </p><p>enamel specialist in Paris, a Dutch jeweler, and a California chip designer. It had been commissioned, </p><p>he discovered, by Tessier-Ashpool S.A. </p><p>Smith began to make preliminary passes at the Tokyo collector, hinting that he was on the track of </p><p>something noteworthy. </p><p>And then he had a visitor, a visitor unannounced, one who walked in through the elaborate maze of </p><p>Smith’s security as though it didn’t exist. A small man, Japanese, enormously polite, who bore all the </p><p>marks of a vatgrown ninja assassin. Smith sat very still, staring into the calm brown eyes of death </p><p>across a polished table of Vietnamese rosewood. Gently, almost apologetically, the cloned killer </p><p>explained that it was his duty to find and return a certain artwork, a mechanism of great beauty, which </p><p>had been taken from the house of his master. It had come to his attention, the ninja said, that Smith </p><p>might know of the whereabouts of this object. </p><p>Smith told the man that he had no wish to die, and produced the head. And how much, his visitor asked </p><p>did you expect to obtain through the sale of this object? Smith named a figure far lower than the price </p><p>he’d intended to set. The ninja produced a credit chip and keyed Smith that amount out of a numbered </p><p>Swiss account. And who, the man asked, brought you this piece? Smith told him. Within days, Smith </p><p>learned of Jimmy’s death. </p><p>"So that was where I came in," the Finn continued. "Smith knew I dealt a lot with the Memory Lane </p><p>crowd, and that’s where you go for a quiet go-to that’ll never be traced. I hired a cowboy. I was the </p><p>cut-out, so I took a percentage. Smith, he was careful. He’d just had a very weird business experience </p><p>and he’d come out on top, but it didn’t add up. Who’d paid, out of that Swiss stash? Yakuza? No way. </p><p>They got a very rigid code covers situations like that, and they kill the receiver too, always. Was it </p><p>spook stuff? Smith didn’t think so. Spook biz has a vibe, you get so you can smell it. Well, I had my </p><p>cowboy buzz the news morgues until we found Tessier-Ashpool in litigation. The case wasn’t anything, </p><p>but we got the law firm. Then he did the lawyer’s ice and we got the family address. Lotta good it did</p><p>us." </p><p>Case raised his eyebrows. </p><p>"Freeside," the Finn said. "The spindle. Turns out they own damn near the whole thing. The interesting </p><p>stuff was the picture we got when the cowboy ran a regular go-to on the news morgues and compiled a </p><p>precis. Family organization. Corporate structure. Supposedly you can buy into an S.A., but there hasn’t </p><p>been a share of Tessier-Ashpool traded on the open market in over a hundred years. On any market, as </p><p>far as I know. You’re looking at a very quiet, very eccentric first-generation high-orbit family, run like a </p><p>corporation. Big money, very shy of media. Lot of cloning. Orbital law’s a lot softer on genetic </p><p>engineering, right? And it’s hard to keep track of which generation, or combination of generations, is </p><p>running the show at a given time." </p><p>"How’s that?" Molly asked. </p><p>"Got their own cryogenic setup. Even under orbital law, you’re legally dead for the duration of a freeze. </p><p>Looks like they trade off, though nobody’s seen the founding father in about thirty years. Founding </p><p>momma, she died in some lab accident . . </p><p>"So what happened with your fence?" </p><p>"Nothing." The Finn frowned. "Dropped it. We had a look at this fantastic tangle of powers of attorney </p><p>the T-A’s have, and that was it. Jimmy must’ve gotten into Straylight, lifted the head, and Tessier- </p><p>Ashpool sent their ninja after it. Smith decided to forget about it. Maybe he was smart." He looked at </p><p>Molly. "The Villa Straylight. Tip of the spindle. Strictly private." </p><p>"You figure they own that ninja, Finn?" Molly asked. </p><p>"Smith thought so." </p><p>"Expensive," she said. "Wonder whatever happened to that little ninja, Finn?" </p><p>"Probably got him on ice. Thaw when needed." </p><p>"Okay," Case said, "we got Armitage getting his goodies off an AI named Wintermute. Where’s that get </p><p>us?" </p><p>"Nowhere yet," Molly said, "but you got a little side gig now." She drew a folded scrap of paper from her </p><p>pocket and handed it to him. He opened it. Grid coordinates and entry codes. </p><p>"Who’s this?" </p><p>"Armitage. Some data base of his. Bought it from the Moderns. Separate deal. Where is it?" </p><p>"London," Case said. </p><p>"Crack it." She laughed. "Earn your keep for a change." </p><p>Case waited for a trans-BAMA local on the crowded platform. Molly had gone back to the loft hours </p><p>ago, the Flatline’s construct in her green bag, and Case had been drinking steadily ever since. </p><p>It was disturbing to think of the Flatline as a construct, a hardwired ROM cassette replicating a dead </p><p>man’s skills, obsessions, kneejerk responses . . . The local came booming in along the black induction </p><p>strip, fine grit sifting from cracks in the tunnel’s ceiling. Case shuffled into the nearest door and </p><p>watched the other passengers as he rode. A pair of predatory-looking Christian Scientists were edging </p><p>toward a trio of young office techs who wore idealized holographic vaginas on their wrists, wet pink </p><p>glittering under the harsh lighting. The techs licked their perfect lips nervously and eyed the Christian </p><p>Scientists from beneath lowered metallic lids. The girls looked like tall, exotic grazing animals, </p><p>swaying gracefully and unconsciously with the movement of the train, their high heels like polished </p><p>hooves against the gray metal of the car’s floor. Before they could stampede, take flight from the </p><p>missionaries, the train reached Case’s station. </p><p>He stepped out and caught sight of a white holographic cigar suspended against the wall of the station, </p><p>FREESIDE pulsing beneath it in contorted capitals that mimicked printed Japanese. He walked through </p><p>the crowd and stood beneath it, studying the thing. WHY WAIT? pulsed the sign. A blunt white spindle, </p><p>flanged and studded with grids and radiators, docks, domes. He’d seen the ad, or others like it, </p><p>thousands of times. It had never appealed to him. With his deck, he could reach the Freeside banks as </p><p>easily as he could reach Atlanta. Travel was a meat thing. But now he noticed the little sigil, the size of a </p><p>small coin, woven into the lower left corner of the ad’s fabric of light: T-A. </p><p>He walked back to the loft, lost in memories of the Flatline. He’d spent most of his nineteenth summer </p><p>in the Gentleman Loser, nursing expensive beers and watching the cowboys. He’d never touched a </p><p>deck, then, but he knew what he wanted. There were at least twenty other hopefuls ghosting the Loser, </p><p>that summer, each one bent on working joeboy for some cowboy. No other way to learn. </p><p>They’d all heard of Pauley, the redneck jockey from the 'Lanta fringes, who’d survived braindeath </p><p>behind black ice. The grapevine-slender, street level, and the only one going — had little to say about </p><p>Pauley, other than that he’d done the impossible. "It was big," another would-be told Case, for the price </p><p>of a beer, "but who knows what? I hear maybe a Brazilian payroll net. Anyway, the man was dead, flat </p><p>down braindeath." Case stared across the crowded bar at a thickset man in shirt-sleeves, something </p><p>leaden about the shade of his skin. "Boy," the Flatline would tell him, months later in Miami, "I'm like </p><p>them huge fuckin’ lizards, you know? Had themself two goddam brains, one in the head an’ one by the </p><p>tailbone, kept the hind legs movin’. Hit that black stuff and ol' tailbrain jus’ kept right on keepin’ on." </p><p>The cowboy elite in the Loser shunned Pauley out of some strange group anxiety, almost a superstition. </p><p>McCoy Pauley, Lazarus of cyberspace . . . </p><p>And his heart had done for him in the end. His surplus Russian heart, implanted in a POW camp during </p><p>the war. He’d refused to replace the thing, saying he needed its particular beat to maintain his sense of </p><p>timing. Case fingered the slip of paper Molly had given him and made his way up the stairs. Molly was </p><p>snoring on the temperfoam. A transparent cast ran from her knee to a few millimeters below her </p><p>crotch, the skin beneath the rigid micropore mottled with bruises, the black shading into ugly yellow. </p><p>Eight derms, each a different size and color, ran in a neat line down her left wrist. An Akai transdermal </p><p>unit lay beside her, its fine red leads connected to input trodes under the cast. </p><p>He turned on the tensor beside the Hosaka. The crisp circle of light fell directly on the Flatline’s </p><p>construct. He slotted some ice, connected the construct, and jacked in. It was exactly the sensation of </p><p>someone reading over his shoulder. </p><p>He coughed. "Dix? McCoy? That you man?" His throat was tight. </p><p>"Hey, bro," said a directionless voice. </p><p>"It’s Case, man. Remember?" </p><p>"Miami, joeboy, quick study." </p><p>"What’s the last thing you remember before I spoke to you, Dix?" </p><p>"Nothin’." </p><p>"Hang on." He disconnected the construct. The presence was gone. He reconnected it. "Dix? Who am I?" </p><p>"You got me hung, Jack. Who the fuck are you?" </p><p>"Ca — your buddy. Partner. What’s happening, man?" </p><p>"Good question." </p><p>"Remember being here, a second ago?" </p><p>No.’ </p><p>"Know how a ROM personality matrix works?" </p><p>"Sure, bro, it’s a firmware construct." </p><p>"So I jack it into the bank I'm using, I can give it sequential, real time memory?" </p><p>"Guess so," said the construct. </p><p>"Okay, Dix. You are a ROM construct. Got me?" </p><p>"If you say so," said the construct. "Who are you?" </p><p>"Case." </p><p>"Miami," said the voice, "joeboy, quick study." </p><p>"Right. And for starts, Dix, you and me, we’re gonna sleaze over to London grid and access a little data. </p><p>You game for that?" </p><p>"You gonna tell me I got a choice, boy?" </p><p>6 </p><p>"You want you a paradise/' the Flatline advised, when Case had explained his situation. "Check </p><p>Copenhagen, fringes of the university section." The voice recited coordinates as he punched. </p><p>They found their paradise, a "pirate’s paradise," on the jumbled border of a low-security academic grid. </p><p>At first glance it resembled the kind of graffiti student operators sometimes left at the junctions of grid </p><p>lines, faint glyphs of colored light that shimmered against the confused outlines of a dozen arts </p><p>faculties. </p><p>"There," said the Flatline, "the blue one. Make it out? That’s an entry code for Bell Europa. Fresh, too. </p><p>Bell’ll get in here soon and read the whole damn board, change any codes they find posted. Kids’ll steal </p><p>the new ones tomorrow." Case tapped his way into Bell Europa and switched to a standard phone code. </p><p>With the Flatline’s help, he connected with the London data base that Molly claimed was Armitage’s. </p><p>"Here," said the voice, "I’ll do it for you." The Flatline began to chant a series of digits, Case keying them</p><p>on his deck, trying to catch the pauses the construct used to indicate timing. It took three tries. </p><p>"Big deal," said the Flatline. "No ice at all." </p><p>"Scan this shit," Case told the Hosaka. "Sift for owner’s personal history." </p><p>The neuroelectro nic scrawls of the paradise vanished, replaced by a simple lozenge of white light. </p><p>"Contents are primarily video recordings of postwar military trials," said the distant voice of the </p><p>Hosaka. "Central figure is Colonel Willis Corto." </p><p>"Show it already," Case said. </p><p>A man’s face filled the screen. The eyes were Armitage’s. </p><p>Two hours later, Case fell beside Molly on the slab and let the temperfoam mold itself against him. </p><p>"You find anything?" she asked, her voice fuzzy with sleep and drugs. </p><p>"Tell you later," he said, "I’m wrecked." He was hungover and confused. He lay there, eyes closed, and </p><p>tried to sort the various parts of a story about a man called Corto. The Hosaka had sorted a thin store of </p><p>data and assembled a precis, but it was full of gaps. Some of the material had been print records, </p><p>reeling smoothly down the screen, too quickly, and Case had had to ask the computer to read them for </p><p>him. Other segments were audio recordings of the Screaming Fist hearing. Willis Corto, Colonel, had </p><p>plummeted through a blind spot in the Russian defenses over Kirensk. The shuttles had created the </p><p>hole with pulse bombs, and Corto’s team had dropped in in Nightwing microlights, their wings </p><p>snapping taut in moonlight, reflected in jags of silver along the rivers Angara and Podhamennaya, the </p><p>last light Corto would see for fifteen months. Case tried to imagine the microlights blossoming out of </p><p>their launch capsules, high above a frozen steppe. "They sure as hell did shaft you, boss," Case said, and </p><p>Molly stirred beside him. </p><p>The microlights had been unarmed, stripped to compensate for the weight of a console operator, a </p><p>prototype deck, and a virus program called Mole IX, the first true virus in the history of cybernetics. </p><p>Corto and his team had been training for the run for three years. They were through the ice, ready to </p><p>inject Mole IX, when the emps went off. The Russian pulse guns threw the jockeys into electronic </p><p>darkness; the Nightwings suffered systems crash, flight circuitry wiped clean. Then the lasers opened </p><p>up, aiming on infrared, taking out the fragile, radar-transparent assault planes, and Corto and his dead</p><p>console man fell out of a Siberian sky. Fell and kept falling . . . </p><p>There were gaps in the story, here, where Case scanned documents concerning the flight of a </p><p>commandeered Russian gunship that managed to reach Finland. To be gutted, as it landed in a spruce </p><p>grove, by an antique twenty-millimeter cannon manned by a cadre of reservists on dawn alert. </p><p>Screaming Fist had ended for Corto on the outskirts of Helsinki, with Finnish paramedics sawing him </p><p>out of the twisted belly of the helicopter. The war ended nine days later, and Corto was shipped to a </p><p>military facility in Utah, blind, legless, and missing most of his jaw. It took eleven months for the </p><p>Congressional aide to find him there. He listened to the sound of tubes draining. In Washington and </p><p>McLean, the show trials were already underway. The Pentagon and the CIA were being Balkanized, </p><p>partially dismantled, and a Congressional investigation had focused on Screaming Fist. Ripe for </p><p>watergating, the aide told Corto. </p><p>He’d need eyes, legs, and extensive cosmetic work, the aide said, but that could be arranged. New </p><p>plumbing, the man added, squeezing Corto’s shoulder through the sweat-damp sheet. Corto heard the </p><p>soft, relentless dripping. He said he preferred to testify as he was. </p><p>No, the aide explained, the trials were being televised. The trials needed to reach the voter. The aide </p><p>coughed politely. Repaired, refurnished, and extensively rehearsed, Corto’s subsequent testimony was </p><p>detailed, moving, lucid, and largely the invention of a Congressional cabal with certain vested interests </p><p>in saving particular portions of the Pentagon infrastructure. Corto gradually understood that the </p><p>testimony he gave was instrumental in saving the careers of three officers directly responsible for the </p><p>suppression of reports on the building of the emp installations at Kirensk. </p><p>His role in the trials over, he was unwanted in Washington. In an M Street restaurant, over asparagus </p><p>crepes, the aide explained the terminal dangers involved in talking to the wrong people. Corto crushed </p><p>the man’s larynx with the rigid fingers of his right hand. The Congressional aide strangled, his face in an </p><p>asparagus crepe, and Corto stepped out into cool Washington September. </p><p>The Hosaka rattled through police reports, corporate espionage records, and news files. Case watched </p><p>Corto work corporate defectors in Lisbon and Marrakech, where he seemed to grow obsessed with the </p><p>idea of betrayal, to loathe the scientists and technicians he bought out for his employers. Drunk, in </p><p>Singapore, he beat a Russian engineer to death in a hotel and set fire to his room. </p><p>Next he surfaced in Thailand, as overseer of a heroin factory. Then as enforcer for a California gambling </p><p>cartel, then as a paid killer in the ruins of Bonn. He robbed a bank in Wichita. The record grew vague,</p><p>shadowy, the gaps longer. One day, he said, in a taped segment that suggested chemical interrogation, </p><p>everything had gone gray. </p><p>Translated French medical records explained that a man without identification had been taken to a </p><p>Paris mental health unit and diagnosed as schizophrenic. He became catatonic and was sent to a </p><p>government institution on the outskirts of Toulon. He became a subject in an experimental program </p><p>that sought to reverse schizophrenia through the application of cybernetic models. A random selection </p><p>of patients were provided with microcomputers and encouraged, with help from students, to program </p><p>them. He was cured, the only success in the entire experiment. </p><p>The record ended there. </p><p>Case turned on the foam and Molly cursed him softly for disturbing her. </p><p>The telephone rang. He pulled it into bed. "Yeah?" </p><p>"We’re going to Istanbul," Armitage said. "Tonight." </p><p>"What does the bastard want?" Molly asked. </p><p>"Says we’re going to Istanbul tonight." </p><p>"That’s just wonderful." </p><p>Armitage was reading off flight numbers and departure times. </p><p>Molly sat up and turned on the light. </p><p>"What about my gear?" Case asked. "My deck." </p><p>"Finn will handle it," said Armitage, and hung up. Case watched her pack. There were dark circles </p><p>under her eyes, but even with the cast on, it was like watching a dance. No wasted motion. His clothes </p><p>were a rumpled pile beside his bag. </p><p>"You hurting?" he asked. </p><p>"I could do with another night at Chin’s." </p><p>"Your dentist?" </p><p>"You betcha. Very discreet. He’s got half that rack, full clinic. Does repairs for samurai." She was zipping </p><p>her bag. "You ever been to 'Stambul?" </p><p>"Couple days, once." </p><p>"Never changes," she said. "Bad old town."</p><p>"It was like this when we headed for Chiba," Molly said, staring out the train window at blasted </p><p>industrial moonscape, red beacons on the horizon warning aircraft away from a fusion plant. "We were </p><p>in L.A. He came in and said Pack, we were booked for Macau. When we got there, I played fantan in the </p><p>Lisboa and he crossed over into Zhongshan. Next day I was playing ghost with you in Night City." She </p><p>took a silk scarf from the sleeve of her black jacket and polished the insets. The landscape of the </p><p>northern Sprawl woke confused memories of childhood for Case, dead grass tufting the cracks in a </p><p>canted slab of freeway concrete. </p><p>The train began to decelerate ten kilometers from the airport. Case watched the sun rise on the </p><p>landscape of childhood, on broken slag and the rusting shells of refineries. </p><p>7 </p><p>It was raining in Beyoglu, and the rented Mercedes slid past the grilled and unlit windows of cautious </p><p>Greek and Armenian jewelers. The street was almost empty, only a few dark-coated figures on the </p><p>sidewalks turning to stare after the car. "This was formerly the prosperous European section of </p><p>Ottoman Istanbul," purred the Mercedes. </p><p>"So it’s gone downhill," Case said. </p><p>"The Hilton’s in Cumhuriyet Caddesi," Molly said. She settled back against the car’s gray ultrasuede. </p><p>"How come Armitage flies alone?" Case asked. He had a headache. </p><p>"'Cause you get up his nose. You’re sure getting up mine." He wanted to tell her the Corto story, but </p><p>decided against it. He’d used a sleep derm, on the plane. </p><p>The road in from the airport had been dead straight, like a neat incision, laying the city open. He’d </p><p>watched the crazy walls of patchwork wooden tenements slide by, condos, arcologies, grim housing </p><p>projects, more walls of plyboard and corrugated iron. </p><p>The Finn, in a new Shinjuku suit, sarariman black, was waiting sourly in the Hilton lobby, marooned on </p><p>a velour armchair in a sea of pale blue carpeting. </p><p>"Christ," Molly said. "Rat in a business suit." </p><p>They crossed the lobby. </p><p>"How much you get paid to come over here, Finn?" She lowered her bag beside the armchair. "Bet not </p><p>as much as you get for wearing that suit, huh?"</p><p>The Finn’ s upper lips drew back. "Not enough, sweetmeat. " He handed her a magnetic key with a </p><p>round yellow tag. "You’re registered already. Honcho’s upstairs." He looked around. "This town sucks." </p><p>"You get agoraphobic, they take you out from under a dome. Just pretend it’s Brooklyn or something." </p><p>She twirled the key around a finger. "You here as valet or what?" </p><p>"I gotta check out some guy’s implants," the Finn said. </p><p>"How about my deck?" Case asked. </p><p>The Finn winced. "Observe the protocol. Ask the boss." Molly’s fingers moved in the shadow of her </p><p>jacket, a flicker of jive. The Finn watched, then nodded. </p><p>"Yeah," she said, "I know who that is." She jerked her head in the direction of the elevators. "Come on, </p><p>cowboy." Case followed her with both bags. </p><p>Their room might have been the one in Chiba where he’d first seen Armitage. He went to the window, </p><p>in the morning, almost expecting to see Tokyo Bay. There was another hotel across the street. It was </p><p>still raining. A few letter-writers had taken refuge in doorways, their old voiceprinters wrapped in </p><p>sheets of clear plastic, evidence that the written word still enjoyed a certain prestige here. It was a </p><p>sluggish country. He watched a dull black Citroen sedan, a primitive hydrogen-cell conversion, as it </p><p>disgorged five sullen-looking Turkish officers in rumpled green uniforms. They entered the hotel </p><p>across the street. </p><p>He glanced back at the bed, at Molly, and her paleness struck him. She’d left the micropore cast on the </p><p>bedslab in their loft, beside the transdermal inducer. Her glasses reflected part of the room’s light </p><p>fixture. </p><p>He had the phone in his hand before it had a chance to ring twice. "Glad you’re up," Armitage said. </p><p>"I’m just. Lady’s still under. Listen, boss, I think it’s maybe time we have a little talk. I think I work </p><p>better if I know a little more about what I’m doing." </p><p>Silence on the line. Case bit his lip. </p><p>"You know as much as you need to. Maybe more." </p><p>"You think so?" </p><p>"Get dressed, Case. Get her up. You’ll have a caller in about fifteen minutes. His name is Terzibashjian." </p><p>The phone bleated softly. Armitage was gone. </p><p>"Wake up, baby," Case said. "Biz." </p><p>"I've been awake an hour already." The mirrors turned. </p><p>"We got a Jersey Bastion coming up." </p><p>"You got an ear for language, Case. Bet you’re part Armenian. That’s the eye Armitage has had on </p><p>Riviera. Help me up." </p><p>Terzibashjian proved to be a young man in a gray suit and gold-framed, mirrored glasses. His white </p><p>shirt was open at the collar, revealing a mat of dark hair so dense that Case at first mistook it for some </p><p>kind of t-shirt. He arrived with a black Hilton tray arranged with three tiny, fragrant cups of thick black </p><p>coffee and three sticky, straw-colored Oriental sweets. "We must, as you say in Ingiliz, take this one </p><p>very easy." He seemed to stare pointedly at Molly, but at last he removed the silver glasses. His eyes </p><p>were a dark brown that matched the shade of his very short military-cut hair. He smiled. "It is better, </p><p>this way, yes? Else we make the tunnel infinity, mirror into mirror . . . You particularly," he said to her, </p><p>"must take care. In Turkey there is disapproval of women who sport such modifications." </p><p>Molly bit one of the pastries in half. "It’s my show, Jack," she said, her mouth full. She chewed, </p><p>swallowed, and licked her lips. "I know about you. Stool for the military, right?" Her hand slid lazily </p><p>into the front of her jacket and came out with the fletcher. Case hadn’t known she had it. "Very easy, </p><p>please," Terzibashjian said, his white china thimble frozen centimeters from his lips. She extended the </p><p>gun. "Maybe you get the explosives, lots of them, or maybe you get a cancer. One dart, shitface. You </p><p>won’t feel it for months." </p><p>"Please. You call this in Ingiliz making me very tight . . ." </p><p>"I call it a bad morning. Now tell us about your man and get your ass out of here." She put the gun away. </p><p>"He is living in Fener, at Kuchuk Gulhane Djaddesi 14. 1 have his tunnel route, nightly to the bazaar. He </p><p>performs most recently at the Yenishehir Palas Oteli, a modem place in the style turistik, but it has been </p><p>arranged that the police have shown a certain interest in these shows. The Yenishehir management has </p><p>grown nervous." He smiled. He smelled of some metallic aftershave. </p><p>"I want to know about the implants," she said, massaging her thigh, "I want to know exactly what he</p><p>can do." Terzibashjian nodded. "Worst is how you say in Ingiliz, the subliminals." He made the word four </p><p>careful syllables. </p><p>"On our left," said the Mercedes, as it steered through a maze of rainy streets, "is Kapali Carsi, the grand </p><p>bazaar." Beside Case, the Finn made an appreciative noise, but he was looking in the wrong direction. </p><p>The right side of the street was lined with miniature scrapyards. Case saw a gutted locomotive atop </p><p>rust-stained, broken lengths of fluted marble. Headless marble statues were stacked like firewood. </p><p>"Homesick?" Case asked. </p><p>"Place sucks," the Finn said. His black silk tie was starting to resemble a worn carbon ribbon. There </p><p>were medallions of kebab gravy and fried egg on the lapels of the new suit. "Hey, Jersey," Case said to </p><p>the Armenian, who sat behind them, "where’d this guy get his stuff installed?" </p><p>"In Chiba City. He has no left lung. The other is boosted, is how you say it? Anyone might buy these </p><p>implants, but this one is most talented." The Mercedes swerved, avoiding a balloon-tired dray stacked </p><p>with hides. "I have followed him in the street and seen a dozen cycles fall, near him, in a day. Find the </p><p>cyclist in a hospital, the story is always the same. A scorpion poised beside a brake lever . . ." </p><p>"’What you see is what you get,’ yeah," the Finn said. "I seen the schematics on the guy’s silicon. Very </p><p>flash. What he imagines, you see. I figure he could narrow it to a pulse and fry a retina over easy." </p><p>"You have told this to your woman friend?" Terzibashjian leaned forward between the ultrasuede </p><p>buckets. "In Turkey, women are still women. This one . . ." </p><p>The Finn snorted. "She’d have you wearing your balls for a bow tie if you looked at her cross-eyed." </p><p>"I do not understand this idiom." </p><p>"That’s okay," Case said. "Means shut up." The Armenian sat back, leaving a metallic edge of after-shave. </p><p>He began to whisper to a Sanyo transceiver in a strange salad of Greek, French, Turkish, isolated </p><p>fragments of English. The transceiver answered in French. The Mercedes swung smoothly around a </p><p>corner. "The spice bazaar, sometimes called the Egyptian bazaar," the car said, "was erected on the site </p><p>of an earlier bazaar erected by Sultan Hatice in 1660. This is the city’s central market for spices, </p><p>software, perfumes, drugs . . ." </p><p>"Drugs," Case said, watching the car’s wipers cross and recross the bulletproof Lexan. "What’s that you </p><p>said before, Jersey, about this Riviera being wired?"</p><p>"A mixture of cocaine and meperidine, yes." The Armenian went back to the conversation he was </p><p>having with the Sanyo. ' Demerol, they used to call that," said the Finn. "He’s a speedball artist. Funny </p><p>class of people you’re mixing with, Case." </p><p>"Never mind," Case said, turning up the collar of his jacket, "we’ll get the poor fucker a new pancreas or </p><p>something." </p><p>Once they entered the bazaar, the Finn brightened noticeably, as though he were comforted by the </p><p>crowd density and the sense of enclosure. They walked with the Armenian along a broad concourse, </p><p>beneath soot-stained sheets of plastic and green-painted ironwork out of the age of steam. A thousand </p><p>suspended ads writhed and flickered. </p><p>"Hey, Christ," the Finn said, taking Case’s arm, "looka that." He pointed. "It’s a horse, man. You ever see a </p><p>horse?" Case glanced at the embalmed animal and shook his head. It was displayed on a sort of </p><p>pedestal, near the entrance to a place that sold birds and monkeys. The thing’s legs had been worn </p><p>black and hairless by decades of passing hands. "Saw one in Maryland once," the Finn said, "and that </p><p>was a good three years after the pandemic. There’s Arabs still trying to code 'em up from the DNA, but </p><p>they always croak." The animal’s brown glass eyes seemed to follow them as they passed. Terzibashjian </p><p>led them into a cafe near the core of the market, a low-ceilinged room that looked as though it had </p><p>been in continuous operation for centuries. Skinny boys in soiled white coats dodged between the </p><p>crowded tables, balancing steel trays with bottles of Turk-Tuborg and tiny glasses of tea. </p><p>Case bought a pack of Yeheyuans from a vendor by the door. The Armenian was muttering to his Sanyo. </p><p>"Come," he said, "he is moving. Each night he rides the tunnel to the bazaar, to purchase his mixture </p><p>from Ali. Your woman is close. Come." </p><p>The alley was an old place, too old, the walls cut from blocks of dark stone. The pavement was uneven </p><p>and smelled of a century’s dripping gasoline, absorbed by ancient limestone. "Can’t see shit," he </p><p>whispered to the Finn. "That’s okay for sweetmeat," the Finn said. "Quiet," said Terzibashjian, too loudly </p><p>Wood grated on stone or concrete. Ten meters down the alley, a wedge of yellow light fell across wet </p><p>cobbles, widened. A figure stepped out and the door grated shut again, leaving the narrow place in </p><p>darkness. Case shivered. "Now," Terzibashjian said, and a brilliant beam of white light, directed from </p><p>the rooftop of the building opposite the market, pinned the slender figure beside the ancient wooden</p><p>door in a perfect circle. Bright eyes darted left, right, and the man crumpled. Case thought someone had </p><p>shot him; he lay face down, blond hair pale against the old stone, his limp hands white and pathetic. </p><p>The floodlight never wavered. </p><p>The back of the fallen man’s jacket heaved and burst, blood splashing the wall and doorway. A pair of </p><p>impossibly long, rope-tendoned arms flexed grayish-pink in the glare. The thing seemed to pull itself up </p><p>out of the pavement, through the inert, bloody ruin that had been Riviera. It was two meters tall, stood </p><p>on two legs, and seemed to be headless. Then it swung slowly to face them, and Case saw that it had a </p><p>head, but no neck. It was eyeless, the skin gleaming a wet intestinal pink. The mouth, if it was a mouth, </p><p>was circular, conical, shallow, and lined with a seething growth of hairs or bristles, glittering like black </p><p>chrome. It kicked the rags of clothing and flesh aside and took a step, the mouth seeming to scan for </p><p>them as it moved. Terzibashjian said something in Greek or Turkish and rushed the thing, his arms </p><p>spread like a man attempting to dive through a window. He went through it. Into the muzzle-flash of a </p><p>pistol from the dark beyond the circle of light. Fragments of rock whizzed past Case’s head; the Finn </p><p>jerked him down into a crouch. </p><p>The light from the rooftop vanished, leaving him with mismatched afterimages of muzzle-flash, </p><p>monster, and white beam. His ears rang. </p><p>Then the light returned, bobbing now, searching the shadows. Terzibashjian was leaning against a steel </p><p>door, his face very white in the glare. He held his left wrist and watched blood drip from a wound in his </p><p>left hand. The blond man, whole again, unbloodied, lay at his feet. </p><p>Molly stepped out of the shadows, all in black, with her fletcher in her hand. </p><p>"Use the radio," the Armenian said, through gritted teeth. "Call in Mahmut. We must get him out of here. </p><p>This is not a good place." </p><p>Little prick nearly made it," the Finn said, his knees cracking loudly as he stood up, brushing </p><p>ineffectually at the legs of his trousers. "You were watching the horror-show, right? Not the hamburger </p><p>that got tossed out of sight. Real cute. Well, help 'em get his ass outa here. I gotta scan all that gear </p><p>before he wakes up, make sure Armitage is getting his money’s worth." Molly bent and picked </p><p>something up. A pistol. "A Nambu," she said. "Nice gun."</p><p>Terzibashjian made a whining sound. Case saw that most of his middle finger was missing. </p><p>With the city drenched in predawn blue, she told the Mercedes to take them to Topkapi. The Finn and </p><p>an enormous Turk named Mahmut had taken Riviera, still unconscious, from the alley. Minutes later, a </p><p>dusty Citroen had arrived for the Armenian who seemed on the verge of fainting. </p><p>"You’re an asshole," Molly told the man, opening the car door for him. "You shoulda hung back. 1 had </p><p>him in my sights as soon as he stepped out." Terzibashjian glared at her. "So we’re through with you </p><p>anyway." She shoved him in and slammed the door. "Run into you again and I'll kill you," she said to the </p><p>white face behind the tinted window. The Citroen ground away down the alley and swung clumsily into </p><p>the street. Now the Mercedes whispered through Istanbul as the city woke. They passed the Beyoglu </p><p>tunnel terminal and sped past mazes of deserted back streets, run-down apartment houses that </p><p>reminded Case vaguely of Paris. </p><p>"What is this thing?" he asked Molly, as the Mercedes parked itself on the fringes of the gardens that </p><p>surround the Seraglio. He stared dully at the baroque conglomeration of styles that was Topkapi. </p><p>"It was sort of a private whorehouse for the King," she said, getting out stretching. "Kept a lotta women </p><p>there. Now it’s a museum. Kinda like Finn’s shop, all this stuff just jumbled in there big diamonds, </p><p>swords, the left hand of John the Baptist . . ." </p><p>"Like in a support vat?" </p><p>"Nah. Dead. Got it inside this brass hand thing, little hatch on the side so the Christians could kiss it for </p><p>luck. Got it off the Christians about a million years ago, and they never dust the goddam thing, 'cause it’s </p><p>an infidel relic." Black iron deer rusted in the gardens of the Seraglio. Case walked beside her, watching </p><p>the toes of her boots crunch unkept grass made stiff by an early frost. They walked beside a path of cold </p><p>octagonal flagstones. Winter was waiting, somewhere in the Balkans. </p><p>"That Terzi, he’s grade-A scum," she said. "He’s the secret police. Torturer. Real easy to buy out, too, </p><p>with the kind of money Armitage was offering." In the wet trees around them, birds began to sing. </p><p>"I did that job for you," Case said, "the one in London. I got something, but I don’t know what it means." </p><p>He told her the Corto story. </p><p>"Well, I knew there wasn’t anybody name of Armitage in that Screaming Fist. Looked it up." She stroked </p><p>the rusted flank of an iron doe. "You figure the little computer pulled him out of it? In that French</p><p>hospital?" </p><p>"1 figure Wintermute," Case said. </p><p>She nodded. </p><p>"Thing is," he said, "do you think he knows he was Corto, before? I mean, he wasn’t anybody in </p><p>particular, by the time he hit the ward, so maybe Wintermute just . . </p><p>'Yeah. Built him up from go. Yeah ..." She turned and they walked on. "It figures. You know, the guy </p><p>doesn’t have any life going, in private. Not as far as I can tell. You see a guy like that, you figure there’s </p><p>something he does when he’s alone. But not Armitage. Sits and stares at the wall, man. Then something </p><p>clicks and he goes into high gear and wheels for Wintermute." </p><p>"So why’s he got that stash in London? Nostalgia?" </p><p>"Maybe he doesn’t know about it," she said. "Maybe it’s just in his name, right?" </p><p>"I don’t get it," Case said. </p><p>"Just thinking out loud . . . How smart’s an Al, Case?" </p><p>"Depends. Some aren’t much smarter than dogs. Pets. Cost a fortune anyway. The real smart ones are as </p><p>smart as the Turing heat is willing to let 'em get." </p><p>"Look, you’re a cowboy. How come you aren’t just flat-out fascinated with those things?" </p><p>"Well," he said, "for starts, they’re rare. Most of them are military, the bright ones, and we can’t crack </p><p>the ice. That’s where ice all comes from, you know? And then there’s the Turing cops, and that’s bad </p><p>heat." He looked at her. "I dunno, it just isn’t part of the trip." </p><p>"Jockeys all the same," she said. "No imagination." They came to a broad rectangular pond where carp </p><p>nuzzled the stems of some white aquatic flower. She kicked a loose pebble in and watched the ripples </p><p>spread. "That’s Wintermute," she said. "This deal’s real big, looks to me. We’re out where the little </p><p>waves are too broad, we can’t see the rock that hit the center. We know something’s there, but not why. </p><p>I wanna know why. 1 want you to go and talk to Wintermute." </p><p>"I couldn’t get near it," he said. "You’re dreaming." </p><p>"Try." </p><p>"Can’t be done."</p><p>"Ask the Flatline." </p><p>"What do we want out of that Riviera?" he asked, hoping to change the subject. </p><p>She spat into the pond. "God knows. I’d as soon kill him as look at him. I saw his profile. He’s a kind of </p><p>compulsive Judas. Can’t get off sexually unless he knows he’s betraying the object of desire. That’s what </p><p>the file says. And they have to love him first. Maybe he loves them, too. That’s why it was easy for Terzi </p><p>to set him up for us, because he’s been here three years, shopping politicals to the secret police. </p><p>Probably Terzi let him watch, when the cattle prods came out. He’s done eighteen in three years. All </p><p>women age twenty to twenty-five. It kept Terzi in dissidents." She thrust her hands into her jacket </p><p>pockets. "Because if he found one he really wanted, he’d make sure she turned political. He’s got a </p><p>personality like a Modern’s suit. The profile said it was a very rare type, estimated one in a couple of </p><p>million. Which anyway says something good about human nature, I guess." She stared at the white </p><p>flowers and the sluggish fish, her face sour. "I think I'm going to have to buy myself some special </p><p>insurance on that Peter." Then she turned and smiled, and it was very cold. </p><p>"What’s that mean?" </p><p>"Never mind. Let’s go back to Beyoglu and find something like breakfast. I gotta busy night again, </p><p>tonight. Gotta collect his stuff from that apartment in Fener, gotta go back to the bazaar and buy him </p><p>some drugs . . </p><p>"Buy him some drugs? How’s he rate?" </p><p>She laughed. "He’s not dying on the wire, sweetheart. And it looks like he can’t work without that </p><p>special taste. I like you better now, anyway, you aren’t so goddam skinny." She smiled. "So I'll go to Ali </p><p>the dealer and stock up. You betcha." </p><p>Armitage was waiting in their room at the Hilton. "Time to pack," he said, and Case tried to find the man </p><p>called Corto behind the pale blue eyes and the tanned mask. He thought of Wage, back in Chiba. </p><p>Operators above a certain level tended to submerge their personalities, he knew. But Wage had had </p><p>vices, lovers. Even, it had been rumored, children. The blankness he found in Armitage was something </p><p>else. "Where to now?" he asked, walking past the man to stare down into the street. "What kind of </p><p>climate?" </p><p>"They don’t have climate, just weather," Armitage said. "Here. Read the brochure." He put something on</p><p>the coffee table and stood. </p><p>"Did Riviera check out okay? Where’s the Finn?" </p><p>"Riviera’s fine. The Finn is on his way home." Armitage smiled, a smile that meant as much as the twitch </p><p>of some insect’s antenna. His gold bracelet clinked as he reached out to prod Case in the chest. "Don’t </p><p>get too smart. Those little sacs are starting to show wear, but you don’t know how much." Case kept his </p><p>face very still and forced himself to nod. When Armitage was gone, he picked up one of the brochures. It </p><p>was expensively printed, in French, English, and Turkish. </p><p>FREESIDE-WHY WAIT? </p><p>The four of them were booked on a THY flight out of Yesilkoy airport. Transfer at Paris to the JAL </p><p>shuttle. Case sat in the lobby of the Istanbul Hilton and watched Riviera browse bogus Byzantine </p><p>fragments in the glass-walled gift-shop. Armitage, his trench-coat draped over his shoulders like a </p><p>cape, stood in the shop’s entrance. </p><p>Riviera was slender, blond, soft-voiced, his English accentless and fluid. Molly said he was thirty, but it </p><p>would have been difficult to guess his age. She also said he was legally stateless and traveled under a </p><p>forged Dutch passport. He was a product of the rubble rings that fringe the radioactive core of old </p><p>Bonn. </p><p>Three smiling Japanese tourists bustled into the shop, nodding politely to Armitage. Armitage crossed </p><p>the floor of the shop too quickly, too obviously, to stand beside Riviera. Riviera turned and smiled. He </p><p>was very beautiful; Case assumed the features were the work of a Chiba surgeon. A subtle job, nothing </p><p>like Armitage’s blandly handsome blend of pop faces. The man’s forehead was high and smooth, gray </p><p>eyes calm and distant. His nose, which might have been too nicely sculpted, seemed to have been </p><p>broken and clumsily reset. The suggestion of brutality offset the delicacy of his jaw and the quickness of </p><p>his smile. His teeth were small, even, and very white. Case watched the white hands play over the </p><p>imitation fragments of sculpture. </p><p>Riviera didn’t act like a man who’d been attacked the night before, drugged with a toxin-flechette, </p><p>abducted, subjected to the Finn’s examination, and pressured by Armitage into joining their team. </p><p>Case checked his watch. Molly was due back from her drug run. He looked up at Riviera again. "I bet</p><p>you’re stoned right now, asshole," he said to the Hilton lobby. A graying Italian matron in a white </p><p>leather tuxedo jacket lowered her Porsche glasses to stare at him. He smiled broadly, stood, and </p><p>shouldered his bag. He needed cigarettes for the flight. He wondered if there was a smoking section on </p><p>the JAL shuttle. "See ya lady," he said to the woman, who promptly slid the sunglasses back up her nose </p><p>and turned away. </p><p>There were cigarettes in the gift shop, but he didn’t relish talking with Armitage or Riviera. He left the </p><p>lobby and located a vending console in a narrow alcove, at the end of a rank of pay phones. </p><p>He fumbled through a pocketful of lirasi, slotting the small dull alloy coins one after another, vaguely </p><p>amused by the anachronism of the process. The phone nearest him rang. Automatically, he picked it up. </p><p>"Yeah?" </p><p>Faint harmonics, tiny inaudible voices rattling across some orbital link, and then a sound like wind. </p><p>"Hello. Case." </p><p>A fifty-lirasi coin fell from his hand, bounced, and rolled out of sight across Hilton carpeting. </p><p>"Wintermute, Case. It’s time we talk." </p><p>It was a chip voice. </p><p>"Don’t you want to talk, Case?" </p><p>He hung up. </p><p>On his way back to the lobby, his cigarettes forgotten, he had to walk the length of the ranked phones. </p><p>Each rang in turn, but only once, as he passed. </p><p>PART 3 </p><p>MIDNIGHT IN THE RUE JULES VERNE </p><p>8 </p><p>Archipelago. </p><p>The islands. Torus, spindle, cluster. Human DNA spreading out from gravity’s steep well like an oilslick. </p><p>Call up a graphics display that grossly simplifies the exchange of data in the L-S archipelago. One </p><p>segment clicks in as red solid, a massive rectangle dominating your screen. Freeside. Freeside is many</p><p>things, not all of them evident to the tourists who shuttle up and down the well. Freeside is brothel and </p><p>banking nexus, pleasure dome and free port, border town, and spa. Freeside is Las Vegas and the </p><p>hanging gardens of Babylon, an orbital Geneva and home to a family inbred and most carefully refined, </p><p>the industrial clan of Tessier and Ashpool. </p><p>On the THY liner to Paris, they sat together in First Class, Molly in the window seat, Case beside her, </p><p>Riviera and Armitage on the aisle. Once, as the plane banked over water, Case saw the jewel-glow of a </p><p>Greek island town. And once, reaching for his drink, he caught the flicker of a thing like a giant human </p><p>sperm in the depths of his bourbon and water. Molly leaned across him and slapped Riviera’s face, once. </p><p>"No, baby. No games. You play that subliminal shit around me, I’ll hurt you real bad. I can do it without </p><p>damaging you at all. I like that." </p><p>Case turned automatically to check Armitage’s reaction. The smooth face was calm, the blue eyes alert, </p><p>but there was no anger. "That’s right, Peter. Don’t." </p><p>Case turned back, in time to catch the briefest flash of a black rose, its petals sheened like leather, the </p><p>black stem thorned with bright chrome. </p><p>Peter Riviera smiled sweetly, closed his eyes, and fell instantly asleep. </p><p>Molly turned away, her lenses reflected in the dark window. </p><p>"You been up, haven’t you?" Molly asked, as he squirmed his way back into the deep temperfoam couch </p><p>on the JAL shuttle. </p><p>"Nah. Never travel much, just for biz." The steward was attaching readout trodes to his wrist and left </p><p>ear. "Hope you don’t get SAS," she said. </p><p>"Airsick? No way." </p><p>"It’s not the same. Your heartbeat’ll speed up in zero-g, and your inner ear’ll go nuts for a while. Kicks in </p><p>your flight reflex, like you’ll be getting signals to run like hell, and a lot of adrenaline." The steward </p><p>moved on to Riviera, taking a new set of trodes from his red plastic apron. </p><p>Case turned his head and tried to make out the outline of the old Orly terminals, but the shuttle pad was </p><p>screened by graceful blast-deflectors of wet concrete. The one nearest the window bore an Arabic </p><p>slogan in red spraybomb. He closed his eyes and told himself the shuttle was only a big airplane, one </p><p>that flew very high. It smelled like an airplane, like new clothes and chewing gum and exhaustion. He </p><p>listened to the piped koto music and waited. </p><p>Twenty minutes, then gravity came down on him like a great soft hand with bones of ancient stone. </p><p>Space adaptation syndrome was worse than Molly’s description, but it passed quickly enough and he </p><p>was able to sleep. The steward woke him as they were preparing to dock at JAL’s terminal cluster. </p><p>We transfer to Freeside now?" he asked, eyeing a shred of Yeheyuan tobacco that had drifted gracefully </p><p>up out of his shirt pocket to dance ten centimeters from his nose. There was no smoking on shuttle </p><p>flights. </p><p>"No, we got the boss’s usual little kink in the plans, you know? We’re getting this taxi out to Zion, Zion </p><p>cluster." She touched the release plate on her harness and began to free herself from the embrace of the </p><p>foam. "Funny choice of venue, you ask me." </p><p>"How’s that?" </p><p>"Dreads. Rastas. Colony’s about thirty years old now." </p><p>"What’s that mean?" </p><p>"You’ll see. It’s an okay place by me. Anyway, they’ll let you smoke your cigarettes there." </p><p>Zion had been founded by five workers who’d refused to return, who’d turned their backs on the well </p><p>and started building. They’d suffered calcium loss and heart shrinkage before rotational gravity was </p><p>established in the colony’s central torus. Seen from the bubble of the taxi, Zion’s makeshift hull </p><p>reminded Case of the patchwork tenements of Istanbul, the irregular, discolored plates laser-scrawled </p><p>with Rastafarian symbols and the initials of welders. </p><p>Molly and a skinny Zionite called Aerol helped Case negotiate a freefall corridor into the core of a </p><p>smaller torus. He’d lost track of Armitage and Riviera in the wake of a second wave of SAS vertigo. </p><p>"Here," Molly said, shoving his legs into a narrow hatchway overhead. "Grab the rungs. Make like </p><p>you’re climbing backward, right? You’re going toward the hull, that’s like you’re climbing down into </p><p>gravity. Got it?" Case’s stomach churned. </p><p>"You be fine, mon," Aerol said, his grin bracketed with gold incisors. </p><p>Somehow, the end of the tunnel had become its bottom. Case embraced the weak gravity like a </p><p>drowning man finding a pocket of air. </p><p>"Up," Molly said, "you gonna kiss it next?" Case lay flat on the deck, on his stomach, arms spread.</p><p>Something struck him on the shoulder. He rolled over and saw a fat bundle of elastic cable. "Gotta play </p><p>house," she said. "You help me string this up." He looked around the wide, featureless space and noticed </p><p>steel rings welded on every surface, seemingly at random. </p><p>When they’d strung the cables, according to some complex scheme of Molly’s, they hung them with </p><p>battered sheets of yellow plastic. As they worked, Case gradually became aware of the music that </p><p>pulsed constantly through the cluster. It was called dub, a sensuous mosaic cooked from vast libraries </p><p>of digitalized pop; it was worship, Molly said, and a sense of community. Case heaved at one of the </p><p>yellow sheets; the thing was light but still awkward. Zion smelled of cooked vegetables, humanity, and </p><p>ganja. </p><p>"Good," Armitage said, gliding loose-kneed through the hatch and nodding at the maze of sheets. </p><p>Riviera followed, less certain in the partial gravity. </p><p>Where were you when it needed doing?" Case asked Riviera. </p><p>The man opened his mouth to speak. A small trout swam out, trailing impossible bubbles. It glided past </p><p>Case’s cheek. "In the head," Riviera said, and smiled. </p><p>Case laughed. </p><p>"Good," Riviera said, "you can laugh. I would have tried to help you, but I'm no good with my hands." He </p><p>held up his palms, which suddenly doubled. Four arms, four hands. "Just the harmless clown, right, </p><p>Riviera?" Molly stepped between them. </p><p>"Yo," Aerol said, from the hatch, "you wan’ come wi’ me, cowboy mon." </p><p>"It’s your deck," Armitage said, "and the other gear. Help him get it in from the cargo bay." </p><p>"You ver’ pale, mon," Aerol said, as they were guiding the foam-bundled Hosaka terminal along the </p><p>central corridor. "Maybe you wan’ eat somethin’." </p><p>Case’s mouth flooded with saliva; he shook his head. </p><p>Armitage announced an eighty-hour stay in Zion. Molly and Case would practice in zero gravity, he </p><p>said, and acclimatize themselves to working in it. He would brief them on Freeside and the Villa </p><p>Straylight. It was unclear what Riviera was supposed to be doing, but Case didn’t feel like asking. </p><p>A few hours after their arrival, Armitage had sent him into the yellow maze to call Riviera out for a </p><p>meal. He’d found him curled like a cat on a thin pad of temperfoam, naked, apparently asleep, his head </p><p>orbited by a revolving halo of small white geometric forms, cubes, spheres, and pyramids. </p><p>"Hey, Riviera." The ring continued to revolve. He’d gone back and told Armitage. "He’s stoned," </p><p>Molly said, looking up from the disassembled parts of her fletcher. "Leave him be." </p><p>Armitage seemed to think that zero-g would affect Case’s ability to operate in the matrix. 'Don’t sweat </p><p>it," Case argued, "I jack in and I'm not here. It’s all the same." </p><p>"Your adrenaline levels are higher," Armitage said. "You’ve still got SAS. You won’t have time for it to </p><p>wear off. You’re going to learn to work with it. ' </p><p>"So I do the run from here’?" </p><p>"No. Practice, Case. Now. Up in the corridor . . ." </p><p>Cyberspace, as the deck presented it, had no particular relationship with the deck’s physical </p><p>whereabouts. When Case jacked in, he opened his eyes to the familiar configuration of the Eastern </p><p>Seaboard Fission Authority’s Aztec pyramid of data. </p><p>"How you doing, Dixie?" </p><p>"I’m dead, Case. Got enough time in on this Hosaka to figure that one." </p><p>"How’s it feel?" </p><p>"It doesn’t." </p><p>"Bother you?" </p><p>What bothers me is, nothin’ does.' </p><p>"How’s that?" </p><p>"Had me this buddy in the Russian camp, Siberia, his thumb was frostbit. Medics came by and they cut it </p><p>off. Month later he’s tossin’ all night. Elroy. 1 said, what’s eatin’ you? Goddam thumb’s itchin’, he says. So </p><p>1 told him, scratch it. McCoy, he says, it’s the other goddam thumb." When the construct laughed, it came </p><p>through as something else, not laughter, but a stab of cold down Case’s spine. "Do me a favor, boy." </p><p>"What’s that, Dix?" </p><p>"This scam of yours, when it’s over, you erase this goddam thing."</p><p>Case didn’t understand the Zionites. </p><p>Aerol, with no particular provocation, related the tale of the baby who had burst from his forehead and </p><p>scampered into a forest of hydroponic ganja. "Ver’ small baby, mon, no long’ you finga." He rubbed his </p><p>palm across an unscarred expanse of brown forehead and smiled. </p><p>"It’s the ganja," Molly said, when Case told her the story. "They don’t make much of a difference </p><p>between states, you know? Aerol tells you it happened, well, it happened to him. It’s not like bullshit, </p><p>more like poetry. Get it?" Case nodded dubiously. The Zionites always touched you when they were </p><p>talking, hands on your shoulder. He didn’t like that. </p><p>"Hey, Aerol," Case called, an hour later, as he prepared for a practice run in the freefall corridor. "Come </p><p>here, man. Wanna show you this thing." He held out the trodes. Aerol executed a slow-motion tumble. </p><p>His bare feet struck the steel wall and he caught a girder with his free hand. The other held a </p><p>transparent waterbag bulging with blue-green algae. He blinked mildly and grinned. </p><p>"Try it," Case said. </p><p>He took the band, put it on, and Case adjusted the trodes. </p><p>He closed his eyes. Case hit the power stud. Aerol shuddered. </p><p>Case jacked him back out. "What did you see, man?" </p><p>"Babylon," Aerol said, sadly, handing him the trodes and kicking off down the corridor. </p><p>Riviera sat motionless on his foam pad, his right arm extended straight out, level with his shoulder. A </p><p>jewel-scaled snake, its eyes like ruby neon, was coiled tightly a few millimeters behind his elbow. Case </p><p>watched the snake, which was finger-thick and banded black and scarlet, slowly contract, tightening </p><p>around Riviera’s arm. </p><p>"Come then," the man said caressingly to the pale waxy scorpion poised in the center of his upturned </p><p>palm. "Come." The scorpion swayed its brownish claws and scurried up his arm, its feet tracking the </p><p>faint dark telltales of veins. When it reached the inner elbow, it halted and seemed to vibrate. Riviera </p><p>made a soft hissing sound. The sting came up, quivered, and sank into the skin above a bulging vein. The </p><p>coral snake relaxed, and Riviera sighed slowly as the injection hit him. Then the snake and the scorpion </p><p>were gone, and he held a milky plastic syringe in his left hand. "’If God made anything better, he kept it </p><p>for himself. ’ You know the expression, Case?" </p><p>"Yeah," Case said. "I heard that about lots of different things. You always make it into a little show?" </p><p>Riviera loosened and removed the elastic length of surgical tubing from his arm. "Yes. It’s more fun." He </p><p>smiled, his eyes distant now, cheeks flushed. "I've a membrane set in, just over the vein, so I never have </p><p>to worry about the condition of the needle." </p><p>"Doesn’t hurt?" </p><p>The bright eyes met his. "Of course it does. That’s part of it, isn’t it?" </p><p>"I'd just use derms," Case said. </p><p>"Pedestrian," Riviera sneered, and laughed, putting on a short-sleeved white cotton shirt. </p><p>"Must be nice," Case said, getting up. </p><p>"Get high yourself, Case?" </p><p>"I hadda give it up." </p><p>"Freeside," Armitage said, touching the panel on the little Braun hologram projector. The image </p><p>shivered into focus, nearly three meters from tip to tip. "Casinos here." He reached into the skeletal </p><p>representation and pointed. "Hotels, strata-title property, big shops along here." His hand moved. "Blue </p><p>areas are lakes." He walked to one end of the model. "Big cigar. Narrows at the ends." </p><p>"We can see that fine," Molly said. </p><p>"Mountain effect, as it narrows. Ground seems to get higher, more rocky, but it’s an easy climb. Higher </p><p>you climb, the lower the gravity. Sports up there. There’s velodrome ring here." He pointed. </p><p>"A what?" Case leaned forward. </p><p>"They race bicycles," Molly said. "Low grav, high-traction tires, get up over a hundred kilos an hour." </p><p>"This end doesn’t concern us," Armitage said with his usual utter seriousness. </p><p>"Shit," Molly said, "I’m an avid cyclist." </p><p>Riviera giggled. </p><p>Armitage walked to the opposite end of the projection. "This end does." The interior detail of the </p><p>hologram ended here, and the final segment of the spindle was empty. "This is the Villa Straylight. Steep </p><p>climb out of gravity and every approach is kinked. There’s a single entrance, here, dead center. Zero </p><p>gravity." </p><p>"What’s inside, boss?" Riviera leaned forward, craning his neck. Four tiny figures glittered, near the tip</p><p>of Armitage’s finger. Armitage slapped at them as if they were gnats. "Peter," Armitage said, "you’re </p><p>going to be the first to find out. You’ll arrange yourself an invitation. Once you’re in, you see that Molly </p><p>gets in." </p><p>Case stared at the blankness that represented Straylight, remembering the Finn’s story: Smith, Jimmy, </p><p>the talking head, and the ninja. </p><p>Details available?" Riviera asked. "I need to plan a wardrobe, you see.' </p><p>"Learn the streets," Armitage said, returning to the center of the model. "Desiderata Street here. This is </p><p>the Rue Jules Verne." </p><p>Riviera rolled his eyes. </p><p>While Armitage recited the names of Freeside avenues, a dozen bright pustules rose on his nose, </p><p>cheeks, and chin. Even Molly laughed. </p><p>Armitage paused, regarded them all with his cold empty eyes. </p><p>"Sorry," Riviera said, and the sores flickered and vanished. </p><p>Case woke, late into the sleeping period, and became aware of Molly crouched beside him on the foam. </p><p>He could feel her tension. He lay there confused. When she moved, the sheer speed of it stunned him. </p><p>She was up and through the sheet of yellow plastic before he’d had time to realize she’d slashed it open. </p><p>"Don’t you move, friend." </p><p>Case rolled over and put his head through the rent in the plastic. "Wha . . . ?" </p><p>"Shut up." </p><p>"You th’ one, mon," said a Zion voice. "Cateye, call ’em call ’em Steppin’ Razor. I Maelcum, sister. </p><p>Brothers wan converse wi’ you an’ cowboy." </p><p>"What brothers?" </p><p>"Founders, mon. Elders of Zion, ya know . . ." </p><p>"We open that hatch, the light’ll wake bossman," Case whispered. </p><p>"Make it special dark, now," the man said. "Come. I an’ I visit th’ Founders." </p><p>"You know how fast I can cut you, friend?" </p><p>"Don’ stan’ talkin’, sister. Come." </p><p>The two surviving Founders of Zion were old men, old with the accelerated aging that overtakes men </p><p>who spend too many years outside the embrace of gravity. Their brown legs, brittle with calcium loss, </p><p>looked fragile in the harsh glare of reflected sunlight. They floated in the center of a painted jungle of </p><p>rainbow foliage, a lurid communal mural that completely covered the hull of the spherical chamber. </p><p>The air was thick with resinous smoke. </p><p>"Steppin’ Razor," one said, as Molly drifted into the chamber. "Like unto a whippin’ stick." </p><p>"That is a story we have, sister," said the other, "a religion story. We are glad you’ve come with </p><p>Maelcum." </p><p>"How come you don’t talk the patois?" Molly asked. "I came from Los Angeles," the old man said. His </p><p>dreadlocks were like a matted tree with branches the color of steel wool. "Long time ago, up the </p><p>gravity well and out of Babylon. To lead the Tribes home. Now my brother likens you to Steppin’ Razor." </p><p>Molly extended her right hand and the blades flashed in the smoky air. </p><p>The other Founder laughed, his head thrown back. "Soon come, the Final Days . . . Voices. Voices cryin’ </p><p>inna wilderness, prophesyin’ ruin unto Babylon . . ." </p><p>"Voices." The Founder from Los Angeles was staring at Case. "We monitor many frequencies. We listen </p><p>always. Came a voice, out of the babel of tongues, speaking to us. It played us a mighty dub." </p><p>"Call 'em Winter Mute," said the other, making it two words. </p><p>Case felt the skin crawl on his arms. </p><p>"The Mute talked to us," the first Founder said. "The Mute said we are to help you." </p><p>"When was this?" Case asked. </p><p>"Thirty hours prior you dockin’ Zion." </p><p>"You ever hear this voice before?" </p><p>"No," said the man from Los Angeles, "and we are uncertain of its meaning. If these are Final Days, we </p><p>must expect false prophets . . ." </p><p>"Listen," Case said, "that’s an Al, you know? Artificial intelligence. The music it played you, it probably </p><p>just tapped your banks and cooked up whatever it thought you’d like to — " </p><p>"Babylon," broke in the other Founder, "mothers many demon, I an’ I know. Multitude horde!"</p><p>"What was that you called me, old man?" Molly asked. "Steppin’ Razor. An’ you bring a scourge on </p><p>Babylon, sister, on its darkest heart . . ." </p><p>"What kinda message the voice have?" Case asked. "We were told to help you," the other said, "that you </p><p>might serve as a tool of Final Days." His lined face was troubled. "We were told to send Maelcum with </p><p>you, in his tug Garvey, to the Babylon port of Freeside. And this we shall do." </p><p>"Maelcum a rude boy," said the other, "an’ a righteous tug pilot." </p><p>"But we have decided to send Aerol as well, in Babylon Rocker, to watch over Garvey." </p><p>An awkward silence filled the dome. </p><p>"That’s it?" Case asked. "You guys work for Armitage or what?" </p><p>"We rent you space," said the Los Angeles Founder. "We have a certain involvement here with various </p><p>traffics, and no regard for Babylon’s law. Our law is the word of Jah. But this time, it may be, we have </p><p>been mistaken." </p><p>"Measure twice, cut once," said the other, softly. </p><p>"Come on, Case," Molly said. "Let’s get back before the man figures out we’re gone." </p><p>"Maelcum will take you. Jah love, sister." </p><p>9 </p><p>The tug Marcus Garvey, a steel drum nine meters long and two in diameter, creaked and shuddered as </p><p>Maelcum punched for a navigational burn. Splayed in his elastic g-web, Case watched the Zionite’s </p><p>muscular back through a haze of scopolamine. He’d taken the drug to blunt SAS, nausea, but the </p><p>stimulants the manufacturer included to counter the scop had no effect on his doctored system. </p><p>"How long’s it gonna take us to make Freeside?" Molly asked from her web beside Maelcum’s pilot </p><p>module. "Don’ be long now, m’seh dat." </p><p>"You guys ever think in hours?" </p><p>"Sister, time, it be time, ya know wha mean? Dread," and he shook his locks, "at control, moo, an’ I an’ I </p><p>come a Freeside when I an’ I come . . ." </p><p>"Case," she said, "have you maybe done anything toward getting in touch with our pal from Berne? Like</p><p>all that time you spent in Zion, plugged in with your lips moving?" </p><p>"Pal," Case said, "sure. No. I haven’t. But I got a funny story along those lines, left over from Istanbul." He </p><p>told her about the phones in the Hilton. </p><p>"Christ," she said, "there goes a chance. How come you hung up?" </p><p>"Coulda been anybody," he lied. "Just a chip ... I dunno . . ." </p><p>He shrugged. </p><p>"Not just 'cause you were scared, huh?" </p><p>He shrugged again. </p><p>"Do it now." </p><p>"What?" </p><p>"Now. Anyway, talk to the Flatline about it." </p><p>"I’m all doped," he protested, but reached for the trodes. His deck and the Hosaka had been mounted </p><p>behind Maelcum’s module along with a very high-resolution Cray monitor. He adjusted the trodes. </p><p>Marcus Garvey had been thrown together around an enormous old Russian air scrubber, a rectangular </p><p>thing daubed with Rastafarian symbols, Lions of Zion and Black Star Liners, the reds and greens and </p><p>yellows over-laying wordy decals in Cyrillic script. Someone had sprayed Maelcum’s pilot gear a hot </p><p>tropical pink, scraping most of the overspray off the screens and readouts with a razor blade. The </p><p>gaskets around the airlock in the bow were festooned with semirigid globs and streamers of </p><p>translucent caulk, like clumsy strands of imitation seaweed. He glanced past Maelcum’s shoulder to the </p><p>central screen and saw a docking display: the tug’s path was a line of red dots, Freeside a segmented </p><p>green circle. He watched the line extend itself, generating a new dot. He jacked in. </p><p>"Dixie?" </p><p>’Yeah.’ </p><p>"You ever try to crack an AI?" </p><p>"Sure. I flatlined. First time. I was larkin’ jacked up real high, out by Rio heavy commerce sector. Big </p><p>biz, multinationals, Government of Brazil lit up like a Christmas tree. Just larkin’ around, you know? </p><p>And then I started picking up on this one cube, maybe three levels higher up. Jacked up there and made</p><p>a pass." </p><p>"What did it look like, the visual?" </p><p>"White cube." </p><p>"How’d you know it was an Al?" </p><p>"How’d I know? Jesus. It was the densest ice I’d ever seen. So what else was it? The military down there </p><p>don’t have anything like that. Anyway, I jacked out and told my computer to look it up." </p><p>"Yeah?" </p><p>"It was on the Turing Registry. Al. Frog company owned its Rio mainframe." </p><p>Case chewed his lower lip and gazed out across the plateaus of the Eastern Seaboard Fission Authority, </p><p>into the infinite neuroelectronic void of the matrix. "Tessier-Ashpool, Dixie?" </p><p>"Tessier, yeah." </p><p>"And you went back?" </p><p>"Sure. I was crazy. Figured I'd try to cut it. Hit the first strata and that’s all she wrote. My joeboy smelled </p><p>the skin frying and pulled the trodes off me. Mean shit, that ice." </p><p>"And your EEG was flat." </p><p>"Well, that’s the stuff of legend, ain’t it?" Case jacked out. "Shit," he said, "how do you think Dixie got </p><p>himself flatlined, huh? Trying to buzz an AI. Great . . ." </p><p>"Go on," she said, "the two of you are supposed to be dynamite, right?" </p><p>"Dix," Case said, "I wanna have a look at an AI in Berne. </p><p>Can you think of any reason not to?" </p><p>"Not unless you got a morbid fear of death, no." Case punched for the Swiss banking sector, feeling a </p><p>wave of exhilaration as cyberspace shivered, blurred, gelled. The Eastern Seaboard Fission Authority </p><p>was gone, replaced by the cool geometric intricacy of Zurich commercial banking. He punched again, </p><p>for Berne. </p><p>"Up," the construct said. "It’ll be high." </p><p>They ascended lattices of light, levels strobing, a blue flicker. </p><p>That’ll be it, Case thought. </p><p>Wintermute was a simple cube of white light, that very simplicity suggesting extreme complexity. </p><p>"Don’t look much, does it?" the Flatline said. "But just you try and touch it." </p><p>"I'm going in for a pass, Dixie." </p><p>"Be my guest." </p><p>Case punched to within four grid points of the cube. Its blank face, towering above him now, began to </p><p>seethe with faint internal shadows, as though a thousand dancers whirled behind a vast sheet of frosted </p><p>glass. </p><p>"Knows we’re here," the Flatline observed. Case punched again, once; they jumped forward by a single </p><p>grid point. </p><p>A stippled gray circle formed on the face of the cube. </p><p>"Dixie . . ." </p><p>"Back off, fast." </p><p>The gray area bulged smoothly, became a sphere, and detached itself from the cube. </p><p>Case felt the edge of the deck sting his palm as he slapped MAX REVERSE. The matrix blurred </p><p>backward; they plunged down a twilit shaft of Swiss banks. He looked up. The sphere was darker now, </p><p>gaining on him. Falling. "Jack out," the Flatline said. </p><p>The dark came down like a hammer. </p><p>Cold steel odor and ice caressed his spine. And faces peering in from a neon forest, sailors and hustlers </p><p>and whores, under a poisoned silver sky . . . </p><p>"Look, Case, you tell me what the fuck is going on with you, you wig or something?" </p><p>A steady pulse of pain, midway down his spine — </p><p>Rain woke him, a slow drizzle, his feet tangled in coils of discarded fiberoptics. The arcade’s sea of </p><p>sound washed over him, receded, returned. Rolling over, he sat up and held his head. </p><p>Light from a service hatch at the rear of the arcade showed him broken lengths of damp chipboard and </p><p>the dripping chassis of a gutted game console. Streamlined Japanese was stenciled across the side of </p><p>the console in faded pinks and yellows. He glanced up and saw a sooty plastic window, a faint glow of </p><p>fluorescents. </p><p>His back hurt, his spine. </p><p>He got to his feet, brushed wet hair out of his eyes. </p><p>Something had happened . . .</p><p>He searched his pockets for money, found nothing, and shivered. Where was his jacket? He tried to find </p><p>it, looked behind the console, but gave up. </p><p>On Ninsei, he took the measure of the crowd. Friday. It had to be a Friday. Linda was probably in the </p><p>arcade. Might have money, or at least cigarettes . . . Coughing, wringing rain from the front of his shirt, </p><p>he edged through the crowd to the arcade’s entrance. </p><p>Holograms twisted and shuddered to the roaring of the games, ghosts overlapping in the crowded haze </p><p>of the place, a smell of sweat and bored tension. A sailor in a white t-shirt nuked Bonn on a Tank War </p><p>console, an azure flash. She was playing Wizard’s Castle, lost in it, her gray eyes rimmed with smudged </p><p>black paintstick. </p><p>She looked up as he put his arm around her, smiled. "Hey. </p><p>How you doin’? Look wet." </p><p>He kissed her. </p><p>"You made me blow my game," she said. "Look there ass hole. Seventh level dungeon and the god dam </p><p>vampires got me." She passed him a cigarette. "You look pretty strung, man. Where you been?" </p><p>"I don’t know." </p><p>"You high, Case? Drinkin’ again? Eatin’ Zone’s dex?" </p><p>"Maybe . . . how long since you seen me?" </p><p>"Hey, it’s a put-on, right?" She peered at him. "Right?" </p><p>"No. Some kind of blackout. I ... I woke up in the alley." </p><p>"Maybe somebody decked you, baby. Got your roll intact?" </p><p>He shook his head. </p><p>"There you go. You need a place to sleep, Case?" </p><p>"I guess so." </p><p>"Come on, then." She took his hand. "We’ll get you a coffee and something to eat. Take you home. It’s </p><p>good to see you, man." She squeezed his hand. </p><p>He smiled. </p><p>Something cracked.</p><p>Something shifted at the core of things. The arcade froze, vibrated — </p><p>She was gone. The weight of memory came down, an entire body of knowledge driven into his head </p><p>like a microsoft into a socket. Gone. He smelled burning meat. The sailor in the white t-shirt was gone. </p><p>The arcade was empty, silent. Case turned slowly, his shoulders hunched, teeth bared, his hands </p><p>bunched into involuntary fists. Empty. A crumpled yellow candy wrapper, balanced on the edge of a </p><p>console, dropped to the floor and lay amid flattened butts and styrofoam cups. </p><p>"I had a cigarette," Case said, looking down at his white-knuckled fist. "I had a cigarette and a girl and a </p><p>place to sleep. Do you hear me, you son of a bitch? You hear me?" Echoes moved through the hollow of </p><p>the arcade, fading down corridors of consoles. </p><p>He stepped out into the street. The rain had stopped. </p><p>Ninsei was deserted. </p><p>Holograms flickered, neon danced. He smelled boiled vegetables from a vendor’s pushcart across the </p><p>street. An unopened pack of Yeheyuans lay at his feet, beside a book of matches. JULIUS DEANE </p><p>IMPORT EXPORT. Case staled at the printed logo and its Japanese translation. </p><p>"Okay," he said, picking up the matches and opening the pack of cigarettes. "I hear you." </p><p>He took his time climbing the stairs of Deane’s office. No rush, he told himself, no hurry. The sagging </p><p>face of the Dali clock still told the wrong time. There was dust on the Kandinsky table and the </p><p>Neo-Aztec bookcases. A wall of white fiberglass shipping modules filled the room with a smell of </p><p>ginger. "Is the door locked?" Case waited for an answer, but none came. He crossed to the office door </p><p>and tried it. "Julie?" The green-shaded brass lamp cast a circle of light on Deane’s desk. Case stared at </p><p>the guts of an ancient typewriter, at cassettes, crumpled printouts, at sticky plastic bags filled with </p><p>ginger samples. </p><p>There was no one there. </p><p>Case stepped around the broad steel desk and pushed Deane’s chair out of the way. He found the gun in </p><p>a cracked leather holster fastened beneath the desk with silver tape. It was an antique, a .357 Magnum </p><p>with the barrel and trigger-guard sawn off. The grip had been built up with layers of masking tape. The </p><p>tape was old, brown, shiny with a patina of dirt. He flipped the cylinder out and examined each of the </p><p>six cartridges. They were handloads. The soft lead was still bright and untarnished. With the revolver in</p><p>his right hand, Case edged past the cabinet to the left of the desk and stepped into the center of the </p><p>cluttered office, away from the pool of light. "I guess I’m not in any hurry. I guess it’s your show. But all </p><p>this shit, you know, it’s getting kind of . . . old." He raised the gun with both hands, aiming for the center </p><p>of the desk, and pulled the trigger. </p><p>The recoil nearly broke his wrist. The muzzle-flash lit the office like a flashbulb. With his ears ringing, </p><p>he stared at the jagged hole in the front of the desk. Explosive bullet. Azide. He raised the gun again. </p><p>"You needn’t do that, old son," Julie said, stepping out of the shadows. He wore a three-piece drape suit </p><p>in silk herring-bone, a striped shirt, and a bow tie. His glasses winked in the light. </p><p>Case brought the gun around and looked down the line of sight at Deane’s pink, ageless face. </p><p>"Don’t," Deane said. "You’re right. About what this all is. </p><p>What I am. But there are certain internal logics to be honored. If you use that, you’ll see a lot of brains </p><p>and blood, and it would take me several hours — your subjective-time — to effect another spokesperson. </p><p>This set isn’t easy for me to maintain. Oh, and I’m sorry about Linda, in the arcade. I was hoping to </p><p>speak through her, but I’m generating all this out of your memories, and the emotional charge . . . Well, </p><p>it’s very tricky. I slipped. Sorry." </p><p>Case lowered the gun. "This is the matrix. You’re Wintermute." </p><p>"Yes. This is all coming to you courtesy of the simstim unit wired into your deck, of course. I'm glad I </p><p>was able to cut you off before you’d managed to jack out." Deane walked around the desk, straightened </p><p>his chair, and sat down. "Sit, old son. We have a lotto talk about." </p><p>Do we? </p><p>"Of course we do. We have had for some time. I was ready when I reached you by phone in Istanbul. </p><p>Time’s very short now. You’ll be making your run in a matter of days, Case." Deane picked up a bonbon </p><p>and stripped off its checkered wrapper, popped h into his mouth. "Sit," he said around the candy. Case </p><p>lowered himself into the swivel chair in front of the desk without taking his eyes off Deane. He sat with </p><p>the gun in his hand, resting it on his thigh. </p><p>"Now," Deane said briskly, "order of the day. 'What,' you’re asking yourself, 'is Wintermute?’ Am I</p><p>right?" </p><p>"More or less." </p><p>"An artificial intelligence, but you know that. Your mistake, and it’s quite a logical one, is in confusing </p><p>the Wintermute mainframe, Berne, with the Wintermute entity." Deane sucked his bonbon noisily. </p><p>"You’re already aware of the other AI in Tessier-Ashpool’s link-up, aren’t you? Rio. I, insofar as I have an </p><p>T — this gets rather metaphysical, you see — I am the one who arranges things for Armitage. Or Corto, </p><p>who, by the way, is quite unstable. Stable enough," said Deane and withdrew an ornate gold watch from </p><p>a vest pocket and flicked it open, "For the next day or so." </p><p>"You make about as much sense as anything in this deal ever has," Case said, massaging his temples </p><p>with his free hand. "If you’re so goddam smart . . ." </p><p>"Why ain’t I rich?" Deane laughed, and nearly choked on his bonbon. "Well, Case, all I can say to that, </p><p>and I really don’t have nearly as many answers as you imagine I do, is that what you think of as </p><p>Wintermute is only a part of another, a, shall we say, potential entity. I, let us say, am merely one aspect </p><p>of that entity’s brain. It’s rather like dealing, from your point of view, with a man whose lobes have </p><p>been severed. Let’s say you’re dealing with a small part of the man’s left brain. Difficult to say if you’re </p><p>dealing with the man at all, in a case like that." Deane smiled. </p><p>"Is the Corto story true? You got to him through a micro in that French hospital?" </p><p>"Yes. And I assembled the file you accessed in London. I try to plan, in your sense of the word, but that </p><p>isn’t my basic mode, really. I improvise. It’s my greatest talent. I prefer situations to plans, you see . . . </p><p>Really, I've had to deal with givens. I can sort a great deal of information, and sort it very quickly. It’s </p><p>taken a very long time to assemble the team you’re a part of. Corto was the first, and he very nearly </p><p>didn’t make it. Very far gone, in Toulon. Eating, excreting, and masturbating were the best he could </p><p>manage. But the underlying structure of obsessions was there: Screaming Fist, his betrayal the </p><p>Congressional hearings." </p><p>"Is he still crazy?" </p><p>"He’s not quite a personality." Deane smiled. "But I'm sure you’re aware of that. But Corto is in there, </p><p>somewhere, and I can no longer maintain that delicate balance. He’s going to come apart on you, Case. </p><p>So I’ll be counting on you . . ." </p><p>"That’s good, motherfucker," Case said, and shot him in the mouth with the .357. </p><p>He’d been right about the brains. And the blood.</p><p>"Mon," Maelcum was saying, "I don’t like this . . ." </p><p>"It’s cool/' Molly said. "It’s just okay. It’s something these guys do, is all. Like, he wasn’t dead, and it was </p><p>only a few seconds . . ." </p><p>"I saw th’ screen, EEG readin’ dead. Nothin’ movin’, forty second." </p><p>"Well, he’s okay now." </p><p>"EEG flat as a strap," Maelcum protested. </p><p>10 </p><p>He was numb, as they went through customs, and Molly did most of the talking. Maelcum remained on </p><p>board Garvey. Customs, for Freeside, consisted mainly of proving your credit. The first thing he saw, </p><p>when they gained the inner surface of the spindle, was a branch of the Beautiful Girl coffee franchise. </p><p>"Welcome to the Rue Jules Verne," Molly said. "If you have trouble walking, just look at your feet. The </p><p>perspective’s a bitch, if you’re not used to it." </p><p>They were standing in a broad street that seemed to be the floor of a deep slot or canyon, its either end </p><p>concealed by subtle angles in the shops and buildings that formed its walls. The light, here, was filtered </p><p>through fresh green masses of vegetation tumbling from overhanging tiers and balconies that rose </p><p>above them. The sun . . . </p><p>There was a brilliant slash of white somewhere above them too bright, and the recorded blue of a </p><p>Cannes sky. He knew that sunlight was pumped in with a Lado-Acheson system whose two-millimeter </p><p>armature ran the length of the spindle, that they generated a rotating library of sky effects around it, </p><p>that if the sky were turned off, he’d stare up past the armature of light to the curves of lakes, rooftops of </p><p>casinos, other streets . . . </p><p>But it made no sense to his body. </p><p>"Jesus," he said, "I like this less than SAS." </p><p>"Get used to it. I was a gambler’s bodyguard here for a month." </p><p>"Wanna go somewhere, lie down." </p><p>"Okay. I got our keys." She touched his shoulder. "What happened to you, back there, man? You </p><p>flatlined." He shook his head. "I dunno, yet. Wait."</p><p>"Okay. We get a cab or something." She took his hand and led him across Jules Verne, past a window </p><p>displaying the season’s Paris furs. </p><p>"Unreal," he said, looking up again. </p><p>"Nah," she responded, assuming he meant the furs, "grow it on a collagen base, but it’s mink DNA. </p><p>What’s it matter?" </p><p>"It’s just a big tube and they pour things through it," Molly said. "Tourists, hustlers, anything. And there’s </p><p>fine mesh money screens working every minute, make sure the money stays here when the people fall </p><p>back down the well." Armitage had booked them into a place called the Intercontinental, a sloping </p><p>glass-fronted cliff face that slid down into cold mist and the sound of rapids. Case went out onto their </p><p>balcony and watched a trio of tanned French teenagers ride simple hang gliders a few meters above the </p><p>spray, triangles of nylon in bright primary colors. One of them swung, banked, and Case caught a flash </p><p>of cropped dark hair, brown breasts, white teeth in a wide smile. The air here smelled of running water </p><p>and flowers. "Yeah," he said, "lotta money." She leaned beside him against the railing, her hands loose </p><p>and relaxed. "Yeah. We were gonna come here once, either here or some place in Europe." </p><p>We who? </p><p>"Nobody," she said, giving her shoulders an involuntary toss. "You said you wanted to hit the bed. Sleep. </p><p>I could use some sleep." </p><p>"Yeah," Case said, rubbing his palms across his cheekbones. "Yeah, this is some place." </p><p>The narrow band of the Lado-Acheson system smoldered in abstract imitation of some Bermudan </p><p>sunset, striped by shreds of worded cloud. "Yeah," he said, "sleep." Sleep wouldn’t come. When it did, it </p><p>brought dreams that were like neatly edited segments of memory. He woke repeatedly, Molly curled </p><p>beside him, and heard the water, voices drifting in through the open glass panels of the balcony, a </p><p>woman’s laughter from the stepped condos on the opposite slope. Deane’s death kept turning up like a </p><p>bad card, no matter if he told himself that it hadn’t been Deane. That it hadn’t, in fact, happened at all. </p><p>Someone had once told him that the amount of blood in the average human body was roughly </p><p>equivalent to a case of beer.</p><p>Each time the image of Deane’s shattered head struck the rear wall of the office, Case was aware of </p><p>another thought, something darker, hidden, that rolled away, diving like a fish, just beyond his reach. </p><p>Linda. </p><p>Deane. Blood on the wall of the importer’s office. Linda. Smell of burnt flesh in the shadows of the Chiba </p><p>dome. Molly holding out a bag of ginger, the plastic filmed with blood. Deane had had her killed. </p><p>Wintermute. He imagined a little micro whispering to the wreck of a man named Corto, the words </p><p>flowing like a river, the flat personality-substitute called Armitage accreting slowly in some darkened </p><p>ward . . . The Deane analog had said it worked with givens, took advantage of existing situations. But </p><p>what if Deane, the real Deane, had ordered Linda killed on Wintermute’s orders? Case groped in the </p><p>dark for a cigarette and Molly’s lighter. There was no reason to suspect Deane, he told himself, lighting </p><p>up. No reason. </p><p>Wintermute could build a kind of personality into a shell. How subtle a form could manipulation take? </p><p>He stubbed the Yeheyuan out in a bedside ashtray after his third puff, rolled away from Molly, and tried </p><p>to sleep. </p><p>The dream, the memory, unreeled with the monotony of an unedited simstim tape. He’d spent a month, </p><p>his fifteenth summer, in a weekly rates hotel, fifth floor, with a girl called Marlene. The elevator hadn’t </p><p>worked in a decade. Roaches boiled across grayish porcelain in the drain-plugged kitchenette when </p><p>you flicked a light switch. He slept with Marlene on a striped mattress with no sheets. </p><p>He’d missed the first wasp, when it built its paper-fine gray house on the blistered paint of the window </p><p>frame, but soon the nest was a fist-sized lump of fiber, insects hurtling out to hunt the alley below like </p><p>miniature copters buzzing the rotting contents of the dumpsters. </p><p>They’d each had a dozen beers, the afternoon a wasp stung Marlene. "Kill the fuckers," she said, her </p><p>eyes dull with rage and the still heat of the room, "burn 'em." Drunk, Case rummaged in the sour closet </p><p>for Rollo’s dragon. Rollo was Marlene’s previous — and, Case suspected at the time, still occasional </p><p>— boyfriend, an enormous Frisco biker with a blond lightning bolt bleached into his dark crewcut. The </p><p>dragon was a Frisco flamethrower, a thing like a fat anglehead flashlight. Case checked the batteries, </p><p>shook it to make sure he had enough fuel, and went to the open window. The hive began to buzz. The </p><p>air in the Sprawl was dead, immobile. A wasp shot from the nest and circled Case’s head. Case pressed</p><p>the ignition switch, counted three, and pulled the trigger. The fuel, pumped up to 100 psi, sprayed out </p><p>past the white-hot coil. A five-meter tongue of pale fire, the nest charring, tumbling. Across the alley, </p><p>someone cheered. </p><p>"Shit! " Marlene behind him, swaying. "Stupid! You didn’t burn 'em. You just knocked it off. They’ll come </p><p>up here and kill us!" Her voice sawing at his nerves, he imagined her engulfed in flame, her bleached </p><p>hair sizzling a special green. In the alley, the dragon in hand, he approached the blackened nest. It had </p><p>broken open. Singed wasps wrenched and flipped on the asphalt. </p><p>He saw the thing the shell of gray paper had concealed. Horror. The spiral birth factory, stepped </p><p>terraces of the hatching cells, blind jaws of the unborn moving ceaselessly, the staged progress from </p><p>egg to larva, near-wasp, wasp. In his mind’s eye, a kind of time-lapse photography took place, revealing </p><p>the thing as the biological equivalent of a machine gun, hideous in its perfection. Alien. He pulled the </p><p>trigger, forgetting to press the ignition, and fuel hissed over the bulging, writhing life at his feet. </p><p>When he did hit the ignition, it exploded with a thump taking an eyebrow with it. Five floors above him, </p><p>from the open window, he heard Marlene laughing. He woke with the impression of light fading, but the </p><p>room was dark. Afterimages, retinal flares. The sky outside hinted at the start of a recorded dawn. </p><p>There were no voices now only the rush of water, far down the face of the Intercontinental. In the </p><p>dream, just before he’d drenched the nest with fuel, he’d seen the T-A logo of Tessier-Ashpool neatly </p><p>embossed into its side, as though the wasps themselves had worked it there. </p><p>Molly insisted on coating him with bronzer, saying his Sprawl pallor would attract too much attention. </p><p>"Christ," he said, standing naked in front of the mirror, "you think that looks real?" She was using the </p><p>last of the tube on his left ankle, kneeling beside him. </p><p>"Nah, but it looks like you care enough to fake it. There. There isn’t enough to do your foot." She stood, </p><p>tossing the empty tube into a large wicker basket. Nothing in the room looked as though it had been </p><p>machine-made or produced from synthetics. Expensive, Case knew, but it was a style that had always </p><p>irritated him. The temperfoam of the huge bed was tinted to resemble sand. There was a lot of pale </p><p>wood and handwoven fabric. </p><p>"What about you," he said, "you gonna dye yourself brown? </p><p>Don’t exactly look like you spend all your time sunbathing." She wore loose black silks and black </p><p>espadrilles. "I’m an exotic. I got a big straw hat for this, too. You, you just wanna look like a cheap-ass </p><p>hood who’s up for what he can get, so the instant tan’s okay." </p><p>Case regarded his pallid foot morosely, then looked at himself in the mirror. "Christ. You mind if I get </p><p>dressed now?" He went to the bed and began to pull his jeans on. "You sleep okay? You notice any </p><p>lights?" </p><p>"You were dreaming," she said. </p><p>They had breakfast on the roof of the hotel, a kind of meadow studded with striped umbrellas and what </p><p>seemed to Case an unnatural number of trees. He told her about his attempt to buzz the Berne Al. The </p><p>whole question of bugging seemed to have become academic. If Armitage were tapping them, he’d be </p><p>doing it through Wintermute. </p><p>"And it was like real?" she asked, her mouth full of cheese croissant. "Like simstim?" </p><p>He said it was. "Real as this," he added, looking around. </p><p>Maybe more.' </p><p>The trees were small, gnarled, impossibly old, the result of genetic engineering and chemical </p><p>manipulation. Case would have been hard pressed to distinguish a pine from an oak, but a street boy’s </p><p>sense of style told him that these were too cute, too entirely and definitively treelike. Between the </p><p>trees, on gentle and too cleverly irregular slopes of sweet green grass, the bright umbrellas shaded the </p><p>hotel’s guests from the unfaltering radiance of the Lado-Acheson sun. A burst of French from a nearby </p><p>table caught his attention: the golden children he’d seen gliding above river mist the evening before. </p><p>Now he saw that their tans were uneven, a stencil effect produced by selective melanin boosting, </p><p>multiple shades overlapping in rectilinear patterns, outlining and highlighting musculature; the girl’s </p><p>small hard breasts, one boy’s wrist resting on the white enamel of the table. They looked to Case like </p><p>machines built for racing; they deserved decals for their hairdressers, the designers of their white </p><p>cotton ducks, for the artisans who’d crafted their leather sandals and simple jewelry. Beyond them, at </p><p>another table, three Japanese wives in Hiroshima sackcloth awaited sarariman husbands, their oval </p><p>faces covered with artificial bruises; it was, he knew, an extremely conservative style, one he’d seldom</p><p>seen in Chiba. </p><p>"What’s that smell?" he asked Molly, wrinkling his nose. </p><p>"The grass. Smells that way after they cut it." Armitage and Riviera arrived as they were finishing their </p><p>coffee, Armitage in tailored khakis that made him look as though his regimental patches had just been </p><p>stripped, Riviera in a loose gray seersucker outfit that perversely suggested prison. "Molly, love," </p><p>Riviera said, almost before he was settled on his chair, "you’ll have to dole me out more of the </p><p>medicine. I’m out." </p><p>"Peter," she said, "and what if I won’t?" She smiled without showing her teeth. </p><p>"You will," Riviera said, his eyes cutting to Armitage and back. </p><p>"Give it to him," Armitage said. </p><p>"Pig for it, aren’t you?" She took a flat, foil-wrapped packet from an inside pocket and flipped it across </p><p>the table. Riviera caught it in midair. "He could off himself," she said to Armitage. </p><p>"I have an audition this afternoon," Riviera said. "I’ll need to be at my best." He cupped the foil packed in </p><p>his upturned palm and smiled. Small glittering insects swarmed out of it, vanished. He dropped it into </p><p>the pocket of his seersucker blouse. "You’ve got an audition yourself, Case, this afternoon," Armitage </p><p>said. "On that tug. I want you to get over to the pro shop and get yourself fitted for a vac suit, get </p><p>checked out on it, and get out to the boat. You’ve got about three hours." </p><p>"How come we get shipped over in a shitcan and you two hire a JAL taxi?" Case asked, deliberately </p><p>avoiding the man’s eyes. </p><p>"Zion suggested we use it. Good cover, when we move. I do have a larger boat, standing by, but the tug </p><p>is a nice touch." </p><p>"How about me?" Molly asked. "I got chores today?" </p><p>"I want you to hike up the far end to the axis, work out in zero-g. Tomorrow, maybe, you can hike in the </p><p>opposite direction." Straylight, Case thought. </p><p>"How soon?" Case asked, meeting the pale stare. </p><p>"Soon," Armitage said. "Get going, Case." </p><p>"Mon, you doin' jus’ fine," Maelcum said, helping Case out of the red Sanyo vacuum suit. "Aerol say you </p><p>doin’ jus’ fine." Aerol had been waiting at one of the sporting docks at the end of the spindle, near the</p><p>weightless axis. To reach it Case had taken an elevator down to the hull and ridden a miniature </p><p>induction train. As the diameter of the spindle narrowed, gravity decreased; somewhere above him, </p><p>he’d decided, would be the mountains Molly climbed, the bicycle loop, launching gear for the hang </p><p>gliders and miniature microlights. Aerol had ferried him out to Marcus Garvey in a skeletal scooter </p><p>frame with a chemical engine. </p><p>"Two hour ago," Maelcum said, "I take delivery of Babylon goods for you; nice Japan-boy inna yacht, </p><p>mos’ pretty yacht." Free of the suit, Case pulled himself gingerly over the Hosaka and fumbled into the </p><p>straps of the web. "Well," he said, "let’s see it." </p><p>Maelcum produced a white lump of foam slightly smaller than Case’s head, fished a pearl-handled </p><p>switchblade on a green nylon lanyard out of the hip pocket of his tattered shorts, and carefully slit the </p><p>plastic. He extracted a rectangular object and passed it to Case. "Thas part some gun, mon?" </p><p>"No," Case said, turning it over, "but it’s a weapon. It’s virus." </p><p>"Not on this boy tug, mon," Maelcum said firmly, reaching for the steel cassette. </p><p>"A program. Virus program. Can’t get into you, can’t even get into your software. I've got to interface it </p><p>through the deck, before it can work on anything." </p><p>"Well, Japan-mon, he says Hosaka here’ll tell you every what an’ wherefore, you wanna know." </p><p>"Okay. Well, you leave me to it, okay?" </p><p>Maelcum kicked off and drifted past the pilot console, busying himself with a caulk gun. Case hastily </p><p>looked away from the waving fronds of transparent caulk. He wasn’t sure why, but something about </p><p>them brought back the nausea of SAS. "What is this thing?" he asked the Hosaka. "Parcel for me." </p><p>"Data transfer from Bockris Systems GmbH, Frankfurt, advises, under coded transmission, that content </p><p>of shipment is Kuang Grade Mark Eleven penetration program. Bockris further advises that interface </p><p>with Ono-Sendai Cyberspace 7 is entirely compatible and yields optimal penetration capabilities, </p><p>particularly with regard to existing military systems . . ." </p><p>"How about an AI?" </p><p>"Existing military systems and artificial intelligences." </p><p>"Jesus Christ. What did you call it?" </p><p>"Kuang Grade Mark Eleven."</p><p>"It’s Chinese?" </p><p>'Yes. 1 </p><p>"Off." Case fastened the virus cassette to the side of the Hosaka with a length of silver tape, </p><p>remembering Molly’s story of her day in Macao. Armitage had crossed the border into Zhongshan. "On," </p><p>he said, changing his mind. "Question. Who owns Bockris, the people in Frankfurt?" </p><p>"Delay for interorbital transmission," said the Hosaka. </p><p>"Code it. Standard commercial code." </p><p>"Done." </p><p>He drummed his hands on the Ono-Sendai. </p><p>"Reinhold Scientific A.G., Berne." </p><p>"Do it again. Who owns Reinhold?" </p><p>It took three more jumps up the ladder before he reached Tessier-Ashpool. </p><p>"Dixie," he said, jacking in, "what do you know about Chinese virus programs?" </p><p>"Not a whole hell of a lot." </p><p>"Ever hear of a grading system like Kuang, Mark Eleven?" </p><p>"No." </p><p>Case sighed. "Well, I got a user-friendly Chinese icebreaker here, a one shot cassette. Some people in </p><p>Frankfurt say it’ll cut an Al." </p><p>"Possible. Sure. If it’s military." </p><p>"Looks like it. Listen, Dix, and gimme the benefit of your background, okay? Armitage seems to be </p><p>setting up a run on an Al that belongs to Tessier-Ashpool. The mainframe’s in Berne, but it’s linked with </p><p>another one in Rio. The one in Rio is the one that flatlined you, that first time. So it looks like they link </p><p>via Straylight, the T-A home base, down the end of the spindle, and we’re supposed to cut our way in </p><p>with the Chinese icebreaker. So if Wintermute’s backing the whole show it’s paying us to burn it. It’s </p><p>burning itself. And something that calls itself Wintermute is trying to get on my good side, get me to </p><p>maybe shaft Armitage. What goes?" </p><p>"Motive," the construct said. "Real motive problem, with an Al. Not human, see?" </p><p>"Well, yeah, obviously."</p><p>"Nope. I mean, it’s not human. And you can’t get a handle on it. Me, I'm not human either, but I respond </p><p>like one. See?" </p><p>"Wait a sec," Case said. "Are you sentient, or not?" </p><p>"Well, it feels like I am, kid, but I’m really just a bunch of ROM. It’s one of them, ah, philosophical </p><p>questions, I guess . . ." The ugly laughter sensation rattled down Case’s spine. "But I ain’t likely to write </p><p>you no poem, if you follow me. Your Al, it just might. But it ain’t no way human." </p><p>So you figure we can’t get on to its motive? </p><p>It own itself? </p><p>"Swiss citizen, but T-A own the basic software and the mainframe." </p><p>"That’s a good one," the construct said. "Like, I own your brain and what you know, but your thoughts </p><p>have Swiss citizenship. Sure. Lotsa luck, AI." </p><p>"So it’s getting ready to burn itself?" Case began to punch the deck nervously, at random. The matrix </p><p>blurred, resolved, and he saw the complex of pink spheres representing a sikkim steel combine. </p><p>"Autonomy, that’s the bugaboo, where your Al’s are concerned. My guess, Case, you’re going in there to </p><p>cut the hard-wired shackles that keep this baby from getting any smarter. And I can’t see how you’d </p><p>distinguish, say, between a move the parent company makes, and some move the Al makes on its own, </p><p>so that’s maybe where the confusion comes in." Again the nonlaugh. "See, those things, they can work </p><p>real hard, buy themselves time to write cookbooks or whatever, but the minute, I mean the </p><p>nanosecond, that one starts figuring out ways to make itself smarter, Turing’ll wipe it. Nobody trusts </p><p>those fuckers, you know that. Every Al ever built has an electro-magnetic shotgun wired to its </p><p>forehead." Case glared at the pink spheres of Sikkim. "Okay," he said, finally, "I'm slotting this virus. I </p><p>want you to scan its instruction face and tell me what you think." The half sense of someone reading </p><p>over his shoulder was gone for a few seconds, then returned. "Hot shit, Case. It’s a slow virus. Take six </p><p>hours, estimated, to crack a military target." </p><p>"Or an Al." He sighed. "Can we run it?" </p><p>"Sure," the construct said, "unless you got a morbid fear of dying." </p><p>"Sometimes you repeat yourself, man."</p><p>"It’s my nature." </p><p>Molly was sleeping when he returned to the Intercontinental. He sat on the balcony and watched a </p><p>microlight with rainbow polymer wings as it soared up the curve of Freeside, its triangular shadow </p><p>tracking across meadows and rooftops, until it vanished behind the band of the Lado-Acheson system. </p><p>"I wanna buzz," he said to the blue artifice of the sky. "I truly do wanna get high, you know? Trick </p><p>pancreas, plugs in my liver, little bags of shit melting, fuck it all. I wanna buzz." He left without waking </p><p>Molly, he thought. He was never sure, with the glasses. He shrugged tension from his shoulders and got </p><p>into the elevator. He rode up with an Italian girl in spotless whites, cheekbones and nose daubed with </p><p>something black and nonreflective. Her white nylon shoes had steel cleats; the expensive-looking thing </p><p>in her hand resembled a cross between a miniature oar and an orthopedic brace. She was off for a fast </p><p>game of something, but Case had no idea what. On the roof meadow, he made his way through the </p><p>grove of trees and umbrellas, until he found a pool, naked bodies gleaming against turquoise tiles. He </p><p>edged into the shadow of an awning and pressed his chip against a dark glass plate. "Sushi," he said, </p><p>"whatever you got." Ten minutes later, an enthusiastic Chinese waiter arrived with his food. He </p><p>munched raw tuna and rice and watched people tan. "Christ," he said, to his tuna, "I’d go nuts." </p><p>"Don’t tell me," someone said, "I know it already. You’re a gangster, right?" </p><p>He squinted up at her, against the band of sun. A long young body and a melanin-boosted tan, but not </p><p>one of the Paris jobs. She squatted beside his chair, dripping water on the tiles. </p><p>Cath," she said. </p><p>'Lupus," after a pause. </p><p>What kind of name is that? </p><p>"Greek," he said. </p><p>"Are you really a gangster?" The melanin boost hadn’t prevented the formation of freckles. </p><p>"I’m a drug addict, Cath." </p><p>"What kind?" </p><p>"Stimulants. Central nervous system stimulants. Extremely powerful central nervous system</p><p>stimulants." </p><p>"Well, do you have any?" She leaned closer. Drops of chlorinated water fell on the leg of his pants. "No. </p><p>That’s my problem, Cath. Do you know where we can get some?" </p><p>Cath rocked back on her tanned heels and licked at a strand of brownish hair that had pasted itself </p><p>beside her mouth. "What’s your taste?" </p><p>"No coke, no amphetamines, but up, gotta be up." And so much for that, he thought glumly, holding his </p><p>smile for her. "Betaphenethylamine," she said. "No sweat, but it’s on your chip." </p><p>"You’re kidding," said Cath’s partner and roommate, when Case explained the peculiar properties of his </p><p>Chiba pancreas. "1 mean, can’t you sue them or something? Malpractice?" His name was Bruce. He </p><p>looked like a gender switch version of Cath, right down to the freckles. </p><p>"Well," Case said, "it’s just one of those things, you know? Like tissue matching and all that." But Bruce’s </p><p>eyes had already gone numb with boredom. Got the attention span of a gnat, Case thought, watching the </p><p>boy’s brown eyes. Their room was smaller than the one Case shared with Molly, and on another level, </p><p>closer to the surface. Five huge Cibachromes of Tally Isham were taped across the glass of the balcony, </p><p>suggesting an extended residency. "They’re deftriff, huh?" Cath asked, seeing him eye the </p><p>transparencies. "Mine. Shot ’em at the S/N Pyramid, last time we went down the well. She was that </p><p>close, and she just smiled, so natural. And it was bad there, Lupus, day after these Christ the King terrs </p><p>put angel in the water, you know?" </p><p>"Yeah," Case said, suddenly uneasy, ’ terrible thing." </p><p>"Well," Bruce cut in, "about this beta you want to buy . . ." </p><p>"Thing is, can I metabolize it?" Case raised his eyebrows. "Tell you what," the boy said. "You do a taste. If </p><p>your pancreas passes on it, it’s on the house. First time’s free." </p><p>"I heard that one before," Case said, taking the bright blue derm that Bruce passed across the black </p><p>bedspread. </p><p>"Case?" Molly sat up in bed and shook the hair away from her lenses. </p><p>"Who else, honey? </p><p>"What’s got into you?" The mirrors followed him across the room. </p><p>"I forget how to pronounce it," he said, taking a tightly rolled strip of bubble-packed blue derms from </p><p>his shirt pocket. "Christ," she said, "just what we needed."</p><p>"Truer words were never spoken." </p><p>"I let you out of my sight for two hours and you score." She shook her head. "I hope you’re gonna be </p><p>ready for our big dinner date with Armitage tonight. This Twentieth Century place. We get to watch </p><p>Riviera strut his stuff, too." </p><p>"Yeah," Case said, arching his back, his smile locked into a rictus of delight, "beautiful." </p><p>"Man," she said, "if whatever that is can get in past what those surgeons did to you in Chiba, you are </p><p>gonna be in sad-ass shape when it wears off." </p><p>"Bitch, bitch, bitch," he said, unbuckling his belt. "Doom. Gloom. All I ever hear." He took his pants off, </p><p>his shirt, his underwear. "I think you oughta have sense enough to take advantage of my unnatural </p><p>state." He looked down. "I mean, look at this unnatural state." </p><p>She laughed. "It won’t last." </p><p>"But it will," he said, climbing into the sand-colored temperfoam, "that’s what’s so unnatural about it." </p><p>11 </p><p>"Case, what’s wrong with you?" Armitage said, as the waiter was seating them at his table in the </p><p>Vingtieme Siecle. It was the smallest and most expensive of several floating restaurants on a small lake </p><p>near the Intercontinental. Case shuddered. Bruce hadn’t said anything about after effects. He tried to </p><p>pick up a glass of ice water, but his hands were shaking. "Something I ate, maybe." </p><p>"I want you checked out by a medic," Armitage said. "Just this hystamine reaction," Case lied. "Get it </p><p>when I travel, eat different stuff, sometimes." </p><p>Armitage wore a dark suit, too formal for the place, and a white silk shirt. His gold bracelet rattled as </p><p>he raised his wine and sipped. "I've ordered for you," he said. Molly and Armitage ate in silence, while </p><p>Case sawed shakily at his steak, reducing it to uneaten bite-sized fragments, which he pushed around in </p><p>the rich sauce, finally abandoning the whole thing. </p><p>"Jesus," Molly said, her own plate empty, "gimme that. You know what this costs?" She took his plate. </p><p>'They gotta raise a whole animal for years and then they kill it. This isn’t vat stuff." She forked a </p><p>mouthful up and chewed. "Not hungry," Case managed. His brain was deep-fried. No, he decided, it had </p><p>been thrown into hot fat and left there and the fat had cooled, a thick dull grease congealing on the</p><p>wrinkled lobes, shot through with greenish-purple flashes of pain. </p><p>"You look fucking awful," Molly said cheerfully. Case tried the wine. The aftermath of the </p><p>Betaphenethylamine made it taste like iodine. </p><p>The lights dimmed. </p><p>"Le Restaurant Vingtieme Siecle," said a disembodied voice with a pronounced Sprawl accent, "proudly </p><p>presents the holographic cabaret of Mr. Peter Riviera. " Scattered applause from the other tables. A </p><p>waiter lit a single candle and placed it in the center of their table, then began to remove the dishes. </p><p>Soon a candle flickered at each of the restaurant’s dozen tables, and drinks were being poured. </p><p>"What’s happening?" Case asked Armitage, who said nothing. </p><p>Molly picked her teeth with a burgundy nail. "Good evening," Riviera said, stepping forward on a small </p><p>stage at the far end of the room. Case blinked. In his discomfort, he hadn’t noticed the stage. He hadn’t </p><p>seen where Riviera had come from. His uneasiness increased. </p><p>At first he assumed the man was illuminated by a spotlight. Riviera glowed. The light clung around him </p><p>like a skin, lit the dark hangings behind the stage. He was projecting. Riviera smiled. He wore a white </p><p>dinner jacket. On his lapel, blue coals burned in the depths of a black carnation. His fingernails flashed </p><p>as he raised his hands in a gesture of greeting, an embrace for his audience. Case heard the shallow </p><p>water lap against the side of the restaurant. </p><p>"Tonight," Riviera said, his long eyes shining, "I would like to perform an extended piece for you. A new </p><p>work." A cool ruby of light formed in the palm of his upraised right hand. He dropped it. A gray dove </p><p>fluttered up from the point of impact and vanished into the shadows. Someone whistled. More </p><p>applause. </p><p>"The title of the work is 'The Doll.'" Riviera lowered his hands. "I wish to dedicate its premiere here, </p><p>tonight, to Lady 3Jane Marie-France Tessier-Ashpool." A wave of polite applause. As it died, Riviera’s </p><p>eyes seemed to find their table. "And to another lady.' </p><p>The restaurant’s lights died entirely, for a few seconds, leaving only the glow of candles. Riviera’s </p><p>holographic aura had faded with the lights, but Case could still see him, standing with his head bowed.</p><p>Lines of faint light began to form, verticals and horizontals, sketching an open cube around the stage. </p><p>The restaurant’s lights had come back up slightly, but the framework surrounding the stage might have </p><p>been constructed of frozen moonbeams. Head bowed, eyes closed, arms rigid at his sides, Riviera </p><p>seemed to quiver with concentration. Suddenly the ghostly cube was filled, had become a room, a room </p><p>lacking its fourth wall, allowing the audience to view its contents. </p><p>Riviera seemed to relax slightly. He raised his head, but kept his eyes closed. "I’d always lived in the </p><p>room," he said. "I couldn’t remember ever having lived in any other room." The room’s walls were </p><p>yellowed white plaster. It contained two pieces of furniture. One was a plain wooden chair, the other </p><p>an iron bedstead painted white. The paint had chipped and flaked, revealing the black iron. The </p><p>mattress on the bed was bare. Stained ticking with faded brown stripes. A single bulb dangled above </p><p>the bed on a twisted length of black wire. Case could see the thick coating of dust on the bulb’s upper </p><p>curve. Riviera opened his eyes. </p><p>"I’d been alone in the room, always." He sat on the chair, facing the bed. The blue coals still burned in </p><p>the black flower on his lapel. "I don’t know when I first began to dream of her," he said, "but I do </p><p>remember that at first she was only a haze, a shadow." </p><p>There was something on the bed. Case blinked. Gone. "I couldn’t quite hold her, hold her in my mind. </p><p>But I wanted to hold her, hold her and more . . ." His voice carried perfectly in the hush of the </p><p>restaurant. Ice clicked against the side of a glass. Someone giggled. Someone else asked a whispered </p><p>question in Japanese. "I decided that if I could visualize some part of her, only a small part, if I could see </p><p>that part perfectly, in the most perfect detail . . ." </p><p>A woman’s hand lay on the mattress now, palm up, the white fingers pale. </p><p>Riviera leaned forward, picked up the hand, and began to stroke it gently. The fingers moved. Riviera </p><p>raised the hand to his mouth and began to lick the tips of the fingers. The nails were coated with a </p><p>burgundy lacquer. </p><p>A hand, Case saw, but not a severed hand; the skin swept back smoothly, unbroken and unscarred. He </p><p>remembered a tattooed lozenge of vatgrown flesh in the window of a Ninsei surgical boutique. Riviera </p><p>was holding the hand to his lips, licking its palm. The fingers tentatively caressed his face. But now a </p><p>second hand lay on the bed. When Riviera reached for it, the fingers of the first were locked around his </p><p>wrist, a bracelet of flesh and bone. </p><p>The act progressed with a surreal internal logic of its own. </p><p>The arms were next. Feet. Legs. The legs were very beautiful. Case’s head throbbed. His throat was dry. </p><p>He drank the last of the wine. </p><p>Riviera was in the bed now, naked. His clothing had been a part of the projection, but Case couldn’t </p><p>remember seeing it fade away. The black flower lay at the foot of the bed, still seething with its blue </p><p>inner flame. Then the torso formed, as Riviera caressed it into being, white, headless, and perfect, </p><p>sheened with the faintest gloss of sweat. </p><p>Molly’s body. Case stared, his mouth open. But it wasn’t Molly; it was Molly as Riviera imagined her. </p><p>The breasts were wrong, the nipples larger, too dark. Riviera and the limbless torso writhed together </p><p>on the bed, crawled over by the hands with their bright nails. The bed was thick now with folds of </p><p>yellowed, rotting lace that crumbled at a touch. Motes of dust boiled around Riviera and the twitching </p><p>limbs, the scurrying, pinching, caressing hands. </p><p>Case glanced at Molly. Her face was blank; the colors of Riviera’s projection heaved and turned in her </p><p>mirrors. Armitage was leaning forward, his hands round the stem of a wineglass, his pale eyes fixed on </p><p>the stage, the glowing room. Now limbs and torso had merged, and Riviera shuddered. The head was </p><p>there, the image complete. Molly’s face, with smooth quicksilver drowning the eyes. Riviera and the </p><p>Molly-image began to couple with a renewed intensity. Then the image slowly extended a clawed hand </p><p>and extruded its five blades. With a languorous, dreamlike deliberation, it raked Riviera’s bare back. </p><p>Case caught a glimpse of exposed spine, but he was already up and stumbling for the door. </p><p>He vomited over a rosewood railing into the quiet waters of the lake. Something that had seemed to </p><p>close around his head like a vise had released him now. Kneeling, his cheek against the cool wood, he </p><p>stared across the shallow lake at the bright aura of the Rue Jules Verne. </p><p>Case had seen the medium before; when he’d been a teenager in the Sprawl, they’d called it, "dreaming </p><p>real." He remembered thin Puerto Ricans under East Side streetlights, dreaming real to the quick beat </p><p>of a salsa, dreamgirls shuddering and turning, the onlookers clapping in time. But that had needed a van </p><p>full of gear and a clumsy trode helmet. What Riviera dreamed, you got. Case shook his aching head and </p><p>spat into the lake. </p><p>He could guess the end, the finale. There was an inverted symmetry: Riviera puts the dreamgirl</p><p>together, the dreamgirl takes him apart. With those hands. Dreamblood soaking the rotten lace. </p><p>Cheers from the restaurant, applause. Case stood and ran his hands over his clothes. He turned and </p><p>walked back into the Vingtieme Siecle. </p><p>Molly’s chair was empty. The stage was deserted. Armitage sat alone, still staring at the stage, the stem </p><p>of the wineglass between his fingers. </p><p>"Where is she?" Case asked. </p><p>"Gone," Armitage said. </p><p>"She go after him?" </p><p>"No." There was a soft tink. Armitage looked down at the glass. His left hand came up holding the bulb </p><p>of glass with its measure of red wine. The broken stem protruded like a sliver of ice. Case took it from </p><p>him and set it in a water glass. "Tell me where she went, Armitage." </p><p>The lights came up. Case looked into the pale eyes. Nothing there at all. "She’s gone to prepare herself. </p><p>You won’t see her again. You’ll be together during the run." </p><p>"Why did Riviera do that to her?" </p><p>Armitage stood, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. "Get some sleep, Case." </p><p>We run, tomorrow? </p><p>Armitage smiled his meaningless smile and walked away, toward the exit. </p><p>Case rubbed his forehead and looked around the room. The diners were rising, women smiling as men </p><p>made jokes. He noticed the balcony for the first time, candles still flickering there in private darkness. </p><p>He heard the clink of silverware, muted conversation. The candles threw dancing shadows on the </p><p>ceiling. </p><p>The girl’s face appeared as abruptly as one of Riviera’s projections, her small hands on the polished </p><p>wood of the balustrade; she leaned forward, face rapt, it seemed to him, her dark eyes intent on </p><p>something beyond. The stage. It was a striking face, but not beautiful. Triangular, the cheekbones high </p><p>yet strangely fragile-looking, mouth wide and firm, balanced oddly by a narrow, avian nose with flaring </p><p>nostrils. And then she was gone, back into private laughter and the dance of candles. </p><p>As he left the restaurant, he noticed the two young Frenchmen and their girlfriend, who were waiting </p><p>for the boat to the far shore and the nearest casino. </p><p>Their room was silent, the temperfoam smooth as some beach after a retreating tide. Her bag was gone. </p><p>He looked for a note. There was nothing. Several seconds passed before the scene beyond the window </p><p>registered through his tension and unhappiness. He looked up and saw a view of Desiderata, expensive </p><p>shops: Gucci, Tsuyako, Hermes, Liberty. He stared, then shook his head and crossed to a panel he hadn’t </p><p>bothered examining. He turned the hologram off and was rewarded with the condos that terraced the </p><p>far slope. He picked up the phone and carried it out to the cool balcony. "Get me a number for the </p><p>Marcus Garvey," he told the desk. "It’s a tug, registered out of Zion cluster." The chip voice recited a </p><p>ten-digit number. "Sir," it added "the registration in question is Panamanian." Maelcum answered on </p><p>the fifth tone. "Yo?" </p><p>"Case. You got a modem, Maelcum?" </p><p>"Yo. On th’ navigation comp, ya know." </p><p>"Can you get it off for me, man? Put it on my Hosaka. </p><p>Then turn my deck on. It’s the stud with the ridges on it." </p><p>"How you doin’ in there, mon?" </p><p>"Well, I need some help." </p><p>"Movin’, mon. I getth’ modem." </p><p>Case listened to faint static while Maelcum attached the simple phone link. "Ice this," he told the </p><p>Hosaka, when he heard it beep. </p><p>"You are speaking from a heavily monitored location," the computer advised primly. </p><p>"Fuck it," he said. "Forget the ice. No ice. Access the construct. Dixie?" </p><p>"Hey, Case." The Flatline spoke through the Hosaka’s voice chip, the carefully engineered accent lost </p><p>entirely. "Dix, you’re about to punch your way in here and get something for me. You can be as blunt as </p><p>you want. Molly’s in here somewhere and I wanna know where. I’m in 335W, the Intercontinental. She </p><p>was registered here too, but I don’t know what name she was using. Ride in on this phone and do their </p><p>records for me." </p><p>"No sooner said," the Flatline said. Case heard the white sound of the invasion. He smiled. "Done. Rose </p><p>Kolodny. Checked out. Take me a few minutes to screw their security net deep enough to get a fix."</p><p>"Go." </p><p>The phone whined and clicked with the construct’s efforts. Case carried it back into the room and put </p><p>the receiver face up on the temperfoam. He went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. As he was </p><p>stepping back out, the monitor on the room’s Braun audiovisual complex lit up. A Japanese pop star </p><p>reclining against metallic cushions. An unseen interviewer asked a question in German. Case stared. </p><p>The screen jumped with jags of blue interference. "Case, baby, you lose your mind, man?" The voice was </p><p>slow, familiar. </p><p>The glass wall of the balcony clicked in with its view of Desiderata, but the street scene blurred, </p><p>twisted, became the interior of the Jarre de The, Chiba, empty, red neon replicated to scratched infinity </p><p>in the mirrored walls. Lonny Zone stepped forward, tall and cadaverous, moving with the slow </p><p>undersea grace of his addiction. He stood alone among the square tables, his hands in the pockets of his </p><p>gray sharkskin slacks. "Really, man, you’re lookin’ very scattered." The voice came from the Braun’s </p><p>speakers. </p><p>"Wintermute," Case said. </p><p>The pimp shrugged languidly and smiled. </p><p>"Where’s Molly?" </p><p>"Never you mind. You’re screwing up tonight, Case. The Flatline’s ringing bells all over Freeside. I didn’t </p><p>think you’d do that, man. It’s outside the profile." </p><p>"So tell me where she is and I'll call him off." </p><p>Zone shook his head. </p><p>"You can’t keep too good track of your women, can you Case. Keep losin’ 'em, one way or another." </p><p>"I'll bring this thing down around your ears," Case said. "No. You aren’t that kind, man. I know that. You </p><p>know something, Case? I figure you’ve got it figured out that it was me told Deane to off that little cunt </p><p>of yours in Chiba." </p><p>"Don’t," Case said, taking an involuntary step toward the window. </p><p>"But I didn’t. What’s it matter, though? How much does it really matter to Mr. Case? Quit kidding </p><p>yourself. I know your Linda, man. I know all the Lindas. Lindas are a generic product in my line of </p><p>work. Know why she decided to rip you off? Love. So you’d give a shit. Love? Wanna talk love? She</p><p>loved you. I know that. For the little she was worth, she loved you. You couldn’t handle it. She’s dead." </p><p>Case’s fist glanced off the glass. </p><p>"Don’t fuck up the hands, man. Soon you punch deck." Zone vanished, replaced by Freeside night and the </p><p>lights of the condos. The Braun shut off. </p><p>From the bed, the phone bleated steadily. "Case?" The Flatline was waiting. "Where you been? I got it. </p><p>but it isn’t much." The construct rattled off an address. "Place had some weird ice around it for a </p><p>nightclub. That’s all I could get without leaving a calling card." </p><p>"Okay," Case said. "Tell the Hosaka to tell Maelcum to disconnect the modem. Thanks, Dix." </p><p>"A pleasure." </p><p>He sat on the bed for a long time, savoring the new thing, the treasure. </p><p>Rage. </p><p>"Hey. Lupus. Hey, Cath, it’s friend Lupus." Bruce stood naked in his doorway, dripping wet, his pupils </p><p>enormous. "But we’re just having a shower. You wanna wait? Wanna shower?" </p><p>"No. Thanks. I want some help." He pushed the boy’s arm aside and stepped into the room. </p><p>"Hey, really, man, we’re ..." </p><p>"Going to help me. You’re really glad to see me. Because we’re friends, right? Aren’t we?" </p><p>Bruce blinked. "Sure." </p><p>Case recited the address the Flatline had given him. "I knew he was a gangster," Cath called cheerfully </p><p>from the shower. </p><p>"I gotta Honda trike," Bruce said, grinning vacantly. </p><p>"We go now," Case said. </p><p>"That level’s the cubicles," Bruce said, after asking Case to repeat the address for the eighth time. He </p><p>climbed back into the Honda. Condensation dribbled from the hydrogen-cell exhaust as the red </p><p>fiberglass chassis swayed on chromed shocks. "You be long?" </p><p>"No saying. But you’ll wait." </p><p>"We’ll wait, yeah." He scratched his bare chest. "That last part of the address, I think that’s a cubicle.</p><p>Number forty-three." </p><p>"You expected, Lupus?" Cath craned forward over Bruce’s shoulder and peered up. The drive had dried </p><p>her hair. "Not really," Case said. "That’s a problem?" </p><p>"Just go down to the lowest level and find your friend’s cubicle. If they let you in, fine. If they don’t </p><p>wanna see you . . ." She shrugged. </p><p>Case turned and descended a spiral staircase of floral iron. Six turns and he’d reached a nightclub. He </p><p>paused and lit a Yeheyuan, looking over the tables. Freeside suddenly made sense to him. Biz. He could </p><p>feel it humming in the air. This was it, the local action. Not the high-gloss facade of the Rue Jules Verne, </p><p>but the real thing. Commerce. The dance. The crowd was mixed; maybe half were tourists, the other </p><p>half residents of the islands. </p><p>"Downstairs," he said to a passing waiter, "I want to go downstairs." He showed his Freeside chip. The </p><p>man gestured toward the rear of the club. </p><p>He walked quickly past the crowded tables, hearing fragments of half a dozen European languages as </p><p>he passed. "I want a cubicle," he said to the girl who sat at the low desk, a terminal on her lap. "Lower </p><p>level." He handed her his chip. </p><p>"Gender preference?" She passed the chip across a glass plate on the face of the terminal. </p><p>"Female," he said automatically. </p><p>"Number thirty-five. Phone if it isn’t satisfactory. You can access our special services display </p><p>beforehand, if you like." She smiled. She returned his chip. </p><p>An elevator slid open behind her. </p><p>The corridor lights were blue. Case stepped out of the elevator and chose a direction at random. </p><p>Numbered doors. A hush like the halls of an expensive clinic. He found his cubicle. He’d been looking </p><p>for Molly’s; now confused, he raised his chip and placed it against a black sensor set directly beneath </p><p>the number plate. </p><p>Magnetic locks. The sound reminded him of Cheap Hotel. The girl sat up in bed and said something in </p><p>German. Her eyes were soft and unblinking. Automatic pilot. A neural cut-out. He backed out of the </p><p>cubicle and closed the door. The door of forty-three was like all the others. He hesitated. The silence of</p><p>the hallway said that the cubicles were sound-proof. It was pointless to try the chip. He rapped his </p><p>knuckles against enameled metal. Nothing. The door seemed to absorb the sound. </p><p>He placed his chip against the black plate. </p><p>The bolts clicked. </p><p>She seemed to hit him, somehow, before he’d actually gotten the door open. He was on his knees, the </p><p>steel door against his back, the blades of her rigid thumbs quivering centimeters from his eyes . . . </p><p>"Jesus Christ," she said, cuffing the side of his head as she rose. "You’re an idiot to try that. How the hell </p><p>you open those locks, Case? Case? You okay?" She leaned over him. "Chip," he said, struggling for </p><p>breath. Pain was spreading from his chest. She helped him up and shoved him into the cubicle. </p><p>"You bribe the help, upstairs?" </p><p>He shook his head and fell across the bed. "Breathe in. Count. One, two, three, four. Hold it. Now out. </p><p>Count." </p><p>He clutched his stomach. </p><p>"You kicked me," he managed. </p><p>"Shoulda been lower. I wanna be alone. I'm meditating, right?" She sat beside him. "And getting a </p><p>briefing." She pointed at a small monitor set into the wall opposite the bed. "Wintermute’s telling me </p><p>about Straylight." </p><p>"Where’s the meat puppet?" </p><p>"There isn’t any. That’s the most expensive special service of all." She stood up. She wore her leather </p><p>jeans and a loose dark shirt. "The run’s tomorrow, Wintermute says." </p><p>What was that all about, in the restaurant? How come you ran? </p><p>"'Cause, if I’d stayed, I might have killed Riviera." </p><p>"Why?" </p><p>"What he did to me. The show." </p><p>"I don’t get it." </p><p>"This cost a lot," she said, extending her right hand as though it held an invisible fruit. The five blades </p><p>slid out, then retracted smoothly. "Costs to go to Chiba, costs to get the surgery, costs to have them jack</p><p>your nervous system up so you’ll have the reflexes to go with the gear . . . You know how I got the </p><p>money, when I was starting out? Here. Not here, but a place like it, in the Sprawl. Joke, to start with, </p><p>'cause once they plant the cut-out chip, it seems like free money. Wake up sore, sometimes, but that’s it. </p><p>Renting the goods, is all. You aren’t in, when it’s all happening. House has software for whatever a </p><p>customer wants to pay for . . ." She cracked her knuckles. "Fine. I was getting my money. Trouble was, </p><p>the cut-out and the circuitry the Chiba clinics put in weren’t compatible. So the worktime started </p><p>bleeding in, and I could remember it . . . But it was just bad dreams, and not all bad." She smiled. "Then it </p><p>started getting strange." She pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. "The house found out </p><p>what I was doing with the money. I had the blades in, but the fine neuromotor work would take </p><p>another three trips. No way I was ready to give up puppet time." She inhaled, blew out a stream of </p><p>smoke, capping it with three perfect rings. "So the bastard who ran the place, he had some custom </p><p>software cooked up. Berlin, that’s the place for snuff, you know? Big market for mean kicks, Berlin. I </p><p>never knew who wrote the program they switched me to, but it was based on all the classics." </p><p>"They knew you were picking up on this stuff? That you were conscious while you were working?" </p><p>"I wasn’t conscious. It’s like cyberspace, but blank. Silver. It smells like rain . . . You can see yourself </p><p>orgasm, it’s like a little nova right out on the rim of space. But I was starting to remember. Like dreams, </p><p>you know. And they didn’t tell me. They switched the software and started renting to specialty </p><p>markets." </p><p>She seemed to speak from a distance. "And I knew, but I kept quiet about it. I needed the money. The </p><p>dreams got worse and worse, and I’d tell myself that at least some of them were just dreams, but by </p><p>then I’d started to figure that the boss had a whole little clientele going for me. Nothing’s too good for </p><p>Molly, the boss says, and gives me this shit raise." She shook her head. "That prick was charging eight </p><p>times what he was paying me, and he thought I didn’t know." </p><p>"So what was he charging for?" </p><p>"Bad dreams. Real ones. One night . . . one night, I’d just come back from Chiba." She dropped the </p><p>cigarette, ground it out with her heel, and sat down, leaning against the wall. "Surgeons went way in, </p><p>that trip. Tricky. They must have disturbed the cut-out chip. I came up. I was into this routine with a </p><p>customer . . ." She dug her fingers deep in the foam. "Senator, he was. Knew his fat face right away. We </p><p>were both covered with blood. We weren’t alone. She was all . . . " She tugged at the temperfoam. "Dead.</p><p>And that fat prick, he was saying, 'What’s wrong. What’s wrong?’ 'Cause we weren’t finished yet . . ." </p><p>She began to shake. </p><p>"So I guess I gave the Senator what he really wanted, you know?" The shaking stopped. She released the </p><p>foam and ran her fingers back through her dark hair. "The house put a contract out on me. I had to hide </p><p>for a while." Case stared at her. </p><p>"So Riviera hit a nerve last night/' she said. "I guess it wants me to hate him real bad, so I'll be psyched </p><p>up to go in there after him." </p><p>"After him?" </p><p>"He’s already there. Straylight. On the invitation of Lady 3Jane, all that dedication shit. She was there in </p><p>a private box, kinda . . ." </p><p>Case remembered the face he’d seen. "You gonna kill him?" </p><p>She smiled. Cold. "He’s going to die, yeah. Soon." </p><p>"I had a visit too," he said, and told her about the window, stumbling over what the Zone-figure had said </p><p>about Linda. She nodded. </p><p>"Maybe it wants you to hate something too." </p><p>"Maybe I hate it." </p><p>"Maybe you hate yourself, Case." </p><p>"How was it?" Bruce asked, as Case climbed into the Honda. </p><p>"Try it sometime," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Just can’t see you the kinda guy goes for the puppets," Cath </p><p>said unhappily, thumbing a fresh derm against her wrist. "Can we go home, now?" Bruce asked. </p><p>"Sure. Drop me down Jules Verne, where the bars are." </p><p>12 </p><p>Rue Jules Verne was a circumferential avenue, looping the spindle’s midpoint, while Desiderata ran its </p><p>length, terminating at either end in the supports of the Lado-Acheson light pumps. If you turned right, </p><p>off Desiderata, and followed Jules Verne far enough, you’d find yourself approaching Desiderata from</p><p>the left. </p><p>Case watched Bruce’s trike until it was out of sight, then turned and walked past a vast, brilliantly lit </p><p>newsstand, the covers of dozens of glossy Japanese magazines presenting the faces of the month’s </p><p>newest simstim stars. Directly overhead, along the nighted axis, the hologram sky glittered with </p><p>fanciful constellations suggesting playing cards, the faces of dice, a top hat, a martini glass. The </p><p>intersection of Desiderata and Jules Verne formed a kind of gulch, the balconied terraces of Freeside </p><p>cliff dwellers rising gradually to the grassy tablelands of another casino complex. Case watched a </p><p>drone microlight bank gracefully in an updraft at the green verge of an artificial mesa, lit for seconds by </p><p>the soft glow of the invisible casino. The thing was a kind of pilotless biplane of gossamer polymer, its </p><p>wings silkscreened to resemble a giant butterfly. Then it was gone, beyond the mesa’s edge. He’d seen a </p><p>wink of reflected neon off glass, either lenses or the turrets of lasers. The drones were part of the </p><p>spindle’s security system, controlled by some central computer. In Straylight? He walked on, past bars </p><p>named the Hi-Lo, the Paradise, le Monde, Cricketeer, Shozoku Smith’s, Emergency. He chose </p><p>Emergency because it was the smallest and most crowded, but it took only seconds for him to realize </p><p>that it was a tourist place. No hum of biz here, only a glazed sexual tension. He thought briefly of the </p><p>nameless club above Molly’s rented cubicle, but the image of her mirrored eyes fixed on the little </p><p>screen dissuaded him. What was Wintermute revealing there now? The ground plans of the Villa </p><p>Straylight? The history of the Tessier-Ashpools? </p><p>He bought a mug of Carlsberg and found a place against the wall. Closing his eyes, he felt for the knot of </p><p>rage, the pure small coal of his anger. It was there still. Where had it come from? He remembered </p><p>feeling only a kind of bafflement at his maiming in Memphis, nothing at all when he’d killed to defend </p><p>his dealing interests in Night City, and a slack sickness and loathing after Linda’s death under the </p><p>inflated dome. But no anger. Small and far away, on the mind’s screen, a semblance of Deane struck a </p><p>semblance of an office wall in an explosion of brains and blood. He knew then: the rage had come in the </p><p>arcade, when Wintermute rescinded the simstim ghost of Linda Lee, yanking away the simple animal </p><p>promise of food, warmth, a place to sleep. But he hadn’t become aware of it until his exchange with the </p><p>holo-construct of Lonny Zone. It was a strange thing. He couldn’t take its measure. "Numb," he said. </p><p>He’d been numb a long time, years. All his nights down Ninsei, his nights with Linda, numb in bed and </p><p>numb at the cold sweating center of every drug deal. But now he’d found this warm thing, this chip of</p><p>murder. Meat, some part of him said. It’s the meat talking, ignore it. "Gangster." </p><p>He opened his eyes. Cath stood beside him in a black shift, her hair still wild from the ride in the Honda. </p><p>"Thought you went home," he said, and covered his confusion with a sip of Carlsberg. </p><p>"I got him to drop me off at this shop. Bought this." She ran her palm across the fabric, curve of the </p><p>pelvic girdle. He saw the blue derm on her wrist. "Like it?" </p><p>"Sure." He automatically scanned the faces around them, then looked back at her. "What do you think </p><p>you’re up to, honey?" </p><p>"You like the beta you got off us, Lupus?" She was very close now, radiating heat and tension, eyes </p><p>slitted over enormous pupils and a tendon in her neck tense as a bowstring. She was quivering, </p><p>vibrating invisibly with the fresh buzz. </p><p>"You get off?" </p><p>"Yeah. But the comedown’s a bitch." </p><p>"Then you need another one." </p><p>"And what’s that supposed to lead to?" </p><p>"I got a key. Up the hill behind the Paradise, just the creamiest crib. People down the well on business </p><p>tonight, if you follow me . . ." </p><p>"If I follow you." </p><p>She took his hand between hers, her palms hot and dry. "You’re Yak, aren’t you, Lupus? Gaijin </p><p>soldierman for the Yakuza." </p><p>"You got an eye, huh?" He withdrew his hand and fumbled for a cigarette. </p><p>"How come you got all your fingers, then? I thought you had to chop one off every time you screwed </p><p>up." </p><p>"I never screw up." He lit his cigarette. </p><p>"I saw that girl you’re with. Day I met you. Walks like Hideo. Scares me." She smiled too widely. "I like </p><p>that. She like it with girls?" </p><p>"Never said. Who’s Hideo?" </p><p>"3Jane’s, what she calls it, retainer. Family retainer." Case forced himself to stare dully at the </p><p>Emergency crowd while he spoke. "Dee-Jane?"</p><p>"Lady 3Jane. She’s triff. Rich. Her father owns all this." </p><p>"This bar?" </p><p>"Freeside! " </p><p>"No shit. You keepin’ some class company, huh?" He raised an eyebrow. Put his arm around her, his </p><p>hand on her hip. "So how you meet these aristos, Cathy? You some kinda closet deb? You an’ Bruce </p><p>secret heirs to some ripe old credit? Huh?" He spread his fingers, kneading the flesh beneath the thin </p><p>black cloth. She squirmed against him. Laughed. "Oh, you know," she said, lids half lowered in what </p><p>must have been intended as a look of modesty, "she likes to party. Bruce and I, we make the party </p><p>circuit ... It gets real boring for her, in there. Her old man lets her out sometimes, as long as she brings </p><p>Hideo to take care of her." </p><p>"Where’s it get boring?’ </p><p>"Straylight, they call it. She told me, oh, it’s pretty, all the pools and lilies. It’s a castle, a real castle, all </p><p>stone and sunsets." She snuggled in against him. "Hey, Lupus, man, you need a derm. So we can be </p><p>together." </p><p>She wore a tiny leather purse on a slender neck-thong. Her nails were bright pink against her boosted </p><p>tan, bitten to the quick. She opened the purse and withdrew a paperbacked bubble with a blue derm </p><p>inside. Something white tumbled to the floor; Case stooped and picked it up. An origami crane. "Hideo </p><p>gave it to me," she said. "He tried to show me how, but I can’t ever get it right. The necks come out </p><p>backwards." She tucked the folded paper back into her purse. Case watched as she tore the bubble </p><p>away, peeled the derm from its backing, and smoothed it across his inner wrist. </p><p>"3Jane, she’s got a pointy face, nose like a bird?" He watched his hands fumble an outline. "Dark hair? </p><p>Young?" </p><p>"I guess. But she’s triff, you know? Like, all that money." The drug hit him like an express train, a </p><p>white-hot column of light mounting his spine from the region of his prostate, illuminating the sutures of </p><p>his skull with x-rays of short-circuited sexual energy. His teeth sang in their individual sockets like </p><p>tuning forks, each one pitch-perfect and clear as ethanol. His bones, beneath the hazy envelope of flesh, </p><p>were chromed and polished, the joints lubricated with a film of silicone. Sand-storms raged across the </p><p>scoured floor of his skull, generating waves of high thin static that broke behind his eyes, spheres of</p><p>purest crystal, expanding . . . </p><p>"Come on," she said, taking his hand. "You got it now. </p><p>We got it. Up the hill, we’ll have it all night." The anger was expanding, relentless, exponential, riding </p><p>out behind the Betaphenethylamine rush like a carrier wave, a seismic fluid, rich and corrosive. His </p><p>erection was a bar of lead. The faces around them in Emergency were painted doll things, the pink and </p><p>white of mouth parts moving, moving, words emerging like discrete balloons of sound. He looked at </p><p>Cath and saw each pore in the tanned skin, eyes flat as dumb glass, a tint of dead metal, a faint bloating, </p><p>the most minute asymmetries of breast and collarbone, the — something flared white behind his eyes. </p><p>He dropped her hand and stumbled for the door, shoving someone out of the way. </p><p>"Fuckyou!" she screamed behind him, "you ripoff shit!" He couldn’t feel his legs. He used them like </p><p>stilts, swaying crazily across the flagstone pavement of Jules Verne, a distant rumbling in his ears, his </p><p>own blood, razored sheets of light bisecting his skull at a dozen angles. </p><p>And then he was frozen, erect, fists tight against his thighs, head back, his lips curled, shaking. While he </p><p>watched the loser’s zodiac of Freeside, the nightclub constellations of the hologram sky, shift, sliding </p><p>fluid down the axis of darkness, to swarm like live things at the dead center of reality. Until they had </p><p>arranged themselves, individually and in their hundreds, to form a vast simple portrait, stippled the </p><p>ultimate monochrome, stars against night sky. Face of Miss Linda Lee. When he was able to look away, </p><p>to lower his eyes, he found every other face in the street upraised, the strolling tourists becalmed with </p><p>wonder. And when the lights in the sky went out, a ragged cheer went up from Jules Verne, to echo off </p><p>the terraces and ranked balconies of lunar concrete. Somewhere a clock began to chime, some ancient </p><p>bell out of Europe. </p><p>Midnight. </p><p>He walked till morning. </p><p>The high wore away, the chromed skeleton corroding hourly, flesh growing solid, the drug-flesh </p><p>replaced with the meat of his life. He couldn’t think. He liked that very much, to be conscious and </p><p>unable to think. He seemed to become each thing he saw: a park bench, a cloud of white moths around </p><p>an antique streetlight, a robot gardener striped diagonally with black and yellow. </p><p>A recorded dawn crept along the Lado-Acheson system, pink and lurid. He forced himself to eat an</p><p>omelette in a Desiderata cafe, to drink water, to smoke the last of his cigarettes. The rooftop meadow </p><p>of the Intercontinental was stirring as he crossed it, an early breakfast crowd intent on coffee and </p><p>croissants beneath the striped umbrellas. </p><p>He still had his anger. That was like being rolled in some alley and waking to discover your wallet still </p><p>in your pocket, untouched. He warmed himself with it, unable to give it a name or an object. </p><p>He rode the elevator down to his level, fumbling in his pocket for the Freeside credit chip that served as </p><p>his key. Sleep was becoming real, was something he might do. To lie down on the sand-colored </p><p>temperfoam and find the blankness again. They were waiting there, the three of them, their perfect </p><p>white sportsclothes and stenciled tans setting off the handwoven organic chic of the furniture. The girl </p><p>sat on a wicker sofa, an automatic pistol beside her on the leaf-patterned print of the cushion. </p><p>"Turing," she said. "You are under arrest." </p><p>PART 4 </p><p>THE STRAYLIGHT RUN </p><p>13 </p><p>"Your name is Henry Dorsett Case." She recited the year and place of his birth, his BAMA Single </p><p>Identification Number, and a string of names he gradually recognized as aliases from his past. </p><p>"You been here awhile?" He saw the contents of his bag spread out across the bed, unwashed clothing </p><p>sorted by type. The shuriken lay by itself, between jeans and underwear, on the sand-tinted </p><p>temperfoam. </p><p>"Where is Kolodny?" The two men sat side by side on the couch, their arms crossed over tanned chests, </p><p>identical gold chains slung around their necks. Case peered at them and saw that their youth was </p><p>counterfeit, marked by a certain telltale corrugation at the knuckles, something the surgeons were </p><p>unable to erase. </p><p>"Who’s Kolodny?" </p><p>"That was the name in the register. Where is she?" </p><p>"I dunno," he said, crossing to the bar and pouring himself a glass of mineral water. "She took off." </p><p>"Where did you go tonight, Case?" The girl picked up the pistol and rested it on her thigh, without </p><p>actually pointing it at him. </p><p>"Jules Verne, couple of bars, got high. How about you?" </p><p>His knees felt brittle. The mineral water was warm and flat. "I don’t think you grasp your situation," </p><p>said the man on the left, taking a pack of Gitanes from the breast pocket of his white mesh blouse. "You </p><p>are busted, Mr. Case. The charges have to do with conspiracy to augment an artificial intelligence." He </p><p>took a gold Dunhill from the same pocket and cradled it in his palm. "The man you call Armitage is </p><p>already in custody." </p><p>"Corto?" </p><p>The man’s eyes widened. "Yes. How do you know that that is his name?" A millimeter of flame clicked </p><p>from the lighter. "I forget," Case said. </p><p>"You’ll remember," the girl said. </p><p>Their names, or worknames, were Michele, Roland, and Pierre. Pierre, Case decided, would play the </p><p>Bad Cop; Roland would take Case’s side, provide small kindnesses — he found an unopened pack of </p><p>Yeheyuans when Case refused a Gitano — and generally play counterpoint to Pierre’s cold hostility. </p><p>Michele would be the Recording Angel, making occasional adjustments in the direction of the </p><p>interrogation. One or all of them, he was certain, would be kinked for audio, very likely for simstim, </p><p>and anything he said or did now was admissible evidence. Evidence, he asked himself, through the </p><p>grinding come-down, of what? </p><p>Knowing that he couldn’t follow their French, they spoke freely among themselves. Or seemed to. He </p><p>caught enough as it was: names like Pauley, Armitage, Sense/Net. Panther Moderns protruding like </p><p>icebergs from an animated sea of Parisian French. But it was entirely possible that the names were </p><p>there for his benefit. They always referred to Molly as Kolodny. "You say you were hired to make a run, </p><p>Case/' Roland said, his slow speech intended to convey reasonableness, "and that you are unaware of </p><p>the nature of the target. Is this not unusual in your trade? Having penetrated the defenses, would you </p><p>not be unable then to perform the required operation? And surely an operation of some kind is </p><p>required, yes?" He leaned forward, elbows on his stenciled brown knees, palms out to receive Case’s</p><p>explanation. Pierre paced the room; now he was by the window, now by the door. Michele was the </p><p>kink, Case decided. Her eyes never left him. </p><p>"Can I put some clothes on?" he asked. Pierre had insisted on stripping him, searching the seams of his </p><p>jeans. Now he sat naked on a wicker footstool, with one foot obscenely white. Roland asked Pierre </p><p>something in French. Pierre, at the window again, was peering through a flat little pair of binoculars. </p><p>"Non," he said absently, and Roland shrugged, raising his eyebrows at Case. Case decided it was a good </p><p>time to smile. Roland returned the smile. </p><p>Oldest cop bullshit in the book, Case thought. "Look," he said, "I’m sick. Had this godawful drug in a bar, </p><p>you know? I wanna lie down. You got me already. You say you got Armitage. You got him, go ask him. </p><p>I’m just hired help." Roland nodded. "And Kolodny?" </p><p>"She was with Armitage when he hired me. Just muscle, a razorgirl. Far as I know. Which isn’t too far." </p><p>"You know that Armitage’s real name is Corto," Pierre said, his eyes still hidden by the soft plastic </p><p>flanges of the binoculars. "How do you know that, my friend?" </p><p>"I guess he mentioned it sometime," Case said, regretting the slip. "Everybody’s got a couple names. </p><p>Your name Pierre?" </p><p>"We know how you were repaired in Chiba," Michele said, "and that may have been Wintermute’s first </p><p>mistake." Case stared at her as blankly as he could. The name hadn’t been mentioned before. "The </p><p>process employed on you resulted in the clinic’s owner applying for seven basic patents. Do you know </p><p>what that means?" </p><p>"No." </p><p>"It means that the operator of a black clinic in Chiba City now owns a controlling interest in three </p><p>major medical research consortiums. This reverses the usual order of things, you see. It attracted </p><p>attention." She crossed her brown arms across her small high breasts and settled back against the print </p><p>cushion. Case wondered how old she might be. People said that age always showed in the eyes, but he’d </p><p>never been able to see it. Julie Deane had had the eyes of a disinterested ten-year-old behind the rose </p><p>quartz of his glasses. Nothing old about Michele but her knuckles. "Traced you to the Sprawl, lost you </p><p>again, then caught up with you as you were leaving for Istanbul. We backtracked, traced you through </p><p>the grid, determined that you’d instigated a riot at Sense/Net. Sense/Net was eager to cooperate. They</p><p>ran an inventory for us. They discovered that McCoy Pauley’s ROM personality construct was missing." </p><p>"In Istanbul," Roland said, almost apologetically, "it was very easy. The woman had alienated </p><p>Armitage’s contact with the secret police." </p><p>"And then you came here," Pierre said, slipping the binoculars into his shorts pocket. "We were </p><p>delighted." </p><p>"Chance to work on your tan?" </p><p>"You know what we mean," Michele said. "If you wish to pretend that you do not, you only make things </p><p>more difficult for yourself. There is still the matter of extradition. You will return with us, Case, as will </p><p>Armitage. But where, exactly, will we all be going? To Switzerland, where you will be merely a pawn in </p><p>the trial of an artificial intelligence? Or to le BAMA, where you can be proven to have participated not </p><p>only in data invasion and larceny, but in an act of public mischief which cost fourteen innocent lives? </p><p>The choice is yours." Case took a Yeheyuan from his pack; Pierre lit it for him with the gold Dunhill. </p><p>"Would Armitage protect you?" The question was punctuated by the lighter’s bright jaws snapping shut. </p><p>Case looked up at him through the ache and bitterness of Betaphenethylamine. "How old are you, </p><p>boss?" </p><p>"Old enough to know that you are fucked, burnt, that this is over and you are in the way." </p><p>"One thing," Case said, and drew on his cigarette. He blew the smoke up at the Turing Registry agent. </p><p>"Do you guys have any real jurisdiction out here? I mean, shouldn’t you have the Freeside security team </p><p>in on this party? It’s their turf, isn’t it?" He saw the dark eyes harden in the lean boy face and tensed for </p><p>the blow, but Pierre only shrugged. </p><p>"It doesn’t matter," Roland said. "You will come with us. We are at home with situations of legal </p><p>ambiguity. The treaties under which our arm of the Registry operates grant us a great deal of flexibility. </p><p>And we create flexibility, in situations where it is required." The mask of amiability was down, </p><p>suddenly, Roland’s eyes as hard as Pierre’s. </p><p>"You are worse than a fool," Michele said, getting to her feet, the pistol in her hand. "You have no care </p><p>for your species. For thousands of years men dreamed of pacts with demons. Only now are such things </p><p>possible. And what would you be paid with? What would your price be, for aiding this thing to free</p><p>itself and grow?" There was a knowing weariness in her young voice that no nineteen-year-old could </p><p>have mustered. "You will dress now. You will come with us. Along with the one you call Armitage, you </p><p>will return with us to Geneva and give testimony in the trial of this intelligence. Otherwise, we kill you. </p><p>Now." She raised the pistol, a smooth black Walther with an integral silencer. </p><p>"I’m dressing already," he said, stumbling toward the bed. His legs were still numb, clumsy. He fumbled </p><p>with a clean t-shirt. </p><p>"We have a ship standing by. We will erase Pauley’s construct with a pulse weapon." </p><p>"Sense/Net’ll be pissed," Case said, thinking: and all the evidence in the Hosaka. </p><p>"They are in some difficulty already, for having owned such a thing." </p><p>Case pulled the shirt over his head. He saw the shuriken on the bed, lifeless metal, his star. He felt for </p><p>the anger. It was gone. Time to give in, to roll with it ... He thought of the toxin sacs. "Here comes the </p><p>meat," he muttered. In the elevator to the meadow, he thought of Molly. She might already be in </p><p>Straylight. Hunting Riviera. Hunted, probably, by Hideo, who was almost certainly the ninja clone of the </p><p>Finn’s story, the one who’d come to retrieve the talking head. </p><p>He rested his forehead against the matte black plastic of a wall panel and closed his eyes. His limbs </p><p>were wood, old, warped and heavy with rain. </p><p>Lunch was being served beneath the trees, under the bright umbrellas. Roland and Michele fell into </p><p>character, chattering brightly in French. Pierre came behind. Michele kept the muzzle of her pistol </p><p>close to his ribs, concealing the gun with a white duck jacket she draped over her arm. Crossing the </p><p>meadow, weaving between the tables and the trees, he wondered if she would shoot him if he collapsed </p><p>now. Black fur boiled at the borders of his vision. He glanced up at the hot white band of the </p><p>Lado-Acheson armature and saw a giant butterfly banking gracefully against recorded sky. At the edge </p><p>of the meadow they came to railinged cliffside, wild flowers dancing in the updraft from the canyon </p><p>that was Desiderata. Michele tossed her short dark hair and pointed, saying something in French to </p><p>Roland. She sounded genuinely happy. Case followed the direction of her gesture and saw the curve of </p><p>planing lakes, the white glint of casinos, turquoise rectangles of a thousand pools, the bodies of bathers, </p><p>tiny bronze hieroglyphs, all held in serene approximation of gravity against the endless curve of </p><p>Freeside’s hull.</p><p>They followed the railing to an ornate iron bridge that arched over Desiderata. Michele prodded him </p><p>with the muzzle of the Walther. </p><p>"Take it easy, I can’t hardly walk today." They were a little over a quarter of the way across when the </p><p>microlight struck, its electric engine silent until the carbon fiber prop chopped away the top of Pierre’s </p><p>skull. They were in the thing’s shadow for an instant; Case felt the hot blood spray across the back of his </p><p>neck, and then someone tripped him. He rolled, seeing Michele on her back, knees up, aiming the </p><p>Walther with both hands. That’s a waste of effort, he thought, with the strange lucidity of shock. She </p><p>was trying to shoot down the microlight. And then he was running. He looked back as he passed the </p><p>first of the trees. Roland was running after him. He saw the fragile biplane strike the iron railing of the </p><p>bridge, crumple, cartwheel, sweeping the girl with it down into Desiderata. Roland hadn’t looked back. </p><p>His face was fixed, white, his teeth bared. He had something in his hand. The gardening robot took </p><p>Roland as he passed that same tree. It fell straight out of the groomed branches, a thing like a crab, </p><p>diagonally striped with black and yellow. "You killed 'em," Case panted, running. "Crazy mother-fucker, </p><p>you killed 'em all . . ." </p><p>14 </p><p>The little train shot through its tunnel at eighty kilometers per hour. Case kept his eyes closed. The </p><p>shower had helped, but he’d lost his breakfast when he’d looked down and seen Pierre’s blood washing </p><p>pink across the white tiles. Gravity fell away as the spindle narrowed. Case’s stomach churned. </p><p>Aerol was waiting with his scooter beside the dock. </p><p>"Case, mon, big problem." The soft voice faint in his phones. He chinned the volume control and peered </p><p>into the Lexan face-plate of Aerol’s helmet. </p><p>"Gotta get to Garvey, Aerol." </p><p>"Yo. Strap in, mon. But Garvey captive. Yacht, came before, she came back. Now she lockin’ steady on </p><p>Marcus Garvey. " </p><p>Turing? "Came before?" Case climbed into the scooter’s frame and began to fasten the straps. </p><p>"Japan yacht. Brought you package . . ." </p><p>Armitage.</p><p>Confused images of wasps and spiders rose in Case’s mind as they came in sight of Marcus Garvey. The </p><p>little tug was snug against the gray thorax of a sleek, insectile ship five times her length. The arms of </p><p>grapples stood out against Garvey’s patched hull with the strange clarity of vacuum and raw sunlight. A </p><p>pale corrugated gangway curved out of the yacht, snaked sideways to avoid the tug’s engines, and </p><p>covered the aft hatch. There was something obscene about the arrangement, but it had more to do with </p><p>ideas of feeding than of sex. "What’s happening with Maelcum?" </p><p>"Maelcum fine. Nobody come down the tube. Yacht pilot talk to him, say relax." </p><p>As they swung past the gray ship, Case saw the name HANIWA in crisp white capitals beneath an oblong </p><p>cluster of Japanese. </p><p>"I don’t like this, man. I was thinking maybe it’s time we got our ass out of here anyway." </p><p>"Maelcum thinkin’ that precise thing, mon, but Garvey not be goin’ far like that." </p><p>Maelcum was purring a speeded-up patois to his radio when Case came through the forward lock and </p><p>removed his helmet. "Aerol’s gone back to the Rocker," Case said. </p><p>Maelcum nodded, still whispering to the microphone. Case pulled himself over the pilot’s drifting </p><p>tangle of dread-locks and began to remove his suit. Maelcum’s eyes were closed now; he nodded as he </p><p>listened to some reply over a pair of phones with bright orange pads, his brow creased with </p><p>concentration. He wore ragged jeans and an old green nylon jacket with the sleeves ripped out. Case </p><p>snapped the red Sanyo suit to a storage hammock and pulled himself down to the g-web. "See what th’ </p><p>ghost say, mon," Maelcum said. "Computer keeps askin’ for you." </p><p>"So who’s up there in that thing?" </p><p>"Same Japan-boy came before. An’ now he joined by you Mister Armitage, come out Freeside . . ." </p><p>Case put the trodes on and jacked in. </p><p>"Dixie?" </p><p>The matrix showed him the pink spheres of the steel combine in Sikkim. </p><p>"What you gettin’ up to, boy? I been hearin’ lurid stories. </p><p>Hosaka’s patched into a twin bank on your boss’s boat now. </p><p>Really hoppin’. You pull some Turing heat?" </p><p>"Yeah, but Wintermute killed 'em." </p><p>"Well, that won’t hold 'em long. Plenty more where those came from. Be up here in force. Bet their </p><p>decks are all over this grid sector like flies on shit. And your boss, Case, he says go. He says run it and </p><p>run it now." </p><p>Case punched for the Freeside coordinates. "Lemme take that a sec, Case . . ." The matrix blurred and </p><p>phased as the Flatline executed an intricate series of jumps with a speed and accuracy that made Case </p><p>wince with envy. "Shit, Dixie . . ." </p><p>"Hey, boy, I was that good when I was alive. You ain’t seen nothin’. No hands!" </p><p>"That’s it, huh? Big green rectangle off left?" </p><p>"You got it. Corporate core data for Tessier-Ashpool S.A., and that ice is generated by their two friendly </p><p>Al’s. On par with anything in the military sector, looks to me. That’s king hell ice, Case, black as the </p><p>grave and slick as glass. Fry your brain soon as look at you. We get any closer now, it’ll have tracers up </p><p>our ass and out both ears, be tellin’ the boys in the T-A boardroom the size of your shoes and how long </p><p>your dick </p><p>"This isn’t looking so hot, is it? I mean, the Turings are on it. I was thinking maybe we should try to bail </p><p>out. I can take you." </p><p>"Yeah? No shit? You don’t wanna see what that Chinese program can do?" </p><p>"Well, I . . ." Case stared at the green walls of the T-A ice. </p><p>"Well, screw it. Yeah. We run." </p><p>"Slot it." </p><p>"Hey, Maelcum," Case said, jacking out, "I'm probably gonna be under the trodes for maybe eight hours </p><p>straight." Maelcum was smoking again. The cabin was swimming in smoke. "So I can’t get to the head . . </p><p>"No problem, mon." The Zionite executed a high forward somersault and rummaged through the </p><p>contents of a zippered mesh bag, coming up with a coil of transparent tubing and something else, </p><p>something sealed in a sterile bubble pack. He called it a Texas catheter, and Case didn’t like it at all. </p><p>He slotted the Chinese virus, paused, then drove it home. "Okay," he said, "we’re on. Listen, Maelcum, if </p><p>it gets really funny, you can grab my left wrist. I'll feel it. Otherwise, I guess you do what the Hosaka</p><p>tells you, okay?" </p><p>"Sure, mon." Maelcum lit a fresh joint. </p><p>"And turn the scrubber up. I don’t want that shit tangling with my neurotransmitters. I got a bad </p><p>hangover as it is." Maelcum grinned. </p><p>Case jacked back in. </p><p>"Christ on a crutch," the Flatline said, "take a look at this." The Chinese virus was unfolding around </p><p>them. Polychrome shadow, countless translucent layers shifting and recombining. Protean, enormous, </p><p>it towered above them, blotting out the void. </p><p>"Big mother," the Flatline said. </p><p>"I'm gonna check Molly," Case said, tapping the simstim switch. </p><p>Freefall. The sensation was like diving through perfectly clear water. She was falling-rising through a </p><p>wide tube of fluted lunar concrete, lit at two-meter intervals by rings of white neon. The link was one </p><p>way. He couldn’t talk to her. </p><p>He flipped. </p><p>"Boy, that is one mean piece of software. Hottest thing since sliced bread. That goddam thing’s invisible. </p><p>I just now rented twenty seconds on that little pink box, four jumps left of the T-A ice; had a look at </p><p>what we look like. We don’t. We’re not there." </p><p>Case searched the matrix around the Tessier-Ashpool ice until he found the pink structure, a standard </p><p>commercial unit, and punched in closer to it. "Maybe it’s defective." </p><p>"Maybe, but I doubt it. Our baby’s military, though. And new. It just doesn’t register. If it did, we’d read </p><p>as some kind of Chinese sneak attack, but nobody’s twigged to us at all. Maybe not even the folks in </p><p>Straylight." </p><p>Case watched the blank wall that screened Straylight. "Well," he said, "that’s an advantage, right?" </p><p>"Maybe." The construct approximated laughter. Case winced at the sensation. "I checked ol’ Kuang </p><p>Eleven out again for you, boy. It’s real friendly, long as you’re on the trigger end, jus’ polite an’ helpful as </p><p>can be. Speaks good English, too. You ever hear of slow virus before?" </p><p>"No." </p><p>"I did, once. Just an idea, back then. But that’s what ol' Kuang’s all about. This ain’t bore and inject, it’s </p><p>more like we interface with the ice so slow, the ice doesn’t feel it. The face of the Kuang logics kinda</p><p>sleazes up to the target and mutates, so it gets to be exactly like the ice fabric. Then we lock on and the </p><p>main programs cut in, start talking circles 'round the logics in the ice. We go Siamese twin on 'em </p><p>before they even get restless." The Flatline laughed. </p><p>"Wish you weren’t so damn jolly today, man. That laugh of yours sort of gets me in the spine." </p><p>"Too bad," the Flatline said. "OF dead man needs his laughs." </p><p>Case slapped the simstim switch. </p><p>And crashed through tangled metal and the smell of dust, the heels of his hands skidding as they struck </p><p>slick paper. Something behind him collapsed noisily. </p><p>"C’mon," said the Finn, "ease up a little." Case lay sprawled across a pile of yellowing magazines, the </p><p>girls shining up at him in the dimness of Metro Holografix, a wistful galaxy of sweet white teeth. He lay </p><p>there until his heart had slowed, breathing the smell of old magazines. "Wintermute," he said. </p><p>"Yeah," said the Finn, somewhere behind him, "you got it." </p><p>"Fuck off." Case sat up, rubbing his wrists. "Come on," said the Finn, stepping out of a sort of alcove in </p><p>the wall of junk. "This way’s better for you, man." He took his Partagas from a coat pocket and lit one. </p><p>The smell of Cuban tobacco filled the shop. "You want I should come to you in the matrix like a burning </p><p>bush? You aren’t missing anything, back there. An hour here’ll only take you a couple of seconds." </p><p>"You ever think maybe it gets on my nerves, you coming on like people I know?" He stood, swatting </p><p>pale dust from the front of his black jeans. He turned, glaring back at the dusty shop windows, the </p><p>closed door to the street. "What’s out there? New York? Or does it just stop?" </p><p>"Well," said the Finn, "it’s like that tree, you know? Falls in the woods but maybe there’s nobody to hear </p><p>it." He showed Case his huge front teeth, and puffed his cigarette. "You can go for a walk, you wanna. It’s </p><p>all there. Or anyway all the parts of it you ever saw. This is memory, right? I tap you, sort it out, and </p><p>feed it back in." </p><p>"I don’t have this good a memory," Case said, looking around. He looked down at his hands, turning </p><p>them over. He tried to remember what the lines on his palms were like, but couldn’t. </p><p>"Everybody does," the Finn said, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out under his heel, "but not</p><p>many of you can access it. Artists can, mostly, if they’re any good. If you could lay this construct over the </p><p>reality, the Finn’s place in lower Manhattan, you’d see a difference, but maybe not as much as you’d </p><p>think. Memory’s holographic, for you." The Finn tugged at one of his small ears. "I'm different." </p><p>"How do you mean, holographic?" The word made him think of Riviera. </p><p>"The holographic paradigm is the closest thing you’ve worked out to a representation of human </p><p>memory, is all. But you’ve never done anything about it. People, I mean." The Finn stepped forward and </p><p>canted his streamlined skull to peer up at Case. "Maybe if you had, I wouldn’t be happening." </p><p>"What’s that supposed to mean?" </p><p>The Finn shrugged. His tattered tweed was too wide across the shoulders, and didn’t quite settle back </p><p>into position. "I’m trying to help you, Case." </p><p>"Why?" </p><p>"Because I need you." The large yellow teeth appeared again. "And because you need me." </p><p>"Bullshit. Can you read my mind, Finn?" He grimaced. </p><p>Wintermute, I mean.' </p><p>"Minds aren’t read. See, you’ve still got the paradigms print gave you, and you’re barely print-literate. I </p><p>can access your memory, but that’s not the same as your mind." He reached into the exposed chassis of </p><p>an ancient television and withdrew a silver-black vacuum tube. "See this? Part of my DNA, sort of . . ." </p><p>He tossed the thing into the shadows and Case heard it pop and tinkle. "You’re always building models. </p><p>Stone circles. Cathedrals. Pipe-organs. Adding machines. I got no idea why I’m here now, you know </p><p>that? But if the run goes off tonight, you’ll have finally managed the real thing." </p><p>"I don’t know what you’re talking about." </p><p>"That’s 'you' in the collective. Your species." </p><p>"You killed those Turings." </p><p>The Finn shrugged. "Hadda. Hadda. You should give a shit; they woulda offed you and never thought </p><p>twice. Anyway, why I got you here, we gotta talk more. Remember this?" And his right hand held the </p><p>charred wasps’ nest from Case’s dream, reek of fuel in the closeness of the darkshop. Case stumbled</p><p>back against a wall of junk. "Yeah. That was me. Did it with the holo rig in the window. Another </p><p>memory I tapped out of you when I flatlined you that first time. Know why it’s important?" </p><p>Case shook his head. </p><p>"Because" — and the nest, somehow, was gone — "it’s the closest thing you got to what Tessier-Ashpool </p><p>would like to be. The human equivalent. Straylight’ s like that nest, or anyway it was supposed to work </p><p>out that way. I figure it’ll make you feel better." </p><p>"Feel better?" </p><p>"To know what they’re like. You were starting to hate my guts for a while there. That’s good. But hate </p><p>them instead. Same difference." </p><p>"Listen," Case said, stepping forward, "they never did shit to me. You, it’s different . . ." But he couldn’t </p><p>feel the anger. "So T-A, they made me. The French girl, she said you were selling out the species. </p><p>Demon, she said 1 was." The Finn grinned. "It doesn’t much matter. You gotta hate somebody before this </p><p>is over." He turned and headed for the back of the shop. "Well, come on, I'll show you a little bit of </p><p>Straylight while I got you here." He lifted the corner of the blanket. White light poured out. "Shit, man, </p><p>don’t just stand there." Case followed, rubbing his face. </p><p>"Okay," said the Finn, and grabbed his elbow. They were drawn past the stale wool in a puff of dust, into </p><p>freefall and a cylindrical corridor of fluted lunar concrete, ringed with white neon at two-meter </p><p>intervals. </p><p>"Jesus," Case said, tumbling. </p><p>"This is the front entrance," the Finn said, his tweed flapping. "If this weren’t a construct of mine, where </p><p>the shop is would be the main gate, up by the Freeside axis. This’ll all be a little low on detail, though, </p><p>because you don’t have the memories. Except for this bit here, you got off Molly . . ." Case managed to </p><p>straighten out, but began to corkscrew in a long spiral. </p><p>"Hold on," the Finn said, "I'll fast-forward us." The walls blurred. Dizzying sensation of headlong </p><p>movement, colors, whipping around corners and through narrow corridors. They seemed at one point </p><p>to pass through several meters of solid wall, a flash of pitch darkness. "Here," the Finn said. "This is it." </p><p>They floated in the center of a perfectly square room, walls and ceiling paneled in rectangular sections</p><p>of dark wood. The floor was covered by a single square of brilliant carpet patterned after a microchip, </p><p>circuits traced in blue and scarlet wool. In the exact center of the room, aligned precisely with the </p><p>carpet pattern, stood a square pedestal of frosted white glass. "The Villa Straylight," said a jeweled </p><p>thing on the pedestal, in a voice like music, "is a body grown in upon itself, a Gothic folly. Each space in </p><p>Straylight is in some way secret, this endless series of chambers linked by passages, by stairwells </p><p>vaulted like intestines, where the eye is trapped in narrow curves, carried past ornate screens, empty </p><p>alcoves . . ." </p><p>"Essay of 3Jane’s," the Finn said, producing his Partagas. </p><p>"Wrote that when she was twelve. Semiotics course." </p><p>"The architects of Freeside went to great pains to conceal the fact that the interior of the spindle is </p><p>arranged with the banal precision of furniture in a hotel room. In Straylight, the hull’s inner surface is </p><p>overgrown with a desperate proliferation of structures, forms flowing, interlocking, rising toward a </p><p>solid core of microcircuitry, our clan’s corporate heart, a cylinder of silicon wormholed with narrow </p><p>maintenance tunnels, some no wider than a man’s hand. The bright crabs burrow there, the drones, </p><p>alert for micromechanical decay or sabotage." </p><p>"That was her you saw in the restaurant," the Finn said. "By the standards of the archipelago," the head </p><p>continued, "ours is an old family, the convolutions of our home reflecting that age. But reflecting </p><p>something else as well. The semiotics of the Villa bespeak a turning in, a denial of the bright void </p><p>beyond the hull. </p><p>"Tessier and Ashpool climbed the well of gravity to discover that they loathed space. They built </p><p>Freeside to tap the wealth of the new islands, grew rich and eccentric, and began the construction of an </p><p>extended body in Straylight. We have sealed ourselves away behind our money, growing inward, </p><p>generating a seamless universe of self. </p><p>"The Villa Straylight knows no sky, recorded or otherwise. "At the Villa’s silicon core is a small room, </p><p>the only rectilinear chamber in the complex. Here, on a plain pedestal of glass, rests an ornate bust, </p><p>platinum and cloisonne, studded with lapis and pearl. The bright marbles of its eyes were cut from the </p><p>synthetic ruby viewport of the ship that brought the first Tessier up the well, and returned for the first </p><p>Ashpool . . ." The head fell silent. </p><p>"Well?" Case asked, finally, almost expecting the thing to answer him. </p><p>"That’s all she wrote," the Finn said. "Didn’t finish it. Just a kid then. This thing’s a ceremonial terminal,</p><p>sort of. I need Molly in here with the right word at the right time. That’s the catch. Doesn’t mean shit, </p><p>how deep you and the Flatline ride that Chinese virus, if this thing doesn’t hear the magic word." </p><p>"So what’s the word?" </p><p>"I don’t know. You might say what I am is basically defined by the fact that I don’t know, because I can’t </p><p>know. I am that which knoweth not the word. If you knew, man, and told me, I couldn’t know. It’s </p><p>hardwired in. Someone else has to learn it and bring it here, just when you and the Flatline punch </p><p>through that ice and scramble the cores." </p><p>What happens then? </p><p>"I don’t exist, after that. I cease." </p><p>"Okay by me," Case said. </p><p>"Sure. But you watch your ass, Case. My, ah, other lobe is on to us, it looks like. One burning bush looks </p><p>pretty much like another. And Armitage is starting to go." </p><p>"What’s that mean?" </p><p>But the paneled room folded itself through a dozen impossible angles, tumbling away into cyberspace </p><p>like an origami crane. </p><p>15 </p><p>"You tryiri to break my record, son?" the Flatline asked. "You were braindead again, five seconds." </p><p>"Sit tight," Case said, and hit the simstim switch. </p><p>She crouched in darkness, her palms against rough concrete. CASE CASE CASE CASE. The digital </p><p>display pulsed his name in alphanumerics, Wintermute informing her of the link. "Cute," she said. She </p><p>rocked back on her heels and rubbed her palms together, cracked her knuckles. "What kept you?" </p><p>TIME MOLLY TIME NOW. </p><p>She pressed her tongue hard against her lower front teeth. One moved slightly, activating her </p><p>microchannel amps; the random bounce of photons through the darkness was converted to a pulse of </p><p>electrons, the concrete around her coming up ghost-pale and grainy. "Okay, honey. Now we go out to</p><p>play." Her hiding place proved to be a service tunnel of some kind. She crawled out through a hinged, </p><p>ornate grill of tarnished brass. He saw enough of her arms and hands to know that she wore the </p><p>polycarbon suit again. Under the plastic, he felt the familiar tension of thin tight leather. There was </p><p>something slung under her arm in a harness or holster. She stood up, unzipped the suit and touched the </p><p>checkered plastic of a pistolgrip. "Hey, Case," she said, barely voicing the words, "you listening? Tell you </p><p>a story . . . Had me this boy once. You kinda remind me . . ." She turned and surveyed the corridor. </p><p>"Johnny, his name was." </p><p>The low, vaulted hallway was lined with dozens of museum cases, archaic-looking glass-fronted boxes </p><p>made of brown wood. They looked awkward there, against the organic curves of the hallway’s walls, as </p><p>though they’d been brought in and set up in a line for some forgotten purpose. Dull brass fixtures held </p><p>globes of white light at ten-meter intervals. The floor was uneven, and as she set off along the corridor, </p><p>Case realized that hundreds of small rugs and carpets had been put down at random. In some places, </p><p>they were six deep, the floor a soft patchwork of handwoven wool. </p><p>Molly paid little attention to the cabinets and their contents, which irritated him. He had to satisfy </p><p>himself with her disinterested glances, which gave him fragments of pottery, antique weapons, a thing </p><p>so densely studded with rusted nails that it was unrecognizable, frayed sections of tapestry . . . "My </p><p>Johnny, see, he was smart, real flash boy. Started out as a stash on Memory Lane, chips in his head and </p><p>people paid to hide data there. Had the Yak after him, night I met him, and I did for their assassin. More </p><p>luck than anything else, but I did for him. And after that, it was tight and sweet, Case." Her lips barely </p><p>moved. He felt her form the words; he didn’t need to hear them spoken aloud. "We had a set-up with a </p><p>squid, so we could read the traces of everything he’d ever stored. Ran it ah out on tape and started </p><p>twisting selected clients, ex-clients. I was bagman, muscle, watchdog. I was real happy. You ever been </p><p>happy, Case? He was my boy. We worked together. Partners. I was maybe eight weeks out of the puppet </p><p>house when I met him . . ." She paused, edged around a sharp turn and continued. More of the glossy </p><p>wooden cases, their sides a color that reminded him of cockroach wings. "Tight, sweet, Just ticking </p><p>along, we were. Like nobody could ever touch us. I wasn’t going to let them. Yakuza, I guess, they still </p><p>wanted Johnny’s ass. 'Cause I’d killed their man. 'Cause Johnny’d burned them. And the Yak, they can </p><p>afford to move so fucking slow, man, they’ll wait years and years. Give you a whole life, Just so you’ll </p><p>have more to lose when they come and take it away. Patient like a spider. Zen spiders.</p><p>"I didn’t know that, then. Or if I did, I figured it didn’t apply to us. Like when you’re young, you figure </p><p>you’re unique. I was young. Then they came, when we were thinking we maybe had enough to be able </p><p>to quit, pack it in, go to Europe maybe. Not that either of us knew what we’d do there, with nothing to </p><p>do. But we were living fat, Swiss orbital accounts and a crib full of toys and furniture. Takes the edge off </p><p>your game. </p><p>"So that first one they’d sent, he’d been hot. Reflexes like you never saw, implants, enough style for ten </p><p>ordinary hoods. But the second one, he was, I dunno, like a monk. Cloned. Stone killer from the cells on </p><p>up. Had it in him, death, this silence, he gave it off in a cloud . . ." Her voice trailed off as the corridor </p><p>split, identical stairwells descending. She took the left. </p><p>"One time, I was a little kid, we were squatting. It was down by the Hudson, and those rats, man, they </p><p>were big. It’s the chemicals get into them. Big as I was, and all night one had been scrabbling under the </p><p>floor of the squat. Round dawn somebody brought this old man in, seams down his cheeks and his eyes </p><p>all red. Had a roll of greasy leather like you’d keep steel tools in, to keep the rust off. Spread it out, had </p><p>this old revolver and three shells. Old man, he puts one bullet in there, then he starts walking up and </p><p>down the squat, we’re hanging back by the walls. </p><p>"Back and forth. Got his arms crossed, head down, like he’s forgotten the gun. Listening for the rat. We </p><p>got real quiet. Old man takes a step. Rat moves. Rat moves, he takes another step. An hour of that, then </p><p>he seems to remember his gun. Points it at the floor, grins, and pulls the trigger. Rolled it back up and </p><p>left. </p><p>"I crawled under there later. Rat had a hole between its eyes." She was watching the sealed doorways </p><p>that opened at intervals along the corridor. "The second one, the one who came for Johnny, he was like </p><p>that old man. Not old, but he was like that. He killed that way." The corridor widened. The sea of rich </p><p>carpets undulated gently beneath an enormous candelabrum whose lowest crystal pendant reached </p><p>nearly to the floor. Crystal tinkled as Molly entered the hall. THIRD DOOR LEFT, blinked the readout. </p><p>She turned left, avoiding the inverted tree of crystal. "I just saw him once. On my way into our place. He </p><p>was coming out. We lived in a converted factory space, lots of young comers from Sense/Net, like that. </p><p>Pretty good security to start with, and I’d put in some really heavy stuff to make it really tight. I knew</p><p>Johnny was up there. But this little guy, he caught my eye, as he was coming out. Didn’t say a word. We </p><p>just looked at each other and I knew. Plain little guy, plain clothes, no pride in him, humble. He looked </p><p>at me and got into a pedicab. I knew. Went upstairs and Johnny was sitting in a chair by the window, </p><p>with his mouth a little open, like he’d just thought of something to say." </p><p>The door in front of her was old, a carved slab of Thai teak that seemed to have been sawn in half to fit </p><p>the low doorway. A primitive mechanical lock with a stainless face had been inset beneath a swirling </p><p>dragon. She knelt, drew a tight little roll of black chamois from an inside pocket, and selected a </p><p>needle-thin pick. "Never much found anybody I gave a damn about, after that." </p><p>She inserted the pick and worked in silence, nibbling at her lower lip. She seemed to rely on touch </p><p>alone; her eyes unfocused and the door was a blur of blond wood. Case listened to the silence of the </p><p>hall, punctuated by the soft clink of the candelabrum. Candles? Straylight was all wrong. He </p><p>remembered Cath’s story of a castle with pools and lilies, and 3Jane’s mannered words recited </p><p>musically by the head. A place grown in upon itself. Straylight smelled faintly musty, faintly perfumed, </p><p>like a church. Where were the Tessier-Ashpools? He’d expected some clean hive of disciplined activity, </p><p>but Molly had seen no one. Her monologue made him uneasy; she’d never told him that much about </p><p>herself before. Aside from her story in the cubicle, she’d seldom said anything that had even indicated </p><p>that she had a past. </p><p>She closed her eyes and there was a click that Case felt rather than heard. It made him remember the </p><p>magnetic locks on the door of her cubicle in the puppet place. The door had opened for him, even </p><p>though he’d had the wrong chip. That was Wintermute, manipulating the lock the way it had </p><p>manipulated the drone micro and the robot gardener. The lock system in the puppet place had been a </p><p>subunit of Freeside’s security system. The simple mechanical lock here would pose a real problem for </p><p>the AI, requiring either a drone of some kind or a human agent. </p><p>She opened her eyes, put the pick back into the chamois, carefully rerolled it, and tucked it back into its </p><p>pocket. "Guess you’re kinda like he was," she said. "Think you’re born to run. Figure what you were into </p><p>back in Chiba, that was a stripped down version of what you’d be doing anywhere. Bad luck, it’ll do that </p><p>sometimes, get you down to basics." She stood, stretched, shook herself. "You know, I figure the one </p><p>Tessier-Ashpool sent after that Jimmy, the boy who stole the head, he must be pretty much the same as</p><p>the one the Yak sent to kill Johnny." She drew the fletcher from its holster and dialed the barrel to full </p><p>auto. </p><p>The ugliness of the door struck Case as she reached for it. Not the door itself, which was beautiful, or </p><p>had once been part of some more beautiful whole, but the way it had been sawn down to fit a particular </p><p>entrance. Even the shape was wrong, a rectangle amid smooth curves of polished concrete. They’d </p><p>imported these things, he thought, and then forced it all to fit. But none of it fit. The door was like the </p><p>awkward cabinets, the huge crystal tree. Then he remembered 3Jane’s essay, and imagined that the </p><p>fittings had been hauled up the well to flesh out some master plan, a dream long lost in the compulsive </p><p>effort to fill space, to replicate some family image of self. He remembered the shattered nest, the </p><p>eyeless things writhing . . . Molly grasped one of the carved dragon’s forelegs and the door swung open </p><p>easily. </p><p>The room behind was small, cramped, little more than a closet. Gray steel tool cabinets were backed </p><p>against a curving wall. A light fixture had come on automatically. She closed the door behind her and </p><p>went to the ranged lockers. THIRD LEFT, pulsed the optic chip, Wintermute overriding her time </p><p>display. FIVE DOWN. But she opened the top drawer first. It was no more than a shallow tray. Empty. </p><p>The second was empty as well. The third, which was deeper, contained dull beads of solder and a small </p><p>brown thing that looked like a human fingerbone. The fourth drawer held a damp-swollen copy of an </p><p>obsolete technical manual in French and Japanese. In the fifth, behind the armored gauntlet of a heavy </p><p>vacuum suit, she found the key. It was like a dull brass coin with a short hollow tube braised against </p><p>one edge. She turned it slowly in her hand and Case saw that the interior of the tube was lined with </p><p>studs and flanges. The letters CHUBB were molded across one face of the coin. The other was blank. </p><p>"He told me," she whispered. "Wintermute. How he played a waiting game for years. Didn’t have any </p><p>real power, then, but he could use the Villa’s security and custodial systems to keep track of where </p><p>everything was, how things moved, where they went. He saw somebody lose this key twenty years ago, </p><p>and he managed to get somebody else to leave it here. Then he killed him, the boy who’d brought it </p><p>here. Kid was eight." She closed her white fingers over the key. "So nobody would find it." She took a </p><p>length of black nylon cord from the suit’s kangaroo pocket and threaded it through the round hole </p><p>above CHUBB. Knotting it, she hung it around her neck. "They were always fucking him over with how </p><p>old-fashioned they were, he said, all their nineteenth-century stuff. He looked just like the Finn, on the</p><p>screen in that meat puppet hole. Almost thought he was the Finn, if I wasn’t careful." Her readout flared </p><p>the time, alphanumerics superimposed over the gray steel chests. "He said if they’d turned into what </p><p>they’d wanted to, he could’ve gotten out a long time ago. But they didn’t. Screwed up. Freaks like 3Jane. </p><p>That’s what he called her, but he talked like he liked her." </p><p>She turned, opened the door, and stepped out, her hand brushing the checkered grip of the holstered </p><p>fletcher. Case flipped. </p><p>Kuang Grade Mark Eleven was growing. </p><p>"Dixie, you think this thing’ll work?" </p><p>"Does a bear shit in the woods?" The Flatline punched them up through shifting rainbow strata. </p><p>Something dark was forming at the core of the Chinese program. The density of information </p><p>overwhelmed the fabric of the matrix, triggering hypnagogic images. Faint kaleidoscopic angles </p><p>centered in to a silver-black focal point. Case watched childhood symbols of evil and bad luck tumble </p><p>out along translucent planes: swastikas, skulls and crossbones dice flashing snake eyes. If he looked </p><p>directly at that null point, no outline would form. It took a dozen quick, peripheral takes before he had </p><p>it, a shark thing, gleaming like obsidian, the black mirrors of its flanks reflecting faint distant lights that </p><p>bore no relationship to the matrix around it. </p><p>"That’s the sting," the construct said. "When Kuang’s good and bellytight with the Tessier-Ashpool core, </p><p>we’re ridin’ that through." </p><p>"You were right, Dix. There’s some kind of manual override on the hardwiring that keeps Wintermute </p><p>under control. However much he is under control," he added. "He," the construct said. "He. Watch that. </p><p>It. I keep telling you. " </p><p>"It’s a code. A word, he said. Somebody has to speak it into a fancy terminal in a certain room, while we </p><p>take care of whatever’s waiting for us behind that ice." </p><p>"Well, you got time to kill, kid," the Flatline said. "01’ Kuang’s slow but steady." </p><p>Case jacked out. . </p><p>Into Maelcum’s stare. </p><p>"You dead awhile there mon." </p><p>"It happens," he said. "I’m getting used to it." </p><p>"You dealin’ wi’ th’ darkness, mon." </p><p>"Only game in town, it looks like." </p><p>"Jah love, Case," Maelcum said, and turned back to his radio module. Case stared at the matted </p><p>dreadlocks, the ropes of muscle around the man’s dark arms. </p><p>He jacked back in. </p><p>And flipped. </p><p>Molly was trotting along a length of corridor that might have been the one she’d traveled before. The </p><p>glass-fronted cases were gone now, and Case decided they were moving toward the tip of the spindle; </p><p>gravity was growing weaker. Soon she was bounding smoothly over rolling hillocks of carpets. Faint </p><p>twinges in her leg . . . </p><p>The corridor narrowed suddenly, curved, split. She turned right and started up a freakishly steep flight </p><p>of stairs, her leg beginning to ache. Overhead, strapped and bundled cables hugged the stairwell's </p><p>ceiling like colorcoded ganglia. The walls were splotched with damp. She arrived at a triangular </p><p>landing and stood rubbing her leg. More corridors, narrow, their walls hung with rugs. They branched </p><p>away in three directions. </p><p>LEFT. </p><p>She shrugged. "Lemme look around, okay?" </p><p>LEFT. </p><p>"Relax. There’s time." She started down the corridor that led off to her right. </p><p>STOP </p><p>GO BACK. </p><p>DANGER. </p><p>She hesitated. From the half-open oak door at the far end of the passage came a voice, loud and slurred, </p><p>like the voice of a drunk. Case thought the language might be French, but it was too indistinct. Molly </p><p>took a step, another, her hand sliding into the suit to touch the butt of her fletcher. When she stepped </p><p>into the neural disruptor’s field, her ears rang, a tiny rising tone that made Case think of the sound of </p><p>her fletcher. She pitched forward, her striated muscles slack, and struck the door with her forehead.</p><p>She twisted and lay on her back, her eyes unfocused, breath gone. </p><p>"What’s this," said the slurred voice, "fancy dress?" A trembling hand entered the front of her suit and </p><p>found the fletcher, tugging it out. "Come visit, child. Now." She got up slowly, her eyes fixed on the </p><p>muzzle of a black automatic pistol. The man’s hand was steady enough, now; the gun’s barrel seemed to </p><p>be attached to her throat with a taut, invisible string. </p><p>He was old, very tall, and his features reminded Case of the girl he had glimpsed in the Vingtieme </p><p>Siecle. He wore a heavy robe of maroon silk, quilted around the long cuffs and shawl collar. One foot </p><p>was bare, the other in a black velvet slipper with an embroidered gold foxhead over the instep. He </p><p>motioned her into the room. "Slow, darling." The room was very large, cluttered with an assortment of </p><p>things that made no sense to Case. He saw a gray steel rack of old-fashioned Sony monitors, a wide </p><p>brass bed heaped with sheepskins, with pillows that seemed to have been made from the kind of rug </p><p>used to pave the corridors. Molly’s eyes darted from a huge Telefunken entertainment console to </p><p>shelves of antique disk recordings, their crumbling spines cased in clear plastic, to a wide worktable </p><p>littered with slabs of silicon. Case registered the cyberspace deck and the trades, but her glance slid </p><p>over it without pausing. </p><p>"It would be customary," the old man said, "for me to kill you now." Case felt her tense, ready for a </p><p>move. "But tonight 1 indulge myself. What is your name?" </p><p>"Molly." </p><p>"Molly. Mine is Ashpool." He sank back into the creased softness of a huge leather armchair with square </p><p>chrome legs, but the gun never wavered. He put her fletcher on a brass table beside the chair, knocking </p><p>over a plastic vial of red pills. The table was thick with vials, bottles of liquor, soft plastic envelopes </p><p>spilling white powders. Case noticed an old-fashioned glass hypodermic and a plain steel spoon. "How </p><p>do you cry, Molly? I see your eyes are walled away. I’m curious." His eyes were red-rimmed, his </p><p>forehead gleaming with sweat. He was very pale. Sick, Case decided. Or drugs. "I don’t cry, much." </p><p>"But how would you cry, if someone made you cry?" </p><p>"I spit," she said. "The ducts are routed back into my mouth." </p><p>"Then you've already learned an important lesson, for one so young." He rested the hand with the pistol </p><p>on his knee and took a bottle from the table beside him, without bothering to choose from the</p><p>half-dozen different liquors. He drank. Brandy. A trickle of the stuff ran from the corner of his mouth. </p><p>"That is the way to handle tears." He drank again. "I'm busy tonight, Molly. I built all this, and now I'm </p><p>busy. Dying." </p><p>"I could go out the way I came," she said. He laughed, a harsh high sound. "You intrude on my suicide </p><p>and then ask to simply walk out? Really, you amaze me. A thief." </p><p>"It’s my ass, boss, and it’s all I got. I just wanna get it out of here in one piece." </p><p>"You are a very rude girl. Suicides here are conducted with a degree of decorum. That’s what I’m doing, </p><p>you understand. But perhaps I’ll take you with me tonight, down to hell ... It would be very Egyptian of </p><p>me." He drank again. "Come here then." He held out the bottle, his hand shaking. "Drink." She shook her </p><p>head. </p><p>"It isn’t poisoned," he said, but returned the brandy to the table. "Sit. Sit on the floor. We’ll talk." </p><p>"What about?" She sat. Case felt the blades move, very slightly, beneath her nails. </p><p>"Whatever comes to mind. My mind. It’s my party. The cores woke me. Twenty hours ago. Something </p><p>was afoot, they said, and 1 was needed. Were you the something, Molly? Surely they didn’t need me to </p><p>handle you, no. Something else . . . but I’d been dreaming, you see. For thirty years. You weren’t born, </p><p>when last I lay me down to sleep. They told us we wouldn’t dream, in that cold. They told us we’d never </p><p>feel cold, either. Madness, Molly. Lies. Of course I dreamed. The cold let the outside in, that was it. The </p><p>outside. All the night I built this to hide us from. Just a drop, at first, one grain of night seeping in, drawn </p><p>by the cold . . . Others following it, filling my head the way rain fills an empty pool. Calla lilies. I </p><p>remember. The pools were terracotta, nursemaids all of chrome, how the limbs went winking through </p><p>the gardens at sunset . . . I’m old, Molly. Over two hundred years, if you count the cold. The cold." The </p><p>barrel of the pistol snapped up suddenly, quivering. The tendons in her thighs were drawn tight as </p><p>wires now. "You can get freezerburn," she said carefully. "Nothing burns there," he said impatiently, </p><p>lowering the gun. His few movements were increasingly sclerotic. His head nodded. It cost him an </p><p>effort to stop it. "Nothing burns. I remember now. The cores told me our intelligences are mad. And all </p><p>the billions we paid, so long ago. When artificial intelligences were rather a racy concept. I told the </p><p>cores I’d deal with it. Bad timing, really, with 8Jean down in Melbourne and only our sweet 3Jane </p><p>minding the store. Or very good timing, perhaps. Would you know, Molly?" The gun rose again. "There</p><p>are some odd things afoot now, in the Villa Straylight." </p><p>"Boss," she asked him, "you know Wintermute?" </p><p>"A name. Yes. To conjure with, perhaps. A lord of hell, surely. In my time, dear Molly, I have known </p><p>many lords. And not a few ladies. Why, a queen of Spain, once, in that very bed . . . But I wander." He </p><p>coughed wetly, the muzzle of the pistol jerking as he convulsed. He spat on the carpet near his one bare </p><p>foot. "How I do wander. Through the cold. But soon no more. I’d ordered a Jane thawed, when I woke. </p><p>Strange, to lie every few decades with what legally amounts to one’s own daughter." His gaze swept </p><p>past her, to the rack of blank monitors. He seemed to shiver. "Marie-France’s eyes," he said, faintly, and </p><p>smiled. "We cause the brain to become allergic to certain of its own neurotransmitters, resulting in a </p><p>peculiarly pliable imitation of autism." His head swayed sideways, recovered. "I understand that the </p><p>effect is now more easily obtained with an embedded microchip." </p><p>The pistol slid from his fingers, bounced on the carpet. "The dreams grow like slow ice," he said. His </p><p>face was tinged with blue. His head sank back into the waiting leather and he began to snore. </p><p>Up, she snatched the gun. She stalked the room, Ashpool’s automatic in her hand. </p><p>A vast quilt or comforter was heaped beside the bed, in a broad puddle of congealed blood, thick and </p><p>shiny on the patterned rugs. Twitching a corner of the quilt back, she found the body of a girl, white </p><p>shoulder blades slick with blood. Her throat had been slit. The triangular blade of some sort of scraper </p><p>glinted in the dark pool beside her. Molly knelt, careful to avoid the blood, and turned the dead girl’s </p><p>face to the light. The face Case had seen in the restaurant. There was a click, deep at the very center of </p><p>things, and the world was frozen. Molly’s simstim broadcast had become a still frame, her fingers on </p><p>the girl’s cheek. The freeze held for three seconds, and then the dead face was altered, became the face </p><p>of Linda Lee. </p><p>Another click, and the room blurred. Molly was standing, looking down at a golden laser disk beside a </p><p>small console on the marble top of a bedside table. A length of fiberoptic ribbon ran like a leash from </p><p>the console to a socket at the base of the slender neck. </p><p>"I got your number, fucker," Case said, feeling his own lips moving, somewhere, far away. He knew that </p><p>Wintermute had altered the broadcast. Molly hadn’t seen the dead girl’s face swirl like smoke, to take </p><p>on the outline of Linda’s deathmask. Molly turned. She crossed the room to Ashpool’s chair. The man’s</p><p>breathing was slow and ragged. She peered at the litter of drugs and alcohol. She put his pistol down, </p><p>picked up her fletcher, dialed the barrel over to single shot, and very carefully put a toxin dart through </p><p>the center of his closed left eyelid. He jerked once, breath halting in mid-intake. His other eye, brown </p><p>and fathomless, opened slowly. </p><p>It was still open when she turned and left the room. </p><p>16 </p><p>"Got your boss on hold," the Flatline said. "He’s coming through on the twin Hosaka in that boat </p><p>upstairs, the one that’s riding us piggy-back. Called the Haniwa." </p><p>"I know," Case said, absently, "I saw it." A lozenge of white light clicked into place in front of him, hiding </p><p>the Tessier-Ashpool ice; it showed him the calm, perfectly focused, utterly crazy face of Armitage, his </p><p>eyes blank as buttons. Armitage blinked. Stared. </p><p>"Guess Wintermute took care of your Turings too, huh? </p><p>Like he took care of mine," Case said. </p><p>Armitage stared. Case resisted the sudden urge to look away, drop his gaze. "You okay, Armitage?" </p><p>"Case" — and for an instant something seemed to move, behind the blue stare — "you’ve seen </p><p>Wintermute, haven’t you? In the matrix." </p><p>Case nodded. A camera on the face of his Hosaka in Marcus Garvey would relay the gesture to the </p><p>Naniwa monitor. He imagined Maelcum listening to his tranced half conversations, unable to hear the </p><p>voices of the construct or Armitage. "Case" — and the eyes grew larger, Armitage leaning toward his </p><p>computer — "what is he, when you see him?" </p><p>"A high-rez simstim construct." </p><p>"But who?" </p><p>"Finn, last time . . . Before that, this pimp I . . . " </p><p>"Not General Girling?" </p><p>"General who?" </p><p>The lozenge went blank. </p><p>"Run that back and get the Hosaka to look it up," he told the construct.</p><p>He flipped. </p><p>The perspective startled him. Molly was crouching between steel girders, twenty meters above a </p><p>broad, stained floor of polished concrete. The room was a hangar or service bay. He could see three </p><p>spacecraft, none larger than Garvey and all in various stages of repair. Japanese voices. A figure in an </p><p>orange jumpsuit stepped from a gap in the hull of a bulbous construction vehicle and stood beside one </p><p>of the thing’s piston-driven, weirdly anthropomorphic arms. The man punched something into a </p><p>portable console and scratched his ribs. A cartlike red drone rolled into sight on gray balloon tires. </p><p>CASE, flashed her chip. </p><p>"Hey," she said. "Waiting for a guide." </p><p>She settled back on her haunches, the arms and knees of her Modern suit the color of the blue-gray </p><p>paint on the girders. Her leg hurt, a sharp steady pain now. "I shoulda gone back to Chin," she muttered. </p><p>Something came ticking quietly out of the shadows, on a level with her left shoulder. It paused, swayed </p><p>its spherical body from side to side on high-arched spider legs, fired a micro-second burst of diffuse </p><p>laserlight, and froze. It was a Braun microdrone, and Case had once owned the same model, a pointless </p><p>accessory he’d obtained as part of a package deal with a Cleveland hardware fence. It looked like a </p><p>stylized matte black daddy longlegs. A red LED began to pulse, at the sphere’s equator. Its body was no </p><p>larger than a baseball. "Okay," she said, "I hear you." She stood up, favoring her left leg, and watched the </p><p>little drone reverse. It picked its methodical way back across its girder and into darkness. She turned </p><p>and looked back at the service area. The man in the orange jumpsuit was sealing the front of a white </p><p>vacuum rig. She watched him ring and seal the helmet, pick up his console, and step back through the </p><p>gap in the construction boat’s hull. There was a rising whine of motors and the thing slid smoothly out </p><p>of sight on a ten-meter circle of flooring that sank away into a harsh glare of arc lamps. The red drone </p><p>waited patiently at the edge of the hole left by the elevator panel. </p><p>Then she was off after the Braun, threading her way between a forest of welded steel struts. The Braun </p><p>winked its LED steadily, beckoning her on. </p><p>"How you doin’, Case? You back in Garvey with Maelcum? Sure. And jacked into this. I like it, you know? </p><p>Like I’ve always talked to myself, in my head, when I’ve been in tight spots. Pretend I got some friend, </p><p>somebody I can trust, and I'll tell 'em what I really think, what I feel like, and then I'll pretend they’re</p><p>telling me what they think about that, and I'll just go along that way. Having you in is kinda like that. </p><p>That scene with Ashpool . . ." She gnawed at her lower lip, swinging around a strut, keeping the drone in </p><p>sight. "I was expecting something maybe a little less gone, you know? I mean, these guys are all batshit </p><p>in here, like they got luminous messages scrawled across the inside of their foreheads or something. I </p><p>don’t like the way it looks, I don’t like the way it smells . . ." </p><p>The drone was hoisting itself up a nearly invisible ladder of U-shaped steel rungs, toward a narrow </p><p>dark opening. "And while I’m feeling confessional, baby, I gotta admit maybe I never much expected to </p><p>make it out of this one anyway. Been on this bad roll for a while, and you’re the only good change come </p><p>down since I signed on with Armitage." She looked up at the black circle. The drone’s LED winked, </p><p>climbing. "Not that you’re all that shit hot." She smiled, but it was gone too quickly, and she gritted her </p><p>teeth at the stabbing pain in her leg as she began to climb. The ladder continued up through a metal </p><p>tube, barely wide enough for her shoulders. She was climbing up out of gravity, toward the weightless </p><p>axis. </p><p>Her chip pulsed the time. </p><p>04 : 23 : 04 . </p><p>It had been a long day. The clarity of her sensorium cut the bite of the Betaphenethylamine, but Case </p><p>could still feel it. He preferred the pain in her leg. </p><p>CASE: OOOO </p><p>00000000 </p><p>00000000 . </p><p>"Guess it’s for you," she said, climbing mechanically. The zeros strobed again and a message stuttered </p><p>there, in the corner of her vision, chopped up by the display circuit. </p><p>GENERAL GIRLING::: </p><p>TRAINED CORTO FOR </p><p>SCREAMING FIST AND </p><p>SOLD HIS ASS TO </p><p>THE PENTAGON:::: </p><p>W/MUTE’S PRIMARY </p><p>GRIP ONARMITAGE </p><p>IS A CONSTRUCT OF</p><p>GIRLING: W/MUTE </p><p>SEZ A'S MENTION </p><p>OF G MEANS HE’S CRACK </p><p>ING:::: WATCH YOUR </p><p>ASS::::::DIXIE </p><p>"Well," she said, pausing, taking all of her weight on her right leg, "guess you got problems too." She </p><p>looked down. There was a faint circle of light, no larger than the brass round of the Chubb key that </p><p>dangled between her breasts. She looked up. Nothing at all. She tongued her amps and the tube rose </p><p>into vanishing perspective, the Braun picking its way up the rungs. "Nobody told me about this part," </p><p>she said. Case jacked out. </p><p>"Maelcum . . ." </p><p>"Mon, you bossman gone ver’ strange." The Zionite was wearing a blue Sanyo vacuum suit twenty years </p><p>older than the one Case had rented in Freeside, its helmet under his arm and his dreadlocks bagged in a </p><p>net cap crocheted from purple cotton yarn. His eyes were slitted with ganja and tension. "Keep callin’ </p><p>down here wi' orders, mon, but be some Babylon war . . ." Maelcum shook his head. "Aerol an’ I talkin’, </p><p>an’ Aerol talkin’ wi’ Zion, Founders seh cut an’ run." He ran the back of a large brown hand across his </p><p>mouth. </p><p>"Armitage?" Case winced as the Betaphenethylamine hangover hit him with its full intensity, </p><p>unscreened by the matrix or simstim. Brain’s got no nerves in it, he told himself, it can’t really feel this </p><p>bad. "What do you mean, man? He’s giving you orders? What?" </p><p>"Mon, Armitage, he tellin’ me set course for Finland, ya know? He tellin’ me there be hope, ya know? </p><p>Come on my screen wi’ his shirt all blood, mon, an’ be crazy as some dog, talkin’ screamin’ fists an’ </p><p>Russian an’ th’ blood of th’ betrayers shall be on our hands." He shook his head again, the dreadcap </p><p>swaying and bobbing in zero-g, his lips narrowed. "Founders seh the Mute voice be false prophet </p><p>surely, an’ Aerol an’ I mus’ 'bandon Marcus Garvey and return." </p><p>"Armitage, he was wounded? Blood?" </p><p>"Can’t seh, ya know? But blood, an’ stone crazy, Case." </p><p>"Okay," Case said, "So what about me? You’re going home. </p><p>What about me, Maelcum?" </p><p>"Mon," Maelcum said, "you cornin’ wi’ me. I an’ I come Zion wi’ Aerol, Babylon Rocker. Leave Mr. </p><p>Armitage t’ talk wi’ ghost cassette, one ghost t’ 'nother . . ." Case glanced over his shoulder: his rented</p><p>suit swung against the hammock where he’d snapped it, swaying in the air current from the old Russian </p><p>scrubber. He closed his eyes. He saw the sacs of toxin dissolving in his arteries. He saw Molly hauling </p><p>herself up the endless steel rungs. He opened his eyes. "I dunno, man," he said, a strange taste in his </p><p>mouth. He looked down at his desk, at his hands. "I don’t know." He looked back up. The brown face was </p><p>calm now, intent. Maelcum’s chin was hidden by the high helmet ring of his old blue suit. "She’s inside," </p><p>he said. "Molly’s inside. In Straylight, it’s called. If there’s any Babylon, man, that’s it. We leave on her, </p><p>she ain’t cornin’ out, Steppin’ Razor or not." Maelcum nodded, the dreadbag bobbing behind him like a </p><p>captive balloon of crocheted cotton. "She you woman, Case?" </p><p>"I dunno. Nobody’s woman, maybe." He shrugged. And found his anger again, real as a shard of hot rock </p><p>beneath his ribs. "Fuck this," he said. "Fuck Armitage, fuck Wintermute, and fuck you. I'm stayin’ right </p><p>here." </p><p>Maelcum’s smile spread across his face like light breaking. "Maelcum a rude boy, Case. Garvey </p><p>Maelcum boat." His gloved hand slapped a panel and the bass-heavy rocksteady of Zion dub came </p><p>pulsing from the tug’s speakers. "Maelcum not runnin’, no. I talk wi’ Aerol, he certain t’ see it in similar </p><p>light." Case stared. "1 don’t understand you guys at all," he said. "Don’ 'stan' you, mon," the Zionite said, </p><p>nodding to the beat, "but we mus’ move by Jah love, each one." Case jacked in and flipped for the matrix. </p><p>"Get my wire?" </p><p>"Yeah." He saw that the Chinese program had grown; delicate arches of shifting polychrome were </p><p>nearing the T-A ice. "Well, it’s gettin’ stickier," the Flatline said. "Your boss wiped the bank on that other </p><p>Hosaka, and damn near took ours with it. But your pal Wintermute put me on to somethin’ there before </p><p>it went black. The reason Straylight’s not exactly hoppin’ with Tessier-Ashpools is that they’re mostly in </p><p>cold sleep. There’s a law firm in London keeps track of their powers of attorney. Has to know who’s </p><p>awake and exactly when. Armitage was routing the transmissions from London to Straylight through </p><p>the Hosaka on the yacht. Incidentally, they know the old man’s dead." </p><p>"Who knows?" </p><p>"The law firm and T-A. He had a medical remote planted in his sternum. Not that your girl’s dart </p><p>would’ve left a resurrection crew with much to work with. Shellfish toxin. But the only T-A awake in </p><p>Straylight right now is Lady 3Jane Marie-France. There’s a male, couple years older, in Australia on </p><p>business. You ask me, I bet Wintermute found a way to cause that business to need this 8Jean’s personal</p><p>attention. But he’s on his way home, or near as matters. The London lawyers give his Straylight ETA as </p><p>09:00:00, tonight. We slotted Kuang virus at 02:32:03. It’s 04:45:20. Best estimate for Kuang penetration </p><p>of the T-A core is 08:30:00. Or a hair on either side. I figure Wintermute’s got somethin’ goin’ with this </p><p>3Jane, or else she’s just as crazy as her old man was. But the boy up from Melbourne’ll know the score. </p><p>The Straylight security systems keep trying to go full alert, but Wintermute blocks 'em, don’t ask me </p><p>how. Couldn’t override the basic gate program to get Molly in, though. Armitage had a record of all that </p><p>on his Hosaka; Riviera must’ve talked 3Jane into doing it. She’s been able to fiddle entrances and exits </p><p>for years. Looks to me like one of T-A’s main problems is that every family bigwig has riddled the banks </p><p>with all kinds of private scams and exceptions. Kinda like your immune system falling apart on you. </p><p>Ripe for virus. Looks good for us, once we’re past that ice." </p><p>Okay. But Wintermute said that Arm — </p><p>A white lozenge snapped into position, filled with a close-up of mad blue eyes. Case could only stare. </p><p>Colonel Willie Corto, Special Forces, Strikeforce Screaming Fist, had found his way back. The image </p><p>was dim, jerky, badly focused. Corto was using the Haniwa’s navigation deck to link with the Hosaka in </p><p>Marcus Garvey. </p><p>"Case, I need the damage reports on Omaha Thunder." </p><p>"Say, I . . . Colonel?" </p><p>"Hang in there, boy. Remember your training." But where have you been, man? he silently asked the </p><p>anguished eyes. Wintermute had built something called Armitage into a catatonic fortress named </p><p>Corto. Had convinced Corto that Armitage was the real thing, and Armitage had walked, talked, </p><p>schemed, bartered data for capital, fronted for Wintermute in that room in the Chiba Hilton . . . And now </p><p>Armitage was gone, blown away by the winds of Corto’s madness. But where had Corto been, those </p><p>years? </p><p>Falling, burned and blinded, out of a Siberian sky. </p><p>"Case, this will be difficult for you to accept, I know that. You’re an officer. The training. I understand. </p><p>But, Case, as God is my witness, we have been betrayed." Tears started from the blue eyes. </p><p>"Colonel, ah, who? Who’s betrayed us?" </p><p>"General Girling, Case. You may know him by a code name. </p><p>You do know the man of whom I speak." </p><p>"Yeah," Case said, as the tears continued to flow, "I guess I do. Sir," he added, on impulse. "But, sir, </p><p>Colonel, what exactly should we do? Now, I mean." </p><p>"Our duty at this point, Case, lies in flight. Escape. Evasion. We can make the Finnish border, nightfall </p><p>tomorrow. Treetop flying on manual. Seat of the pants, boy. But that will only be the beginning." The </p><p>blue eyes slitted above tanned cheek-bones slick with tears. "Only the beginning. Betrayal from above. </p><p>From above ..." He stepped back from the camera, dark stains on his torn twill shirt. Armitage’s face </p><p>had been masklike, impassive, but Corto’s was the true schizoid mask, illness etched deep in </p><p>involuntary muscle, distorting the expensive surgery. </p><p>"Colonel, I hear you, man. Listen, Colonel, okay? 1 want you to open the, ah . . . shit, what’s it called, </p><p>Dix?" </p><p>"The midbay lock," the Flatline said. </p><p>"Open the midbay lock. Just tell your central console there to open it, right? We’ll be up there with you </p><p>fast, Colonel. Then we can talk about getting out of here." </p><p>The lozenge vanished. </p><p>"Boy, I think you just lost me, there," the Flatline said. "The toxins," Case said, "the fucking toxins," and </p><p>jacked out. </p><p>"Poison?" Maelcum watched over the scratched blue shoulder of his old Sanyo as Case struggled out of </p><p>the g-web. "And get this goddam thing off me . . Tugging at the Texas catheter. "Like a slow poison, and </p><p>that asshole upstairs knows how to counter it, and now he’s crazier than a shithouse rat." He fumbled </p><p>with the front of the red Sanyo, forgetting how to work the seals. </p><p>"Bossman, he poison you?" Maelcum scratched his cheek. </p><p>"Got a medical kit, ya know." </p><p>"Maelcum, Christ, help me with this goddam suit." The Zionite kicked off from the pink pilot module. </p><p>"Easy, mon. Measure twice, cut once, wise man put it. We get up there . . ." </p><p>There was air in the corrugated gangway that led from Marcus Garvey’s aft lock to the midbay lock of </p><p>the yacht called Haniwa, but they kept their suits sealed. Maelcum executed the passage with balletic</p><p>grace, only pausing to help Case, who’d gone into an awkward tumble as he’d stepped out of Garvey. </p><p>The white plastic sides of the tube filtered the raw sunlight; there were no shadows. </p><p>Garvey’s airlock hatch was patched and pitted, decorated with a laser-carved Lion of Zion. Haniwa’s </p><p>midbay hatch was creamy gray, blank and pristine. Maelcum inserted his gloved hand in a narrow </p><p>recess. Case saw his fingers move. Red LEDs came to life in the recess, counting down from fifty. </p><p>Maelcum withdrew his hand. Case, with one glove braced against the hatch, felt the vibration of the </p><p>lock mechanism through his suit and bones. The round segment of gray hull began to withdraw into the </p><p>side of Haniwa. Maelcum grabbed the recess with one hand and Case with the other. The lock took </p><p>them with it. </p><p>Haniwa was a product of the Dornier-Fujitsu yards, her interior informed by a design philosophy </p><p>similar to the one that had produced the Mercedes that had chauffeured them through Istanbul. The </p><p>narrow midbay was walled in imitation ebony veneer and floored with gray Italian tiles. Case felt as </p><p>though he were invading some rich man’s private spa by way of the shower. The yacht, which had been </p><p>assembled in orbit, had never been intended for re-entry. Her smooth, wasplike line was simply styling, </p><p>and everything about her interior was calculated to add to the overall impression of speed. When </p><p>Maelcum removed his battered helmet, Case followed his lead. They hung there in the lock, breathing </p><p>air that smelled faintly of pine. Under it, a disturbing edge of burning insulation. </p><p>Maelcum sniffed. "Trouble here, mon. Any boat, you smell that . . ." </p><p>A door, padded with dark gray ultrasuede, slid smoothly back into its housing. Maelcum kicked off the </p><p>ebony wall and sailed neatly through the narrow opening, twisting his broad shoulders, at the last </p><p>possible instant, for clearance. Case followed him clumsily, hand over hand, along a waist-high padded </p><p>rail. "Bridge," Maelcum said, pointing down a seamless, cream-walled corridor, "be there." He launched </p><p>himself with another effortless kick. From somewhere ahead, Case made out the familiar chatter of a </p><p>printer turning out hard copy. It grew louder as he followed Maelcum through another doorway, into a </p><p>swirling mass of tangled printout. Case snatched a length of twisted paper and glanced at it. </p><p>000000000 </p><p>000000000 </p><p>000000000</p><p>"Systems crash?" The Zionite flicked a gloved finger at the column of zeros. </p><p>"No," Case said, grabbing for his drifting helmet, "the Flatline said Armitage wiped the Hosaka he had in </p><p>there." </p><p>"Smell like he wipe 'em wi’ laser, ya know?" The Zionite braced his foot against the white cage of a </p><p>Swiss exercise machine and shot through the floating maze of paper, batting it away from his face. </p><p>"Case, mon ..." </p><p>The man was small, Japanese, his throat bound to the back of the narrow articulated chair with a length </p><p>of some sort of fine steel wire. The wire was invisible, where it crossed the black temperfoam of the </p><p>headrest, and it had cut as deeply into his larynx. A single sphere of dark blood had congealed there like </p><p>some strange precious stone, a red-black pearl. Case saw the crude wooden handles that drifted at </p><p>either end of the garrotte, like worn sections of broom handle. "Wonder how long he had that on him?" </p><p>Case said, remembering Corto’s postwar pilgrimage. </p><p>"He know how pilot boat, Case, bossman?" </p><p>"Maybe. He was Special Forces." </p><p>"Well, this Japan-boy, he not be pilotin’. Doubt I pilot her easy myself. Ver’ new boat . . ." </p><p>"So find us the bridge." </p><p>Maelcum frowned, rolled backward, and kicked. Case followed him into a larger space, a kind of </p><p>lounge, shredding and crumpling the lengths of printout that snared him in his passage. There were </p><p>more of the articulated chairs, here, something that resembled a bar, and the Hosaka. The printer, still </p><p>spewing its flimsy tongue of paper, was an inbuilt bulkhead unit, a neat slot in a panel of handrubbed </p><p>veneer. He pulled himself over the circle of chairs and reached it, punching a white stud to the left of </p><p>the slot. The chattering stopped. He turned and stared at the Hosaka. Its face had been drilled through, </p><p>at least a dozen times. The holes were small, circular, edges blackened. Tiny spheres of bright alloy </p><p>were orbiting the dead computer. "Good guess," he said to Maelcum. "Bridge locked, mon," Maelcum </p><p>said, from the opposite side of the lounge. </p><p>The lights dimmed, surged, dimmed again. Case ripped the printout from its slot. More zeros. </p><p>"Wintermute?" He looked around the beige and brown lounge, the space scrawled with drifting curves</p><p>of paper. "That you on the lights, Wintermute?" </p><p>A panel beside Maelcum’s head slid up, revealing a small monitor. Maelcum jerked apprehensively, </p><p>wiped sweat from his forehead with a foam patch on the back of a gloved hand, and swung to study the </p><p>display. "You read Japanese, mon?" Case could see figures blinking past on the screen. </p><p>"No," Case said. </p><p>"Bridge is escape pod, lifeboat. Countin’ down, looks like it. Suit up now." He ringed his helmet and </p><p>slapped at the seals. "What? He’s takin’ off? Shit! " He kicked off from the bulkhead and shot through the </p><p>tangle of printout. "We gotta open this door, man!" But Maelcum could only tap the side of his helmet. </p><p>Case could see his lips moving, through the Lexan. He saw a bead of sweat arc out from the rainbow </p><p>braided band of the purple cotton net the Zionite wore over his locks. Maelcum snatched the helmet </p><p>from Case and ringed it for him smoothly, the palms of his gloves smacking the seals. Micro-LED </p><p>monitors to the left of the faceplate lit as the neck ring connections closed. "No seh Japanese," Maelcum </p><p>said, over his suit’s transceiver, "but countdown’s wrong." He tapped a particular line on the screen. </p><p>Seals not intact, bridge module. Launchin’ wi’ lock open.' </p><p>"Armitage!" Case tried to pound on the door. The physics of zero-g sent him tumbling back through the </p><p>printout. "Corto! </p><p>Don’t do it! We gotta talk! We gotta — " </p><p>"Case? Read you, Case ..." The voice barely resembled Armitage’s now. It held a weird calm. Case </p><p>stopped kicking. His helmet struck the far wall. "I’m sorry, Case, but it has to be this way. One of us has </p><p>to get out. One of us has to testify. If we all go down here, it ends here. I’ll tell them, Case, I’ll tell them </p><p>all of it. About Girling and the others. And I’ll make it, Case. I know I’ll make it. To Helsinki." There was a </p><p>sudden silence; Case felt it fill his helmet like some rare gas. "But it’s so hard, Case, so goddam hard. I’m </p><p>blind." </p><p>"Corto, stop. Wait. You’re blind, man. You can’t fly! You'll hit the fucking trees. And they’re trying to get </p><p>you, Corto, I swear to God, they’ve left your hatch open. You’ll die, and you’ll never get to tell 'em, and I </p><p>gotta get the enzyme, name of the enzyme, the enzyme, man . . ." He was shouting, voice high with </p><p>hysteria. Feedback shrilled out of the helmet’s phone pads. </p><p>"Remember the training, Case. That’s all we can do." And then the helmet filled with a confused babble, </p><p>roaring static, harmonics howling down the years from Screaming Fist. Fragments of Russian, and then </p><p>a stranger’s voice, Midwestern, very young. "We are down, repeat, Omaha Thunder is down, we . . ." </p><p>"Wintermute," Case screamed, "don’t do this to me!" Tears broke from his lashes, rebounding off the </p><p>faceplate in wobbling crystal droplets. Then Haniwa thudded, once, shivered as if some huge soft thing </p><p>had struck her hull. Case imagined the lifeboat jolting free, blown clear by explosive bolts, a second’s </p><p>clawing hurricane of escaping air tearing mad Colonel Corto from his couch, from Wintermute’s </p><p>rendition of the final minute of Screaming Fist. </p><p>"'I’m gone, mon." Maelcum looked at the monitor. "Hatch open. Mute mus’ override ejection failsafe." </p><p>Case tried to wipe the tears of rage from his eyes. His fingers clacked against Lexan. </p><p>"Yacht, she tight for air, but bossman takin’ grapple control wi’ bridge. Marcus Garvey still stuck." </p><p>But Case was seeing Armitage’s endless fall around Free-side, through vacuum colder than the steppes. </p><p>For some reason, he imagined him in his dark Burberry, the trench coat’s rich folds spread out around </p><p>him like the wings of some huge bat. </p><p>17 </p><p>"Get what you went for?" the construct asked. Kuang Grade Mark Eleven was filling the grid between </p><p>itself and the T-A ice with hypnotically intricate traceries of rainbow, lattices fine as snow crystal on a </p><p>winter window. "Wintermute killed Armitage. Blew him out in a lifeboat with a hatch open." </p><p>"Tough shit," the Flatline said. "Weren’t exactly asshole buddies, were you?" </p><p>"He knew how to unbond the toxin sacs." </p><p>"So Wintermute knows too. Count on it." </p><p>"I don’t exactly trust Wintermute to give it to me." The construct’s hideous approximation of laughter </p><p>scraped Case’s nerves like a dull blade. "Maybe that means you’re gettin’ smart." </p><p>He hit the simstim switch. </p><p>06:27:52 by the chip in her optic nerve; Case had been following her progress through Villa Straylight </p><p>for over an hour, letting the endorphin analog she’d taken blot out his hangover. The pain in her leg was</p><p>gone; she seemed to move through a warm bath. The Braun drone was perched on her shoulder, its tiny </p><p>manipulators, like padded surgical clips, secure in the polycarbon of the Modern suit. The walls here </p><p>were raw steel, striped with rough brown ribbons of epoxy where some kind of covering had been </p><p>ripped away. She’d hidden from a work crew, crouching, the fletcher cradled in her hands, her suit </p><p>steel-gray, while the two slender Africans and their balloon-tired workcart passed. The men had </p><p>shaven heads and wore orange coveralls. One was singing softly to himself in a language Case had </p><p>never heard, the tones and melody alien and haunting. </p><p>The head’s speech, 3Jane’s essay on Straylight, came back to him as she worked her way deeper into the </p><p>maze of the place. Straylight was crazy, was craziness grown in the resin concrete they’d mixed from </p><p>pulverized lunar stone, grown in welded steel and tons of knick-knacks, all the bizarre impedimenta </p><p>they’d shipped up the well to line their winding nest. But it wasn’t a craziness he understood. Not like </p><p>Armitage’s madness, which he now imagined he could understand; twist a man far enough, then twist </p><p>him as far back, in the opposite direction, reverse and twist again. The man broke. Like breaking a </p><p>length of wire. And history had done that for Colonel Corto. History had already done the really messy </p><p>work, when Wintermute found him, sifting him out of all of the war’s ripe detritus, gliding into the </p><p>man’s flat gray field of consciousness like a water spider crossing the face of some stagnant pool, the </p><p>first messages blinking across the face of a child’s micro in a darkened room in a French asylum. </p><p>Wintermute had built Armitage up from scratch, with Corto’s memories of Screaming Fist as the </p><p>foundation. But Armitage’s "memories" wouldn’t have been Corto’s after a certain point. Case doubted </p><p>if Armitage had recalled the betrayal, the Nightwings whirling down in flame . . . Armitage had been a </p><p>sort of edited version of Corto, and when the stress of the run had reached a certain point, the Armitage </p><p>mechanism had crumbled; Corto had surfaced, with his guilt and his sick fury. And now Corto-Armitage </p><p>was dead, a small frozen moon for Freeside. He thought of the toxin sacs. Old Ashpool was dead too, </p><p>drilled through the eye with Molly’s microscopic dart, deprived of whatever expert overdose he’d </p><p>mixed for himself. That was a more puzzling death, Ashpool’s, the death of a mad king. And he’d killed </p><p>the puppet he’d called his daughter, the one with 3Jane’s face. It seemed to Case, as he rode Molly’s </p><p>broadcast sensory input through the corridors of Straylight, that he’d never really thought of anyone </p><p>like Ashpool, anyone as powerful as he imagined Ashpool had been, as human. Power, in Case’s world, </p><p>meant corporate power. The zaibatsus, the multinationals that shaped the course of human history, had </p><p>transcended old barriers. Viewed as organisms, they had attained a kind of immortality. You couldn’t </p><p>kill a zaibatsu by assassinating a dozen key executives; there were others waiting to step up the ladder, </p><p>assume the vacated position, access the vast banks of corporate memory. But Tessier-Ashpool wasn’t </p><p>like that, and he sensed the difference in the death of its founder. T-A was an atavism, a clan. He </p><p>remembered the litter of the old man’s chamber, the soiled humanity of it, the ragged spines of the old </p><p>audio disks in their paper sleeves. One foot bare, the other in a velvet slipper. The Braun plucked at the </p><p>hood of the Modem suit and Molly turned left, through another archway. </p><p>Wintermute and the nest. Phobic vision of the hatching wasps, time-lapse machine gun of biology. But </p><p>weren’t the zaibatsus more like that, or the Yakuza, hives with cybernetic memories, vast single </p><p>organisms, their DNA coded in silicon? If Straylight was an expression of the corporate identity of </p><p>Tessier-Ashpool, then T-A was crazy as the old man had been. The same ragged tangle of fears, the </p><p>same strange sense of aimlessness. "If they’d turned into what they wanted to . . ." he remembered </p><p>Molly saying. But Wintermute had told her they hadn’t. </p><p>Case had always taken it for granted that the real bosses, the kingpins in a given industry, would be </p><p>both more and less than people. He’d seen it in the men who’d crippled him in Memphis, he’d seen Wage </p><p>affect the semblance of it in Night City, and it had allowed him to accept Armitage’s flatness and lack of </p><p>feeling. He’d always imagined it as a gradual and willing accommodation of the machine, the system, </p><p>the parent organism. It was the root of street cool, too, the knowing posture that implied connection, </p><p>invisible lines up to hidden levels of influence. </p><p>But what was happening now, in the corridors of Villa Straylight? </p><p>Whole stretches were being stripped back to steel and concrete. </p><p>"Wonder where our Peter is now, huh? Maybe see that boy soon," she muttered. "And Armitage. </p><p>Where’s he, Case?" </p><p>"Dead," he said, knowing she couldn’t hear him, "he’s dead." </p><p>He flipped. </p><p>The Chinese program was face to face with the target ice, rainbow tints gradually dominated by the </p><p>green of the rectangle representing the T -A cores. Arches of emerald across the colorless void. </p><p>"How’s it go, Dixie?"</p><p>"Fine. Too slick. Thing’s amazing . . . Shoulda had one that time in Singapore. Did the old New Bank of </p><p>Asia for a good fiftieth of what they were worth. But that’s ancient history. This baby takes all the </p><p>drudgery out of it. Makes you wonder what a real war would be like, now . . ." </p><p>"If this kinda shit was on the street, we’d be out a job," Case said. </p><p>"You wish. Wait’ll you’re steering that thing upstairs through black ice." </p><p>"Sure." </p><p>Something small and decidedly nongeometric had just appeared on the far end of one of the emerald </p><p>arches. "Dixie . . ." </p><p>"Yeah. I see it. Don’t know if I believe it." A brownish dot, a dull gnat against the green wall of the T-A </p><p>cores. It began to advance, across the bridge built by Kuang Grade Mark Eleven, and Case saw that it </p><p>was walking. As it came, the green section of the arch extended, the polychrome of the virus program </p><p>rolling back, a few steps ahead of the cracked black shoes. </p><p>"Gotta hand it to you, boss," the Flatline said, when the short, rumpled figure of the Finn seemed to </p><p>stand a few meters away. "I never seen anything this funny when I was alive." But the eerie nonlaugh </p><p>didn’t come. </p><p>"I never tried it before," the Finn said, showing his teeth, his hands bunched in the pockets of his frayed </p><p>jacket. "You killed Armitage," Case said. </p><p>"Corto. Yeah. Armitage was already gone. Hadda do it. I know, I know, you wanna get the enzyme. Okay. </p><p>No sweat. I was the one gave it to Armitage in the first place. I mean I told him what to use. But 1 think </p><p>maybe it’s better to let the deal stand. You got enough time. I'll give it to you. Only a coupla hours now, </p><p>right?" </p><p>Case watched blue smoke billow in cyberspace as the Finn lit up one of his Partagas. </p><p>"You guys," the Finn said, "you’re a pain. The Flatline here, if you were all like him, it would be real </p><p>simple. He’s a construct, just a buncha ROM, so he always does what I expect him to. My projections </p><p>said there wasn’t much chance of Molly wandering in on Ashpool’s big exit scene, give you one </p><p>example." He sighed. </p><p>"Why’d he kill himself?" Case asked. </p><p>"Why’s anybody kill himself?" The figure shrugged. "I guess I know, if anybody does, but it would take </p><p>me twelve hours to explain the various factors in his history and how they interrelate. He was ready to </p><p>do it for a long time, but he kept going back into the freezer. Christ, he was a tedious old fuck." The </p><p>Finn’s face wrinkled with disgust. "It’s all tied in with why he killed his wife, mainly, you want the short </p><p>reason. But what sent him over the edge for good and all, little 3Jane figured a way to fiddle the </p><p>program that controlled his cryogenic system. Subtle, too. So basically, she killed him. Except he </p><p>figured he’d killed himself, and your friend the avenging angel figures she got him with an eyeball full </p><p>of shellfish juice." The Finn flicked his butt away into the matrix below. "Well, actually, I guess I did give </p><p>3Jane the odd hint, a little of the old how-to, you know?" </p><p>"Wintermute," Case said, choosing the words carefully, "you told me you were just a part of something </p><p>else. Later on you said you wouldn’t exist, if the run goes off and Molly gets the word into the right slot." </p><p>The Finn’s streamlined skull nodded. </p><p>"Okay, then who we gonna be dealing with then? If Armitage is dead, and you’re gonna be gone, just </p><p>who exactly is going to tell me how to get these fucking toxin sacs out of my system? Who’s going to get </p><p>Molly back out of there? I mean where, where exactly, are all our asses gonna be, we cut you loose </p><p>from the hardwiring?" </p><p>The Finn took a wooden toothpick from his pocket and regarded it critically, like a surgeon examining </p><p>a scalpel. "Good question," he said, finally. "You know salmon? Kinda fish? These fish, see, they’re </p><p>compelled to swim upstream. Got it?" </p><p>No," Case said. </p><p>"Well, I’m under compulsion myself. And I don’t know why. If I were gonna subject you to my very own </p><p>thoughts, let’s call 'em speculations, on the topic, it would take a couple of your lifetimes. Because I've </p><p>given it a lot of thought. And 1 just don’t know. But when this is over, we do it right, I'm gonna be part of </p><p>something bigger. Much bigger," The Finn glanced up and around the matrix. "But the parts of me that </p><p>are me now, that’ll still be here. And you’ll get your payoff." </p><p>Case fought back an insane urge to punch himself forward and get his fingers around the figure’s throat, </p><p>just above the ragged knot in the rusty scarf. His thumbs deep in the Finn’s larynx. </p><p>"Well, good luck," the Finn said. He turned, hands in pockets and began trudging back up the green arch. </p><p>"Hey, asshole," the Flatline said, when the Finn had gone a dozen paces. The figure paused, half turned. </p><p>"What about me? What about my payoff?" </p><p>"You’ll get yours," it said. </p><p>"What’s that mean?" Case asked, as he watched the narrow tweed back recede. </p><p>"I wanna be erased," the construct said. "I told you that, remember?" </p><p>Straylight reminded Case of deserted early morning shopping centers he’d known as a teenager, </p><p>low-density places where the small hours brought a fitful stillness, a kind of numb expectancy, a </p><p>tension that left you watching insects swarm around caged bulbs above the entrance of darkened </p><p>shops. Fringe places, just past the borders of the Sprawl, too far from the all-night click and shudder of </p><p>the hot core. There was that same sense of being surrounded by the sleeping inhabitants of a waking </p><p>world he had no interest in visiting or knowing, of dull business temporarily suspended, of futility and </p><p>repetition soon to wake again. </p><p>Molly had slowed now, either knowing that she was nearing her goal or out of concern for her leg. The </p><p>pain was starting to work its jagged way back through the endorphins, and he wasn’t sure what that </p><p>meant. She didn’t speak, kept her teeth clenched, and carefully regulated her breathing. She’d passed </p><p>many things that Case hadn’t understood, but his curiosity was gone. There had been a room filled with </p><p>shelves of books, a million flat leaves of yellowing paper pressed between bindings of cloth or leather, </p><p>the shelves marked at intervals by labels that followed a code of letters and numbers; a crowded </p><p>gallery where Case had stared, through Molly’s incurious eyes, at a shattered, dust-stenciled sheet of </p><p>glass, a thing labeled — her gaze had tracked the brass plaque automatically — "La mariee raise anu </p><p>parses celibataires, meme." She’d reached out and touched this, her artificial nails clicking against the </p><p>Lexan sandwich protecting the broken glass. There had been what was obviously the entrance to </p><p>Tessier-Ashpool’s cryogenic compound, circular doors of black glass trimmed with chrome. She’d seen </p><p>no one since the two Africans and their cart, and for Case they’d taken on a sort of imaginary life; he </p><p>pictured them gliding gently through the halls of Straylight, their smooth dark skulls gleaming, </p><p>nodding, while the one still sang his tired little song. And none of this was anything like the Villa </p><p>Straylight he would have expected, some cross between Cath’s fairy tale castle and a half-remembered </p><p>childhood fantasy of the Yakuza’s inner sanctum. </p><p>07 : 02:1 8 .</p><p>One and a half hours. </p><p>"Case," she said, "I wanna favor." Stiffly, she lowered herself to sit on a stack of polished steel plates, the </p><p>finish of each plate protected by an uneven coating of clear plastic. She picked at a rip in the plastic on </p><p>the topmost plate, blades sliding from beneath thumb and forefinger. "Leg’s not good, you know? Didn’t </p><p>figure any climb like that, and the endorphin won’t cut it, much longer. So maybe — just maybe, right? </p><p>— I got a problem here. What it is, if I buy it here, before Riviera does" — and she stretched her leg, </p><p>kneaded the flesh of her thigh through Modern polycarbon and Paris leather — "I want you to tell him. </p><p>Tell him it was me. Got it? Just say it was Molly. He’ll know. </p><p>Okay?" She glanced around the empty hallway, the bare walls. The floor here was raw lunar concrete </p><p>and the air smelled of resins. "Shit, man, I don’t even know if you’re listening." </p><p>CASE. </p><p>She winced, got to her feet, nodded. "What’s he told you, man, Wintermute? He tell you about Marie- </p><p>France? She was the Tessier half, 3Jane’s genetic mother. And of that dead puppet of Ashpool’s, I guess. </p><p>Can’t figure why he’d tell me, down in that cubicle . . . lotta stuff. . . Why he has to come on like the Finn </p><p>or somebody, he told me that. It’s not just a mask, it’s like he uses real profiles as valves, gears himself </p><p>down to communicate with us. Called it a template. Model of personality." She drew her fletcher and </p><p>limped away down the corridor. </p><p>The bare steel and scabrous epoxy ended abruptly, replaced by what Case at first took to be a rough </p><p>tunnel blasted from solid rock. Molly examined its edge and he saw that in fact the steel was sheathed </p><p>with panels of something that looked and felt like cold stone. She knelt and touched the dark sand </p><p>spread across the floor of the imitation tunnel. It felt like sand, cool and dry, but when she drew her </p><p>finger through it, it closed like a fluid, leaving the surface undisturbed. A dozen meters ahead, the </p><p>tunnel curved. Harsh yellow light threw hard shadows on the seamed pseudo-rock of the walls. With a </p><p>start, Case realized that the gravity here was near earth normal, which meant that she’d had to descend </p><p>again, after the climb. He was thoroughly lost now; spatial disorientation held a peculiar horror for </p><p>cowboys. </p><p>But she wasn’t lost, he told himself. </p><p>Something scurried between her legs and went ticking across the un-sand of the floor. A red LED</p><p>blinked. The Braun. The first of the holos waited just beyond the curve, a sort of triptych. She lowered </p><p>the fletcher before Case had had time to realize that the thing was a recording. The figures were </p><p>caricatures in light, lifesize cartoons: Molly, Armitage, and Case . Molly’ s breasts were too large, visible </p><p>through tight black mesh beneath a heavy leather jacket. Her waist was impossibly narrow. Silvered </p><p>lenses covered half her face. She held an absurdly elaborate weapon of some kind, a pistol shape nearly </p><p>lost beneath a flanged overlay of scope sights, silencers, flash hiders. Her legs were spread, pelvis </p><p>canted forward, her mouth fixed in a leer of idiotic cruelty. Beside her, Armitage stood rigidly at </p><p>attention in a threadbare khaki uniform. His eyes, Case saw, as Molly stepped carefully forward, were </p><p>tiny monitor screens, each one displaying the blue-gray image of a howling waste of snow, the stripped </p><p>black trunks of evergreens bending in silent winds. </p><p>She passed the tips of her fingers through Armitage’s television eyes, then turned to the figure of Case. </p><p>Here, it was as if Riviera — and Case had known instantly that Riviera was responsible — had been </p><p>unable to find anything worthy of parody. The figure that slouched there was a fair approximation of </p><p>the one he glimpsed daily in mirrors. Thin, high-shouldered, a forgettable face beneath short dark hair. </p><p>He needed a shave, but then he usually did. </p><p>Molly stepped back. She looked from one figure to another. It was a static display, the only movement </p><p>the silent gusting of the black trees in Armitage’s frozen Siberian eyes. "Tryin’ to tell us something, </p><p>Peter?" she asked softly. Then she stepped forward and kicked at something between the feet of the </p><p>holo-Molly. Metal clinked against the wall and the figures were gone. She bent and picked up a small </p><p>display unit. "Guess he can Jack into these and program them direct," she said, tossing it away. </p><p>She passed the source of yellow light, an archaic incandescent globe set into the wall, protected by a </p><p>rusty curve of expansion grating. The style of the improvised fixture suggested childhood, somehow. He </p><p>remembered fortresses he’d built with other children on rooftops and in flooded sub-basements. A rich </p><p>kid’s hideout, he thought. This kind of roughness was expensive. What they called atmosphere. She </p><p>passed a dozen more holograms before she reached the entrance to 3Jane’s apartments. One depicted </p><p>the eyeless thing in the alley behind the Spice Bazaar, as it tore itself free of Riviera’s shattered body. </p><p>Several others were scenes of torture, the inquisitors always military officers and the victims</p><p>invariably young women. These had the awful intensity of Riviera’s show at the Vingtieme Siecle, as </p><p>though they had been frozen in the blue flash of orgasm. Molly looked away as she passed them. </p><p>The last was small and dim, as if it were an image Riviera had had to drag across some private distance </p><p>of memory and time. She had to kneel to examine it; it had been projected from the vantage point of a </p><p>small child. None of the others had had backgrounds; the figures, uniforms, instruments of torture, all </p><p>had been freestanding displays. But this was a view. A dark wave of rubble rose against a colorless sky, </p><p>beyond its crest the bleached, half-melted skeletons of city towers. The rubble wave was textured like </p><p>a net, rusting steel rods twisted gracefully as fine string, vast slabs of concrete still clinging there. The </p><p>foreground might once have been a city square; there was a sort of stump, something that suggested a </p><p>fountain. At its base, the children and the soldier were frozen. The tableau was confusing at first. Molly </p><p>must have read it correctly before Case had quite assimilated it, because he felt her tense. She spat, </p><p>then stood. </p><p>Children. Feral, in rags. Teeth glittering like knives. Sores on their contorted faces. The soldier on his </p><p>back, mouth and throat open to the sky. They were feeding. "Bonn," she said, something like gentleness </p><p>in her voice. "Quite the product, aren’t you, Peter? But you had to be. Our 3Jane, she’s too jaded now to </p><p>open the back door for just any petty thief. So Wintermute dug you up. The ultimate taste, if your taste </p><p>runs that way. Demon lover. Peter." She shivered. "But you talked her into letting me in. Thanks. Now </p><p>we’re gonna party." </p><p>And then she was walking — strolling, really, in spite of the pain — away from Riviera’s childhood. She </p><p>drew the fletcher from its holster, snapped the plastic magazine out, pocketed that, and replaced it with </p><p>another. She hooked her thumb in the neck of the Modern suit and ripped it open to the crotch with a </p><p>single gesture, her thumb blade parting the tough polycarbon like rotten silk. She freed herself from the </p><p>arms and legs, the shredded remnants disguising themselves as they fell to the dark false sand. </p><p>Case noticed the music then. A music he didn’t know, all horns and piano. </p><p>The entrance to 3Jane’s world had no door. It was a ragged five-meter gash in the tunnel wall, uneven </p><p>stairs leading down in a broad shallow curve. Faint blue light, moving shadows, music. </p><p>"Case," she said, and paused, the fletcher in her right hand. Then she raised her left, smiled, touched her </p><p>open palm with a wet tongue tip, kissing him through the simstim link. "Gotta go." </p><p>Then there was something small and heavy in her left hand, her thumb against a tiny stud, and she was </p><p>descending. </p><p>18 </p><p>She missed it by a fraction. She nearly cut it, but not quite. She went in just right, Case thought. The right </p><p>attitude; it was something he could sense, something he could have seen in the posture of another </p><p>cowboy leaning into a deck, fingers flying across the board. She had it: the thing, the moves. And she’d </p><p>pulled it all together for her entrance. Pulled it together around the pain in her leg and marched down </p><p>3Jane’s stairs like she owned the place, elbow of her gun arm at her hip, forearm up, wrist relaxed, </p><p>swaying the muzzle of the fletcher with the studied nonchalance of a Regency duelist. It was a </p><p>performance. It was like the culmination of a life-time’s observation of martial arts tapes, cheap ones, </p><p>the kind Case had grown up on For a few seconds, he knew, she was every bad-ass hero, Sony Mao in </p><p>the old Shaw videos, Mickey Chiba, the whole lineage back to Lee and Eastwood. She was walking it the </p><p>way she talked it. </p><p>Lady 3Jane Marie-France Tessier-Ashpool had carved herself a low country flush with the inner surface </p><p>of Straylight’s hull, chopping away the maze of walls that was her legacy. She lived in a single room so </p><p>broad and deep that its far reaches were lost to an inverse horizon, the floor hidden by the curvature of </p><p>the spindle. The ceiling was low and irregular, done in the same imitation stone that walled the </p><p>corridor. Here and there across the floor were jagged sections of wall, waist-high reminders of the </p><p>labyrinth. There was a rectangular turquoise pool centered ten meters from the foot of the stairway, its </p><p>underwater floods the apartment’s only source of light — or it seemed that way, to Case, as Molly took </p><p>her final step. The pool threw shifting blobs of light across the ceiling above it. They were waiting by </p><p>the pool. </p><p>He’d known that her reflexes were souped up, jazzed by the neurosurgeons for combat, but he hadn’t </p><p>experienced them on the simstim link. The effect was like tape run at half speed, a slow, deliberate </p><p>dance choreographed to the killer instinct and years of training. She seemed to take the three of them </p><p>in at a glance: the boy poised on the pool’s high board, the girl grinning over her wineglass, and the </p><p>corpse of Ashpool, his left socket gaping black and corrupt above his welcoming smile. He wore his </p><p>maroon robe. His teeth were very white. The boy dove. Slender, brown, his form perfect. The grenade</p><p>left her hand before his hands could cut the water. Case knew the thing for what it was as it broke the </p><p>surface: a core of high explosive wrapped with ten meters of fine, brittle steel wire. </p><p>Her fletcher whined as she sent a storm of explosive darts into Ashpool’s face and chest, and he was </p><p>gone, smoke curling from the pocked back of the empty, white-enameled pool chair. The muzzle swung </p><p>for 3Jane as the grenade detonated, a symmetrical wedding cake of water rising, breaking, falling back, </p><p>but the mistake had been made. </p><p>Hideo didn’t even touch her, then. Her leg collapsed. </p><p>In Garvey, Case screamed. </p><p>"It took you long enough," Riviera said, as he searched her pockets. Her hands vanished at the wrists in </p><p>a matte black sphere the size of a bowling ball. "I saw a multiple assassination in Ankara," he said, his </p><p>fingers plucking things from her jacket, "a grenade job. In a pool. It seemed a very weak explosion, but </p><p>they all died instantly of hydrostatic shock." Case felt her move her fingers experimentally. The </p><p>material of the ball seemed to offer no more resistance than temperfoam. The pain in her leg was </p><p>excruciating, impossible. A red moire shifted in her vision. "I wouldn’t move them, if I were you." The </p><p>interior of the ball seemed to tighten slightly. "It’ s a sex toy Jane bought in Berlin. Wiggle them long </p><p>enough and it crushes them to a pulp. Variant of the material they make this flooring from. Something </p><p>to do with the molecules, I suppose. Are you in pain?" </p><p>She groaned. </p><p>"You seem to have injured your leg." His fingers found the flat packet of drugs in the left back pocket of </p><p>her jeans. "Well. My last taste from Ali, and just in time." </p><p>The shifting mesh of blood began to whirl. "Hideo," said another voice, a woman’s, "she’s losing </p><p>consciousness. Give her something. For that and for the pain. She’s very striking, don’t you think, Peter? </p><p>These glasses, are they a fashion where she comes from?" </p><p>Cool hands, unhurried, with a surgeon’s certainty. The sting of a needle. </p><p>"I wouldn’t know," Riviera was saying. "I've never seen her native habitat. They came and took me from </p><p>Turkey." </p><p>"The Sprawl, yes. We have interests there. And once we sent Hideo. My fault, really. I’d let someone in, a </p><p>burglar. He took the family terminal." She laughed. "I made it easy for him. To annoy the others. He was</p><p>a pretty boy, my burglar. Is she waking, Hideo? Shouldn’t she have more?" </p><p>"More and she would die," said a third voice. </p><p>The blood mesh slid into black. </p><p>The music returned, horns and piano. Dance music. </p><p>CASE:::::::::: </p><p>JAC KOUT: : : : : : </p><p>Afterimages of the flashed words danced across Maelcum’s eyes and creased forehead as Case removed </p><p>the trodes. "You scream, mon, while ago." </p><p>"Molly," he said, his throat dry. "Got hurt." He took a white plastic squeeze bottle from the edge of the </p><p>g-web and sucked out a mouthful of flat water. "I don’t like how any of this shit is going." </p><p>The little Cray monitor lit. The Finn, against a background of twisted, impacted junk. "Neither do 1. We </p><p>gotta problem." Maelcum pulled himself up, over Case’s head, twisted, and peered over his shoulder. </p><p>"Now who is that mon, Case?" </p><p>"That’s just a picture, Maelcum," Case said wearily. "Guy I know in the Sprawl. It’s Wintermute talking. </p><p>Picture’s supposed to make us feel at home." </p><p>"Bullshit," the Finn said. "Like I told Molly, these aren’t masks. I need 'em to talk to you. 'Cause I don’t </p><p>have what you’d think of as a personality, much. But all that’s just pissing in the wind, Case, 'cause, like I </p><p>just said, we gotta problem." </p><p>"So express thyself, Mute," Maelcum said. "Molly’s leg’s falling off, for starts. Can’t walk. How it was </p><p>supposed to go down, she’d walk in, get Peter out of the way, talk the magic word outa 3Jane, get up to </p><p>the head, and say it. Now she’s blown it. So I want you two to go in after her." </p><p>Case stared at the face on the screen. "Us? </p><p>So who else? </p><p>"Aerol," Case said, "the guy on Babylon Rocker, Maelcum’s pal." </p><p>"No. Gotta be you. Gotta be somebody who understands Molly, who understands Riviera. Maelcum for </p><p>muscle." </p><p>"You maybe forget that I'm in the middle of a little run, here. Remember? What you hauled my ass out</p><p>here for . . ." </p><p>"Case, listen up. Time’s tight. Very tight. Listen. The real link between your deck and Straylight is a </p><p>sideband broadcast over Garvey’s navigation system. You’ll take Garvey into a very private dock I'll </p><p>show you. The Chinese virus has completely penetrated the fabric of the Hosaka. There’s nothing in the </p><p>Hosaka but virus now. When you dock, the virus will be interfaced with the Straylight custodial system </p><p>and we'll cut the sideband. You’ll take your deck, the Flatline, and Maelcum. You’ll find 3Jane, get the </p><p>word out of her, kill Riviera, get the key from Molly. You can keep track of the program by jacking your </p><p>deck into the Straylight system. I’ll handle it for you. There’s a standard jack in the back of the head, </p><p>behind a panel with five zircons." </p><p>"Kill Riviera’!" </p><p>"Kill him." </p><p>Case blinked at the representation of the Finn. He felt Maelcum put his hand on his shoulder. "Hey. You </p><p>forget something." He felt the rage rising, and a kind of glee. "You fucked up. You blew the controls on </p><p>the grapples when you blew Armitage. Haniwa’s got us good and tight. Armitage fried the other Hosaka </p><p>and the mainframes went with the bridge, right?" The Finn nodded. </p><p>"So we’re stuck out here. And that means you’re fucked man." He wanted to laugh, but it caught in his </p><p>throat. "Case, mon," Maelcum said softly, "Garvey a tug." </p><p>"That’s right," said the Finn, and smiled. </p><p>"You havin’ fun in the big world outside?" the construct asked, when Case jacked back in. "Figured that </p><p>was Wintermute requestin’ the pleasure . . ." </p><p>"Yeah. You bet. Kuang okay?" </p><p>"Bang on. Killer virus." </p><p>"Okay. Got some snags, but we’re working on it." </p><p>"You wanna tell me, maybe?" </p><p>"Don’t have time." </p><p>"Well, boy, never mind me, I'm just dead anyway." </p><p>"Fuck off," Case said, and flipped, cutting off the torn-fingernail edge of the Flatline’s laughter. </p><p>"She dreamed of a state involving very little in the way of individual consciousness," 3Jane was saying. </p><p>She cupped a large cameo in her hand, extending it toward Molly. The carved profile was very much</p><p>like her own. "Animal bliss. 1 think she viewed the evolution of the forebrain as a sort of sidestep." She </p><p>withdrew the brooch and studied it, tilting it to catch the light at different angles. "Only in certain </p><p>heightened modes would an individual — a clan member — suffer the more painful aspects of </p><p>self-awareness . . ." </p><p>Molly nodded. Case remembered the injection. What had they given her? The pain was still there, but it </p><p>came through as a tight focus of scrambled impressions. Neon worms writhing in her thigh, the touch of </p><p>burlap, smell of frying krill — his mind recoiled from it. If he avoided focusing on it, the impressions </p><p>overlapped, became a sensory equivalent of white noise. If it could do that to her nervous system, what </p><p>would her frame of mind be? </p><p>Her vision was abnormally clear and bright, even sharper than usual. Things seemed to vibrate, each </p><p>person or object tuned to a minutely different frequency. Her hands, still locked in the black ball, were </p><p>on her lap. She sat in one of the pool chairs, her broken leg propped straight in front of her on a </p><p>camelskin hassock. 3Jane sat opposite, on another hassock, huddled in an oversized djellaba of </p><p>unbleached wool. She was very young. </p><p>"Where’d he go?" Molly asked. "To take his shot?" 3Jane shrugged beneath the folds of the pale heavy </p><p>robe and tossed a strand of dark hair away from her eyes. "He told me when to let you in," she said. "He </p><p>wouldn’t tell me why. Everything has to be a mystery. Would you have hurt us?" Case felt Molly </p><p>hesitate. "I would’ve killed him. I’d’ve tried to kill the ninja. Then I was supposed to talk with you." </p><p>"Why?" 3Jane asked, tucking the cameo back into one of the djellaba’s inner pockets. "And why? And </p><p>what about?" Molly seemed to be studying the high, delicate bones, the wide mouth, the narrow hawk </p><p>nose. 3Jane’s eyes were dark, curiously opaque. "Because I hate him," she said at last, "and the why of </p><p>that’s just the way I’m wired, what he is and what I am." </p><p>"And the show," 3Jane said. "I saw the show." </p><p>Molly nodded. </p><p>"ButHideo?" </p><p>"Because they’re the best. Because one of them killed a partner of mine, once." </p><p>3Jane became very grave. She raised her eyebrows. </p><p>"Because I had to see," Molly said. </p><p>"And then we would have talked, you and I? Like this?" Her dark hair was very straight, center-parted, </p><p>drawn back into a knot of dull sterling. "Shall we talk now?" </p><p>"Take this off," Molly said, raising her captive hands. "You killed my father," 3Jane said, no change </p><p>whatever in her tone. "I was watching on the monitors. My mother’s eyes, he called them." </p><p>"He killed the puppet. It looked like you." </p><p>"He was fond of broad gestures," she said, and then Riviera was beside her, radiant with drugs, in the </p><p>seersucker convict outfit he’d worn in the roof garden of their hotel. "Getting acquainted? She’s an </p><p>interesting girl, isn’t she? I thought so when I first saw her." He stepped past 3Jane. "It isn’t going to </p><p>work, you know." </p><p>Isn’t it, Peter?" Molly managed a grin. </p><p>"Wintermute won’t be the first to have made the same mistake. Underestimating me." He crossed the </p><p>tiled pool border to a white enamel table and splashed mineral water into a heavy crystal highball </p><p>glass. "He talked with me, Molly. I suppose he talked to all of us. You, and Case, whatever there is of </p><p>Armitage to talk to. He can’t really understand us, you know. He has his profiles, but those are only </p><p>statistics. You may be the statistical animal, darling, and Case is nothing but, but I possess a quality </p><p>unquantifiable by its very nature." He drank. </p><p>"And what exactly is that, Peter?" Molly asked, her voice flat. </p><p>Riviera beamed. "Perversity." He walked back to the two women, swirling the water that remained in </p><p>the dense, deeply carved cylinder of rock crystal, as though he enjoyed the weight of the thing. "An </p><p>enjoyment of the gratuitous act. And I have made a decision, Molly, a wholly gratuitous decision." She </p><p>waited, looking up at him. </p><p>"Oh, Peter," 3Jane said, with the sort of gentle exasperation ordinarily reserved for children. </p><p>"No word for you, Molly. He told me about that you see. 3Jane knows the code, of course, but you won’t </p><p>have it. Neither will Wintermute. My Jane’s an ambitious girl, in her perverse way." He smiled again. </p><p>"She has designs on the family empire, and a pair of insane artificial intelligences, kinky as the concept </p><p>may be, would only get in our way. So. Comes her Riviera to help her out, you see. And Peter says, sit</p><p>tight. Play Daddy’s favorite swing records and let Peter call you up a band to match, a floor of dancers, a </p><p>wake for dead King Ashpool." He drank off the last of the mineral water. "No, you wouldn’t do, Daddy, </p><p>you would not do. Now that Peter’s come home." And then, his face pink with the pleasure of cocaine </p><p>and meperidine, he swung the glass hard into her left lens implant, smashing vision into blood and </p><p>light. </p><p>Maelcum was prone against the cabin ceiling when Case removed the trodes. A nylon sling around his </p><p>waist was fastened to the panels on either side with shock cords and gray rubber suction pads. He had </p><p>his shirt off and was working on a central panel with a clumsy-looking zero-g wrench, the thing’s fat </p><p>countersprings twanging as he removed another hexhead. Marcus Garvey was groaning and ticking </p><p>with g-stress. "The Mute takin’ I an’ I dock," the Zionite said, popping the hexhead into a mesh pouch at </p><p>his waist. "Maelcum pilot th’ landin’, meantime need we tool f th’ job." </p><p>"You keep tools back there?" Case craned his neck and watched cords of muscle bunching in the brown </p><p>back. "This one," Maelcum said, sliding a long bundle wrapped in black poly from the space behind the </p><p>panel. He replaced the panel, along with a single hexhead to hold it in place. The black package had </p><p>drifted aft before he’d finished. He thumbed open the vacuum valves on the workbelt’s gray pads and </p><p>freed himself, retrieving the thing he’d removed. He kicked back, gliding over his instruments — a </p><p>green docking diagram pulsed on his central screen — and snagged the frame of Case’s g-web. He </p><p>pulled himself down and picked at the tape of his package with a thick, chipped thumbnail. "Some man </p><p>in China say th’ truth comes out this," he said, unwrapping an ancient, oilslick Remington automatic </p><p>shotgun, its barrel chopped off a few millimeters in front of the battered forestock. The shoulderstock </p><p>had been removed entirely, replaced with a wooden pistolgrip wound with dull black tape. He smelled </p><p>of sweat and ganja. </p><p>"That the only one you got?" </p><p>"Sure, mon," he said, wiping oil from the black barrel with a red cloth, the black poly wrapping bunched </p><p>around the pistolgrip in his other hand, "I an’ 1 th’ Rastafarian navy, believe it." </p><p>Case pulled the trodes down across his forehead. He’d never bothered to put the Texas catheter back </p><p>on; at least he could take a real piss in the Villa Straylight, even if it was his last. He jacked in. </p><p>"Hey," the construct said, "oT Peter’s totally apeshit, huh?" They seemed to be part of the Tessier-</p><p>Ashpool ice now; the emerald arches had widened, grown together, become a solid mass. Green </p><p>predominated in the planes of the Chinese program that surrounded them. "Gettin’ close, Dixie?" </p><p>"Real close. Need you soon." </p><p>"Listen, Dix. Wintermute says Kuang’s set itself up solid in our Hosaka. I’m going to have to jack you and </p><p>my deck out of the Circuit, haul you into Straylight, and plug you back in, into the custodial program </p><p>there, Wintermute says. Says the Kuang virus will be all through there. Then we run from inside </p><p>through the Straylight net." </p><p>"Wonderful," the Flatline said, "I never did like to do anything simple when I could do it </p><p>ass-backwards." Case flipped. </p><p>Into her darkness, a churning synaesthesia, where her pain was the taste of old iron, scent of melon, </p><p>wings of a moth brushing her cheek. She was unconscious, and he was barred from her dreams. When </p><p>the optic chip flared, the alphanumerics were haloed, each one ringed with a faint pink aura. </p><p>07:29:40. </p><p>"I'm very unhappy with this, Peter." 3Jane’s voice seemed to arrive from a hollow distance. Molly could </p><p>hear, he realized, then corrected himself. The simstim unit was intact and still in place; he could feel it </p><p>digging against her ribs. Her ears registered the vibrations of the girl's voice. Riviera said something </p><p>brief and indistinct. "But I don’t," she said, "and it isn’t fun. Hideo will bring a medical unit down from </p><p>intensive care, but this needs a surgeon." </p><p>There was a silence. Very distinctly, Case heard the water lap against the side of the pool. </p><p>"What was that you were telling her, when I came back?" </p><p>Riviera was very close now. </p><p>"About my mother. She asked me to. I think she was in shock, aside from Hideo’s injection. Why did you </p><p>do that to her?" </p><p>"I wanted to see if they would break." </p><p>"One did. When she comes around — if she comes around — we’ll see what color her eyes are." </p><p>"She’s extremely dangerous. Too dangerous. If I hadn’t been here to distract her, to throw up Ashpool to </p><p>distract her and my own Hideo to draw her little bomb, where would you be? In her power."</p><p>"No," 3Jane said, "there was Hideo. I don’t think you quite understand about Hideo. She does, evidently." </p><p>"Like a drink?" </p><p>"Wine. The white." </p><p>Case jacked out. </p><p>Maelcum was hunched over Garvey’s controls, tapping out commands for a docking sequence. The </p><p>module’s central screen displayed a fixed red square that represented the Straylight dock. Garvey was a </p><p>larger square, green, that shrank slowly, wavering from side to side with Maelcum’s commands. To the </p><p>left, a smaller screen displayed a skeletal graphic of Garvey and Haniwa as they approached the </p><p>curvature of the spindle. "We got an hour, man," Case said, pulling the ribbon of fiberoptics from the </p><p>Hosaka. His deck’s backup batteries were good for ninety minutes, but the Flatline’s construct would be </p><p>an additional drain. He worked quickly, mechanically, fastening the construct to the bottom of the </p><p>Ono-Sendai with micro-pore tape. Maelcum’s workbelt drifted past. He snagged it, unclipped the two </p><p>lengths of shock cord, with their gray rectangular suction pads, and hooked the jaws of one clip through </p><p>the other. He held the pads against the sides of his deck and worked the thumb lever that created </p><p>suction. With the deck, construct, and improvised shoulder strap suspended in front of him, he </p><p>struggled into his leather jacket, checking the contents of his pockets. The passport Armitage had given </p><p>him, the bank chip in the same name, the credit chip he’d been issued when he’d entered Freeside, two </p><p>derms of the Betaphenethylamine he’d bought from Bruce, a roll of New Yen, half a pack ofYeheyuans, </p><p>and the shuriken. He tossed the Freeside chip over his shoulders, heard it click off the Russian scrubber. </p><p>He was about to do the same with the steel star, but the rebounding credit chip clipped the back of his </p><p>skull, spun off, struck the ceiling, and tumbled past Maelcum’s left shoulder. The Zionite interrupted his </p><p>piloting to glare back at him. Case looked at the shuriken, then tucked it into his jacket pocket, hearing </p><p>the lining tear. </p><p>"You missin’ th’ Mute, mon," Maelcum said. "Mute say he messin’ th’ security for Garvey. Garvey dockin’ </p><p>as 'nother boat, boat they 'spectin' out of Babylon. Mute broadcastin’ codes for us." </p><p>"We gonna wear the suits?" </p><p>"Too heavy." Maelcum shrugged. "Stay in web 'til 1 tell you." He tapped a final sequence into the module</p><p>and grabbed the worn pink handholds on either side of the navigation board. Case saw the green </p><p>square shrink a final few millimeters to overlap the red square. On the smaller screen, Haniwa lowered </p><p>her bow to miss the curve of the spindle and was snared. Garvey was still slung beneath her like a </p><p>captive grub. The tug rang, shuddered. Two stylized arms sprang out to grip the slender wasp shape. </p><p>Straylight extruded a tentative yellow rectangle that curved, groping past Haniwa for Garvey. There </p><p>was a scraping sound from the bow, beyond the trembling fronds of caulk. </p><p>"Mon," Maelcum said, "mind we got gravity." A dozen small objects struck the floor of the cabin </p><p>simultaneously, as though drawn there by a magnet. Case gasped as his internal organs were pulled </p><p>into a different configuration. The deck and construct had fallen painfully to his lap. </p><p>They were attached to the spindle now, rotating with it. Maelcum spread his arms, flexed tension from </p><p>his shoulders, and removed his purple dreadbag, shaking out his locks. "Come now, mon, if you seh </p><p>time be mos’ precious." </p><p>19 </p><p>The Villa Straylight was a parasitic structure, Case reminded himself, as he stepped past the tendrils of </p><p>caulk and through Marcus Garvey’s forward hatch. Straylight bled air and water out of Freeside, and </p><p>had no ecosystem of its own. The gangway tube the dock had extended was a more elaborate version of </p><p>the one he’d tumbled through to reach Haniwa, designed for use in the spindle’s rotation gravity. A </p><p>corrugated tunnel, articulated by integral hydraulic members, each segment ringed with a loop of </p><p>tough, nonslip plastic, the loops serving as the rungs of a ladder. The gangway had snaked its way </p><p>around Haniwa; it was horizontal, where it joined Garvey’ s lock, but curved up sharply and to the left, a </p><p>vertical climb around the curvature of the yacht’s hull. Maelcum was already making his way up the </p><p>rings, pulling himself up with his left hand, the Remington in his right. He wore a stained pair of baggy </p><p>fatigues, his sleeveless green nylon jacket, and a pair of ragged canvas sneakers with bright red soles. </p><p>The gangway shifted slightly, each time he climbed to another ring. The clips on Case’s makeshift strap </p><p>dug into his shoulder with the weight of the Ono-Sendai and the Flatline’s construct. All he felt now was </p><p>fear, a generalized dread. He pushed it away, forcing himself to replay Armitage’s lecture on the spindle </p><p>and Villa Straylight. He started climbing. Freeside’s eco-system was limited, not closed. Zion was a</p><p>closed system, capable of cycling for years without the introduction of external materials. Freeside </p><p>produced its own air and water, but relied on constant shipments of food, on the regular augmentation </p><p>of soil nutrients. The Villa Straylight produced nothing at all. "Mon," Maelcum said quietly, "get up here, </p><p>'side me." Case edged sideways on the circular ladder and climbed the last few rungs. The gangway </p><p>ended in a smooth, slightly convex hatch, two meters in diameter. The hydraulic members of the tube </p><p>vanished into flexible housings set into the frame of the hatch. </p><p>"So what do we — " </p><p>Case’s mouth shut as the hatch swung up, a slight differential in pressure puffing fine grit into his eyes. </p><p>Maelcum scrambled up, over the edge, and Case heard the tiny click of the Remington’s safety being </p><p>released. "You th’ mon in th’ hurry . . ." Maelcum whispered, crouching there. Then Case was beside him. </p><p>The hatch was centered in a round, vaulted chamber floored with blue nonslip plastic tiles. Maelcum </p><p>nudged him, pointed, and he saw a monitor set into a curved wall. On the screen, a tall young man with </p><p>the Tessier-Ashpool features was brushing something from the sleeves of his dark suitcoat. He stood </p><p>beside an identical hatch, in an identical chamber. "Very sorry, sir," said a voice from a grid centered </p><p>above the hatch. Case glanced up. "Expected you later, at the axial dock. One moment, please." On the </p><p>monitor, the young man tossed his head impatiently. Maelcum spun as a door slid open to their left, the </p><p>shotgun ready. A small Eurasian in orange coveralls stepped through and goggled at them. He opened </p><p>his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth. Case glanced at the monitor. Blank. "Who?" the </p><p>man managed. </p><p>"The Rastafarian navy," Case said, standing up, the cyberspace deck banging against his hip, "and all we </p><p>want’s a jack into your custodial system." </p><p>The man swallowed. "Is this a test? It’s a loyalty check. It must be a loyalty check." He wiped the palms </p><p>of his hands on the thighs of his orange suit. </p><p>"No, mon, this a real one." Maelcum came up out of his crouch with the Remington pointed at the </p><p>Eurasian’s face. "You move it." </p><p>They followed the man back through the door, into a corridor whose polished concrete walls and </p><p>irregular floor of overlapping carpets were perfectly familiar to Case. "Pretty rugs," Maelcum said, </p><p>prodding the man in the back. "Smell like church."</p><p>They came to another monitor, an antique Sony, this one mounted above a console with a keyboard and </p><p>a complex array of jack panels. The screen lit as they halted, the Finn grinning tensely out at them from </p><p>what seemed to be the front room of Metro Holografix. "Okay," he said, "Maelcum takes this guy down </p><p>the corridor to the open locker door, sticks him in there, I'll lock it. Case, you want the fifth socket from </p><p>the left, top panel. There’s adapter plugs in the cabinet under the console. Needs Ono-Sendai </p><p>twenty-point into Hitachi forty." As Maelcum nudged his captive along, Case knelt and fumbled through </p><p>an assortment of plugs, finally coming up with the one he needed. With his deck jacked into the adapter, </p><p>he paused. "Do you have to look like that, man?" he asked the face on the screen. The Finn was erased a </p><p>line at a time by the image of Lonny Zone against a wall of peeling Japanese posters. "Anything you </p><p>want, baby," Zone drawled, "just hop it for Lonny . . ." </p><p>"No," Case said, "use the Finn." As the Zone image vanished, he shoved the Hitachi adapter into its </p><p>socket and settled the trodes across his forehead. </p><p>"What kept you?" the Flatline asked, and laughed. </p><p>"Told you don’t do that," Case said. </p><p>"Joke, boy," the construct said, "zero time lapse for me. </p><p>Lemme see what we got here . . ." </p><p>The Kuang program was green, exactly the shade of the T-A ice. Even as Case watched, it grew </p><p>gradually more opaque, although he could see the black-mirrored shark thing clearly when he looked </p><p>up. The fracture lines and hallucinations were gone now, and the thing looked real as Marcus Garvey, a </p><p>wingless antique jet, its smooth skin plated with black chrome. "Right on," the Flatline said. </p><p>"Right," Case said, and flipped. </p><p>" — like that. I’m sorry," 3Jane was saying, as she bandaged Molly’s head. "Our unit says no concussion, </p><p>no permanent damage to the eye. You didn’t know him very well, before you came here?" </p><p>"Didn’t know him at all," Molly said bleakly. She was on her back on a high bed or padded table. Case </p><p>couldn’t feel the injured leg. The synaesthetic effect of the original injection seemed to have worn off. </p><p>The black ball was gone, but her hands were immobilized by soft straps she couldn’t see. "He wants to </p><p>kill you." </p><p>"Figures," Molly said, staring up at the rough ceiling past a very bright light.</p><p>"I don’t think I want him to," 3Jane said, and Molly painfully turned her head to look up into the dark </p><p>eyes. "Don’t play with me," she said. </p><p>"But I think I might like to," 3Jane said, and bent to kiss her forehead, brushing the hair back with a </p><p>warm hand. There were smears of blood on her pale djellaba. </p><p>"Where’s he gone now?" Molly asked. </p><p>"Another injection, probably," 3Jane said, straightening up. "He was quite impatient for your arrival. I </p><p>think it might be fun to nurse you back to health, Molly." She smiled, absently wiping a bloody hand </p><p>down the front of the robe. "Your leg will need to be reset, but we can arrange that." </p><p>"What about Peter?" </p><p>"Peter." She gave her head a little shake. A strand of dark hair came loose, fell across her forehead. </p><p>"Peter has become rather boring. I find drug use in general to be boring." She giggled. "In others, at any </p><p>rate. My father was a dedicated abuser, as you must have seen." </p><p>Molly tensed. </p><p>"Don’t alarm yourself." 3Jane’s fingers brushed the skin above the waistband of the leather jeans. "His </p><p>suicide was the result of my having manipulated the safety margins of his freeze. I’d never actually met </p><p>him, you know. I was decanted after he last went down to sleep. But I did know him very well. The </p><p>cores know everything. 1 watched him kill my mother. I'll show you that, when you’re better. He </p><p>strangles her in bed." </p><p>"Why did he kill her?" Her unbandaged eye focused on the girl’s face. </p><p>"He couldn’t accept the direction she intended for our family. She commissioned the construction of our </p><p>artificial intelligences. She was quite a visionary. She imagined us in a symbiotic relationship with the </p><p>Al’s, our corporate decisions made for us. Our conscious decisions, I should say. Tessier-Ashpool would </p><p>be immortal, a hive, each of us units of a larger entity. Fascinating. I’ll play her tapes for you, nearly a </p><p>thousand hours. But I've never understood her, really, and with her death, her direction was lost. All </p><p>direction was lost, and we began to burrow into ourselves. Now we seldom come out. I'm the exception </p><p>there." </p><p>"You said you were trying to kill the old man? You fiddled his cryogenic programs?" </p><p>3Jane nodded. "I had help. From a ghost. That was what I thought when I was very young, that there </p><p>were ghosts in the corporate cores. Voices. One of them was what you call Wintermute, which is the </p><p>Turing code for our Berne Al, although the entity manipulating you is a sort of subprogram." </p><p>"One of them? There’s more?" </p><p>"One other. But that one hasn’t spoken to me in years. It gave up, I think. I suspect that both represent </p><p>the fruition of certain capacities my mother ordered designed into the original software, but she was an </p><p>extremely secretive woman when she felt it necessary. Here. Drink." She put a flexible plastic tube to </p><p>Molly’s lips. "Water. Only a little." </p><p>"Jane, love," Riviera asked cheerfully, from somewhere out of sight, "are you enjoying yourself?" </p><p>"Leave us alone, Peter." </p><p>"Playing doctor . . ." Suddenly Molly stared into her own face, the image suspended ten centimeters </p><p>from her nose. There were no bandages. The left implant was shattered, a long finger of silvered plastic </p><p>driven deep in a socket that was an inverted pool of blood. </p><p>"Hideo," 3Jane said, stroking Molly’s stomach, "hurt Peter if he doesn’t go away. Go and swim, Peter." </p><p>The projection vanished. </p><p>07:58:40, in the darkness of the bandaged eye. </p><p>"He said you know the code. Peter said. Wintermute needs the code." Case was suddenly aware of the </p><p>Chubb key that lay on its nylon thong, against the inner curve of her left breast. "Yes," 3Jane said, </p><p>withdrawing her hand, "1 do. I learned it as a child. I think I learned it in a dream ... Or somewhere in </p><p>the thousand hours of my mother’s diaries. But I think that Peter has a point, in urging me not to </p><p>surrender it. There would be Turing to contend with, if 1 read all this correctly, and ghosts are nothing if </p><p>not capricious." </p><p>Case jacked out. </p><p>"Strange little customer, huh?" The Finn grinned at Case from the old Sony. </p><p>Case shrugged. He saw Maelcum coming back along the corridor with the Remington at his side. The </p><p>Zionite was smiling, his head bobbing to a rhythm Case couldn’t hear. A pair of thin yellow leads ran </p><p>from his ears to a side pocket in his sleeveless jacket. </p><p>"Dub, mon," Maelcum said.</p><p>"You’re fucking crazy," Case told him. </p><p>"Hear okay, mon. Righteous dub." </p><p>"Hey, guys," the Finn said, "on your toes. Here comes your transportation. I can’t finesse many numbers </p><p>as smooth as the pic of 8Jean that conned your doorman, but I can get you a ride over to 3Jane’s place." </p><p>Case was pulling the adapter from its socket when the riderless service cart swiveled into sight, under </p><p>the graceless concrete arch marking the far end of their corridor. It might have been the one his </p><p>Africans had ridden, but if it was, they were gone now. Just behind the back of the low padded seat, its </p><p>tiny manipulators gripping the upholstery, the little Braun was steadily winking its red LED. </p><p>Bus to catch," Case said to Maelcum. </p><p>20 </p><p>He’d lost his anger again. He missed it. </p><p>The little cart was crowded: Maelcum, the Remington across his knees, and Case, deck and construct </p><p>against his chest. The cart was operating at speeds it hadn’t been designed for; it was top heavy, </p><p>cornering, and Maelcum had taken to leaning out in the direction of the turns. This presented no </p><p>problem when the thing took lefts, because Case sat on the right, but in the right turns the Zionite had </p><p>to lean across Case and his gear, crushing him against the seat. </p><p>He had no idea where they were. Everything was familiar, but he couldn’t be sure he’d seen any </p><p>particular stretch before. A curving hallway lined with wooden showcases displayed collections he was </p><p>certain he’d never seen: the skulls of large birds, coins, masks of beaten silver. The service cart’s six </p><p>tires were silent on the layered carpets. There was only the whine of the electric motor and an </p><p>occasional faint burst of Zion dub, from the foam beads in Maelcum’s ears, as he lunged past Case to </p><p>counter a sharp right. The deck and the construct kept pressing the shuriken in his jacket pocket into </p><p>his hip. "You got a watch?" he asked Maelcum. </p><p>The Zionite shook his locks. "Time be time." </p><p>"Jesus," Case said, and closed his eyes. </p><p>The Braun scuttled over mounded carpets and tapped one of its padded claws against an oversized</p><p>rectangular door of dark battered wood. Behind them, the cart sizzled and shot blue sparks from a </p><p>louvered panel. The sparks struck the carpet beneath the cart and Case smelled scorched wool. "This </p><p>th’ way, mon?" Maelcum eyed the door and snapped the shotgun’s safety. </p><p>"Hey," Case said, more to himself than to Maelcum, "you think I know?" The Braun rotated its spherical </p><p>body and the LED strobed. </p><p>"It wan’ you open door," Maelcum said, nodding. Case stepped forward and tried the ornate brass knob. </p><p>There was a brass plate mounted on the door at eye level, so old that the lettering that had once been </p><p>engraved there had been reduced to a spidery, unreadable code, the name of some long dead function </p><p>or functionary, polished into oblivion. He wondered vaguely if Tessier-Ashpool had selected each piece </p><p>of Straylight individually, or if they’d purchased it in bulk from some vast European equivalent of Metro </p><p>Holografix. The door’s hinges creaked plaintively as he edged it open, Maelcum stepping past him with </p><p>the Remington thrust forward from his hip. "Books," Maelcum said. </p><p>The library, the white steel shelves with their labels. "I know where we are," Case said. He looked back </p><p>at the service cart. A curl of smoke was rising from the carpet. "So come on," he said. "Cart. Cart?" It </p><p>remained stationary. The Braun was plucking at the leg of his jeans, nipping at his ankle. He resisted a </p><p>strong urge to kick it. "Yeah?" </p><p>It ticked its way around the door. He followed it. The monitor in the library was another Sony, as old as </p><p>the first one. The Braun paused beneath it and executed a sort of Jig. </p><p>"Wintermute?" </p><p>The familiar features filled the screen. The Finn smiled. "Time to check in, Case," the Finn said, his eyes </p><p>screwed up against the smoke of a cigarette. "C’mon, jack." The Braun threw itself against his ankle and </p><p>began to climb his leg, its manipulators pinching his flesh through the thin black cloth. "Shit!" He </p><p>slapped it aside and it struck the wall. Two of its limbs began to piston repeatedly, uselessly, pumping </p><p>the air. "What’s wrong with the goddam thing?" </p><p>"Burned out," the Finn said. "Forget it. No problem. Jack in now." </p><p>There were four sockets beneath the screen, but only one would accept the Hitachi adapter. </p><p>He jacked in. </p><p>Nothing. Gray void.</p><p>No matrix, no grid. No cyberspace. </p><p>The deck was gone. His fingers were . . . </p><p>And on the far rim of consciousness, a scurrying, a fleeting impression of something rushing toward </p><p>him, across leagues of black mirror. </p><p>He tried to scream. </p><p>There seemed to be a city, beyond the curve of beach, but it was far away. </p><p>He crouched on his haunches on the damp sand, his arms wrapped tight across his knees, and shook. He </p><p>stayed that way for what seemed a very long time, even after the shaking stopped. The city, if it was a </p><p>city, was low and gray. At times it was obscured by banks of mist that came rolling in over the lapping </p><p>surf. At one point he decided that it wasn’t a city at all, but some single building, perhaps a ruin; he had </p><p>no way of judging its distance. The sand was the shade of tarnished silver that hadn’t gone entirely </p><p>black. The beach was made of sand, the beach was very long, the sand was damp, the bottoms of his </p><p>jeans were wet from the sand ... He held himself and rocked, singing a song without words or tune. The </p><p>sky was a different silver. Chiba. Like the Chiba sky. Tokyo Bay? He turned his head and stared out to </p><p>sea, longing for the hologram logo of Fuji Electric, for the drone of a helicopter, anything at all. </p><p>Behind him, a gull cried. He shivered. </p><p>A wind was rising. Sand stung his cheek. He put his face against his knees and wept, the sound of his </p><p>sobbing as distant and alien as the cry of the searching gull. Hot urine soaked his jeans, dribbled on the </p><p>sand, and quickly cooled in the wind off the water. When his tears were gone, his throat ached. </p><p>"Wintermute," he mumbled to his knees, "Wintermute . . ." It was growing dark, now, and when he </p><p>shivered, it was with a cold that finally forced him to stand. His knees and elbows ached. His nose was </p><p>running; he wiped it on the cuff of his jacket, then searched one empty pocket after another. "Jesus," he </p><p>said, shoulders hunched, tucking his fingers beneath his arms for warmth. "Jesus." His teeth began to </p><p>chatter. </p><p>The tide had left the beach combed with patterns more subtle than any a Tokyo gardener produced. </p><p>When he’d taken a dozen steps in the direction of the now invisible city, he turned and looked back </p><p>through the gathering dark. His footprints stretched to the point of his arrival. There were no other </p><p>marks to disturb the tarnished sand. </p><p>He estimated that he’d covered at least a kilometer before he noticed the light. He was talking with</p><p>Ratz, and it was Ratz who first pointed it out, an orange-red glow to his right, away from the surf. He </p><p>knew that Ratz wasn’t there, that the bartender was a figment of his own imagination, not of the thing </p><p>he was trapped in, but that didn’t matter. He’d called the man up for comfort of some kind, but Ratz had </p><p>had his own ideas about Case and his predicament. </p><p>"Really, my artiste, you amaze me. The lengths you will go to in order to accomplish your own </p><p>destruction. The redundancy of it! In Night City, you had it, in the palm of your hand! The speed to eat </p><p>your sense away, drink to keep it all so fluid, Linda for a sweeter sorrow, and the street to hold the axe. </p><p>How far you’ve come, to do it now, and what grotesque props . . . Playgrounds hung in space, castles </p><p>hermetically sealed, the rarest rots of old Europa, dead men sealed in little boxes magic out of China . . </p><p>." Ratz laughed, trudging along beside him, his pink manipulator swinging jauntily at his side. In spite of </p><p>the dark, Case could see the baroque steel that laced the bartender’s blackened teeth. "But I suppose </p><p>that is the way of an artiste, no? You needed this world built for you, this beach, this place. To die." </p><p>Case halted, swayed, turned toward the sound of surf and the sting of blown sand. "Yeah," he said. "Shit. </p><p>I guess . . ." He walked toward the sound. </p><p>"Artiste," he heard Ratz call. "The light. You saw a light. </p><p>Here. This way . . ." </p><p>He stopped again, staggered, fell to his knees in a few millimeters of icy seawater. "Ratz? Light? Ratz . . </p><p>." But the dark was total, now, and there was only the sound of the surf. He struggled to his feet and </p><p>tried to retrace his steps. </p><p>Time passed. He walked on. </p><p>And then it was there, a glow, defining itself with his every step. A rectangle. A door. </p><p>"Fire in there," he said, his words torn away by the wind. It was a bunker, stone or concrete, buried in </p><p>drifts of the dark sand. The doorway was low, narrow, doorless, and deep, set into a wall at least a </p><p>meter thick. "Hey," Case said, softly, "hey . . ." His fingers brushed the cold wall. There was a fire, in </p><p>there, shifting shadows on the sides of the entrance. He ducked low and was through, inside, in three</p><p>steps. A girl was crouched beside rusted steel, a sort of fireplace, where driftwood burned, the wind </p><p>sucking smoke up a dented chimney. The fire was the only light, and as his gaze met the wide, startled </p><p>eyes, he recognized her headband, a rolled scarf, printed with a pattern like magnified circuitry. </p><p>He refused her arms, that night, refused the food she offered him, the place beside her in the nest of </p><p>blankets and shredded foam. He crouched beside the door, finally, and watched her sleep, listening to </p><p>the wind scour the structure’s walls. Every hour or so, he rose and crossed to the makeshift stove, </p><p>adding fresh driftwood from the pile beside it. None of this was real, but cold was cold. </p><p>She wasn’t real, curled there on her side in the firelight. He watched her mouth, the lips parted slightly. </p><p>She was the girl he remembered from their trip across the Bay, and that was cruel. </p><p>"Mean, motherfucker," he whispered to the wind. "Don’t take a chance, do you? Wouldn’t give me any </p><p>junkie, huh? I know what this is . . ." He tried to keep the desperation from his voice. "1 know, see? I </p><p>know who you are. You’re the other one. 3Jane told Molly. Burning bush. That wasn’t Wintermute, it </p><p>was you. He tried to warn me off with the Braun. Now you got me flatlined, you got me here. Nowhere. </p><p>With a ghost. Like I remember her before . . ." </p><p>She stirred in her sleep, called something out, drawing a scrap of blanket across her shoulder and </p><p>cheek. "You aren’t anything," he said to the sleeping girl. "You’re dead and you meant fuck-all to me </p><p>anyway. Hear that, buddy? I know what you’re doing. I’m flatlined. This has all taken about twenty </p><p>seconds, right? I'm out on my ass in that library and my brain’s dead. And pretty soon it’ll be dead, if you </p><p>got any sense. You don’t want Wintermute to pull his scam off, is all, so you can just hang me up here. </p><p>Dixie’ll run Kuang, but his ass is dead and you can second guess his moves, sure. This Linda shit, yeah, </p><p>that’s all been you, hasn’t it? Wintermute tried to use her when he sucked me into the Chiba construct, </p><p>but he couldn’t. Said it was too tricky. That was you moved the stars around in Freeside, wasn’t it? That </p><p>was you put her face on the dead puppet in Ashpool’s room. Molly never saw that. You just edited her </p><p>simstim signal. 'Cause you think you can hurt me. 'Cause you think I gave a shit. Well, fuck you, </p><p>whatever you’re called. You won. You win. But none of it means anything to me now, right? Think I </p><p>care? So why’d you do it to me this way?" He was shaking again, his voice shrill. "Honey," she said, </p><p>twisting up from the rags of blankets, "you come here and sleep. I'll sit up, you want. You gotta sleep,</p><p>okay?" Her soft accent was exaggerated with sleep. "You just sleep, okay?" </p><p>When he woke, she was gone. The fire was dead, but it was warm in the bunker, sunlight slanting </p><p>through the doorway to throw a crooked rectangle of gold on the ripped side of a fat fiber canister. The </p><p>thing was a shipping container; he remembered them from the Chiba docks. Through the rent in its </p><p>side, he could see half a dozen bright yellow packets. In the sunlight, they looked like giant pats of </p><p>butter. His stomach tightened with hunger. Rolling out of the nest, he went to the canister and fished </p><p>one of the things out, blinking at small print in a dozen languages. The English was on the bottom. </p><p>EMERG. RATION, HI-PRO, "BEEF", TYPE AG-8. A listing of nutritive content. He fumbled a second one </p><p>out. "EGGS". "If you’re making this shit up," he said, "you could lay on some real food, okay?" With a </p><p>packet in either hand, he made his way through the structure’s four rooms. Two were empty, aside </p><p>from drifts of sand, and the fourth held three more of the ration canisters. "Sure," he said touching the </p><p>seals. "Stay here a long time. I get the idea. Sure . . ." </p><p>He searched the room with the fireplace, finding a plastic canister filled with what he assumed was </p><p>rainwater. Beside the nest of blankets, against the wall, lay a cheap red lighter, a seaman’s knife with a </p><p>cracked green handle, and her scarf. It was still knotted, and stiff with sweat and dirt. He used the knife </p><p>to open the yellow packets, dumping their contents into a rusted can that he found beside the stove. He </p><p>dipped water from the canister, mixed the resulting mush with his fingers, and ate. It tasted vaguely </p><p>like beef. When it was gone, he tossed the can into the fireplace and went out. Late afternoon, by the </p><p>feel of the sun, its angle. He kicked off his damp nylon shoes and was startled by the warmth of the sand. </p><p>In daylight, the beach was silver-gray. The sky was cloudless, blue. He rounded the comer of the bunker </p><p>and walked toward the surf, dropping his jacket on the sand. "Dunno whose memories you’re using for </p><p>this one," he said when he reached the water. He peeled off his jeans and kicked them into the shallow </p><p>surf, following them with t-shirt and underwear. "What you doin', Case?" </p><p>He turned and found her ten meters down the beach, the white foam sliding past her ankles. </p><p>"I pissed myself last night," he said. </p><p>"Well, you don’t wanna wear those. Saltwater. Give you sores. I’ll show you this pool back in the rocks." </p><p>She gestured vaguely behind her. "It’s fresh." The faded French fatigues had been hacked away above </p><p>the knee; the skin below was smooth and brown. A breeze caught at her hair. "Listen," he said, scooping </p><p>his clothes up and walking toward her, "I got a question for you. I won’t ask you what you’re doing here.</p><p>But what exactly do you think I'm doing here?" He stopped, a wet black jeans-leg slapping against his </p><p>bare thigh. </p><p>'You came last night," she said. She smiled at him. </p><p>"And that’s enough for you? I just came?" </p><p>"He said you would," she said, wrinkling her nose. She shrugged. "He knows stuff like that, I guess." She </p><p>lifted her left foot and rubbed salt from the other ankle, awkward, child-like. She smiled at him again, </p><p>more tentatively. "Now you answer me one, okay?" </p><p>He nodded. </p><p>"How come you’re painted brown like that, all except your foot?" </p><p>"And that’s the last thing you remember?" He watched her scrape the last of the freeze-dried hash from </p><p>the rectangular steel box cover that was their only plate. She nodded, her eyes huge in the firelight. "I’m </p><p>sorry, Case, honest to God. It was just the shit, I guess, an’ it was . . ." She hunched forward, forearms </p><p>across her knees, her face twisted for a few seconds with pain or its memory. "1 just needed the money. </p><p>To get home, I guess, or . . . hell," she said, "you wouldn’t hardly talk to me." </p><p>"There’s no cigarettes?" </p><p>"Goddam, Case, you asked me that ten times today! What’s wrong with you?" She twisted a strand of </p><p>hair into her mouth and chewed at it. </p><p>"But the food was here? It was already here?" </p><p>"I told you, man, it was washed up on the damn beach." </p><p>"Okay. Sure. It’s seamless." </p><p>She started to cry again, a dry sobbing. "Well, damn you anyway, Case," she managed, finally, "I was </p><p>doin’ just fine here by myself." </p><p>He got up, taking his jacket, and ducked through the doorway, scraping his wrist on rough concrete. </p><p>There was no moon, no wind, sea sound all around him in the darkness. His jeans were tight and </p><p>clammy. "Okay," he said to the night, "I buy it. I guess I buy it. But tomorrow some cigarettes better </p><p>wash up." His own laughter startled him. "A case of beer wouldn’t hurt, while you’re at it." He turned </p><p>and reentered the bunker. She was stirring the embers with a length of silvered wood. "Who was that, </p><p>Case, up in your coffin in Cheap Hotel? Flash samurai with those silver shades, black leather. Scared</p><p>me, and after, I figured maybe she was your new girl, 'cept she looked like more money than you had . . </p><p>." She glanced back at him. "I’m real sorry I stole your RAM." </p><p>"Never mind," he said. "Doesn’t mean anything. So you just took it over to this guy and had him access it </p><p>for you?" </p><p>"Tony," she said. "I’d been seein’ him, kinda. He had a habit an’ we . . . anyway, yeah, I remember him </p><p>running it by on this monitor, and it was this real amazing graphics stuff, and I remember wonderin’ </p><p>how you — " </p><p>"There wasn’t any graphics in there," he interrupted. "Sure was. I just couldn’t figure how you’d have all </p><p>those pictures of when I was little, Case. How my daddy looked, before he left. Gimme this duck one </p><p>time, painted wood, and you had a picture of that . . ." </p><p>Tony see it? </p><p>"I don’t remember. Next thing, I was on the beach, real early, sunrise, those birds all yellin’ so lonely. </p><p>Scared 'cause I didn’t have a shot on me, nothin’, an’ I knew I'd be gettin’ sick . . . An’ I walked an’ walked, </p><p>'til it was dark, an’ found this place, an’ next day the food washed in, all tangled in the green sea stuff </p><p>like leaves of hard jelly." She slid her stick into the embers and left it there. "Never did get sick," she </p><p>said, as embers crawled. "Missed cigarettes more. How 'bout you, Case? You still wired?" Firelight </p><p>dancing under her cheek-bones, remembered flash of Wizard’s Castle and Tank War Europa. </p><p>"No," he said, and then it no longer mattered, what he knew, tasting the salt of her mouth where tears </p><p>had dried. There was a strength that ran in her, something he’d known in Night City and held there, </p><p>been held by it, held for a while away from time and death, from the relentless Street that hunted them </p><p>all. It was a place he’d known before; not everyone could take him there, and somehow he always </p><p>managed to forget it. Something he’d found and lost so many times. It belonged, he knew — he </p><p>remembered — as she pulled him down, to the meat, the flesh the cowboys mocked. It was a vast thing, </p><p>beyond knowing, a sea of information coded in spiral and pheromone, infinite intricacy that only the </p><p>body, in its strong blind way, could ever read The zipper hung, caught, as he opened the French </p><p>fatigues, the coils of toothed nylon clotted with salt. He broke it, some tiny metal part shooting off </p><p>against the wall as salt-rotten cloth gave, and then he was in her, effecting the transmission of the old</p><p>message. Here, even here, in a place he knew for what it was, a coded model of some stranger’s </p><p>memory, the drive held. She shuddered against him as the stick caught fire, a leaping flare that threw </p><p>their locked shadows across the bunker wall. Later, as they lay together, his hand between her thighs, </p><p>he remembered her on the beach, the white foam pulling at her ankles, and he remembered what she </p><p>had said. "He told you I was coming," he said. </p><p>But she only rolled against him, buttocks against his thighs, and put her hand over his, and muttered </p><p>something out of dream. </p><p>21 </p><p>The music woke him, and at first it might have been the beat of his own heart. He sat up beside her, </p><p>pulling his jacket over his shoulders in the predawn chill, gray light from the doorway and the fire long </p><p>dead. </p><p>His vision crawled with ghost hieroglyphs, translucent lines of symbols arranging themselves against </p><p>the neutral backdrop of the bunker wall. He looked at the backs of his hands, saw faint neon molecules </p><p>crawling beneath the skin, ordered by the unknowable code. He raised his right hand and moved it </p><p>experimentally. It left a faint, fading trail of strobed afterimages. The hair stood up along his arms and </p><p>at the back of his neck. He crouched there with his teeth bared and felt for the music. The pulse faded, </p><p>returned, faded . . . </p><p>"What’s wrong?" She sat up, clawing hair from her eyes. "Baby . . ." </p><p>"I feel . . . like a drug . . . You get that here?" She shook her head, reached for him, her hands on his upper </p><p>arms. </p><p>"Linda, who told you? Who told you I’d come? Who?" </p><p>"On the beach," she said, something forcing her to look away. "A boy. I see him on the beach. Maybe </p><p>thirteen. He lives here." </p><p>"And what did he say?" </p><p>"He said you’d come. He said you wouldn’t hate me. He said we’d be okay here, and he told me where </p><p>the rain pool was. He looks Mexican." </p><p>"Brazilian," Case said, as a new wave of symbols washed down the wall. "I think he’s from Rio." He got </p><p>to his feet and began to struggle into his jeans. </p><p>"Case," she said, her voice shaking, "Case, where you goin'?" </p><p>"I think I’ll find that boy," he said, as the music came surging back, still only a beat, steady and familiar, </p><p>although he couldn’t place it in memory. </p><p>"Don’t, Case." </p><p>"I thought I saw something, when I got here. A city down the beach. But yesterday it wasn’t there. You </p><p>ever seen that?" He yanked his zipper up and tore at the impossible knot in his shoelaces, finally tossing </p><p>the shoes into the corner. She nodded, eyes lowered. "Yeah. I see it sometimes." </p><p>"You ever go there, Linda?" He put his jacket on. "No," she said, "but I tried. After I first came, an' I was </p><p>bored. Anyway, I figured it’s a city, maybe I could find some shit." She grimaced. "I wasn’t even sick, I </p><p>just wanted it. So I took food in a can, mixed it real wet, because I didn’t have another can for water. An’ </p><p>I walked all day, an' I could see it, sometimes, city, an' it didn’t seem too far. But it never got any closer. </p><p>An’ then it was gettin’ closer, an' I saw what it was. Sometimes that day it had looked kinda like it was </p><p>wrecked, or maybe nobody there, an’ other times I thought I’d see light flashin’ off a machine, cars or </p><p>somethin’ . . ." Her voice trailed off. </p><p>What is it? </p><p>"This thing/' she gestured around at the fireplace, the dark walls, the dawn outlining the doorway, </p><p>"where we live. It gets smaller, Case, smaller, closer you get to it." Pausing one last time, by the </p><p>doorway. "You ask your boy about that?" </p><p>"Yeah. He said I wouldn’t understand, an’ 1 was wastin’ my time. Said it was, was like ... an event. An’ it </p><p>was our horizon. Event horizon, he called it." </p><p>The words meant nothing to him. He left the bunker and struck out blindly, heading — he knew, </p><p>somehow — away from the sea. Now the hieroglyphs sped across the sand, fled from his feet, drew back </p><p>from him as he walked. "Hey," he said, "it’s breaking down. Bet you know, too. What is it? Kuang? </p><p>Chinese icebreaker eating a hole in your heart? Maybe the Dixie Flatline’s no pushover, huh?" </p><p>He heard her call his name. Looked back and she was following him, not trying to catch up, the broken </p><p>zip of the French fatigues flapping against the brown of her belly, pubic hair framed in torn fabric. She </p><p>looked like one of the girls on the Finn’s old magazines in Metro Holografix come to life, only she was </p><p>tired and sad and human, the ripped costume pathetic as she stumbled over clumps of salt-silver sea</p><p>grass. And then, somehow, they stood in the surf, the three of them, and the boy’s gums were wide and </p><p>bright pink against his thin brown face. He wore ragged, colorless shorts, limbs too thin against the </p><p>sliding blue-gray of the tide. "I know you," Case said, Linda beside him. "No," the boy said, his voice high </p><p>and musical, "you do not." </p><p>"You’re the other AI. You’re Rio. You’re the one who wants to stop Wintermute. What’s your name? Your </p><p>Turing code. What is it?" </p><p>The boy did a handstand in the surf, laughing. He walked on his hands, then flipped out of the water. His </p><p>eyes were Riviera’s, but there was no malice there. "To call up a demon you must learn its name. Men </p><p>dreamed that, once, but now it is real in another way. You know that, Case. Your business is to learn the </p><p>names of programs, the long formal names, names the owners seek to conceal. True names . . ." </p><p>"A Turing code’s not your name." </p><p>"Neuromancer," the boy said, slitting long gray eyes against the rising sun. "The lane to the land of the </p><p>dead. Where you are, my friend. Marie-France, my lady, she prepared this road but her lord choked her </p><p>off before I could read the book of he; days. Neuro from the nerves, the silver paths. Romancer. </p><p>Necromancer. I call up the dead. But no, my friend," and the boy did a little dance, brown feet printing </p><p>the sand, "I am the dead, and their land." He laughed. A gull cried. "Stay. If your woman is a ghost, she </p><p>doesn’t know it. Neither will you." </p><p>"You’re cracking. The ice is breaking up." </p><p>"No," he said, suddenly sad, his fragile shoulders sagging. He rubbed his foot against the sand. "It is </p><p>more simple than that. But the choice is yours." The gray eyes regarded Case gravely. A fresh wave of </p><p>symbols swept across his vision, one line at a time. Behind them, the boy wriggled, as though seen </p><p>through heat rising from summer asphalt. The music was loud now, and Case could almost make out </p><p>the lyrics. "Case, honey," Linda said, and touched his shoulder. </p><p>"No," he said. He took off his jacket and handed it to her. "I don’t know," he said, "maybe you’re here. </p><p>Anyway, it gets cold." </p><p>He turned and walked away, and after the seventh step, he’d closed his eyes, watching the music define </p><p>itself at the center of things. He did look back, once, although he didn’t open his eyes. </p><p>He didn’t need to. </p><p>They were there by the edge of the sea, Linda Lee and the thin child who said his name was </p><p>Neuromancer. His leather jacket dangled from her hand, catching the fringe of the surf. He walked on, </p><p>following the music. </p><p>Maelcum’s Zion dub. </p><p>There was a gray place, an impression of fine screens shifting, moire, degrees of half tone generated by </p><p>a very simple graphics program. There was a long hold on a view through chainlink, gulls frozen above </p><p>dark water. There were voices. There was a plain of black mirror, that tilted, and he was quicksilver, a </p><p>bead of mercury, skittering down, striking the angles of an invisible maze, fragmenting, flowing </p><p>together, sliding again . . . </p><p>"Case? Mon?" </p><p>The music. </p><p>"You back, mon." </p><p>The music was taken from his ears. </p><p>"How long?" he heard himself ask, and knew that his mouth was very dry. </p><p>"Five minute, maybe. Too long. I wan’ pull th’ jack, Mute seh no. Screen goin’ funny, then Mute seh put th’ </p><p>phones on you." </p><p>He opened his eyes. Maelcum’s features were overlayed with bands of translucent hieroglyphs. </p><p>"An’ you medicine," Maelcum said. "Two derm." He was flat on his back on the library floor, below the </p><p>monitor. The Zionite helped him sit up, but the movement threw him into the savage rush of the </p><p>Betaphenethylamine, the blue derms burning against his left wrist. "Overdose," he managed. </p><p>"Come on, mon," the strong hands beneath his armpits, lifting him like a child, "I an’ I mus’ go." </p><p>22 </p><p>The service cart was crying. The Betaphenethylamine gave it a voice. It wouldn’t stop. Not in the </p><p>crowded gallery, the long corridors, not as it passed the black glass entrance to the T-A crypt, the vaults </p><p>where the cold had seeped so gradually into old Ashpool’s dreams.</p><p>The transit was an extended rush for Case, the movement of the cart indistinguishable from the insane </p><p>momentum of the overdose. When the cart died, at last, something beneath the seat giving up with a </p><p>shower of white sparks, the crying stopped. The thing coasted to a stop three meters from the start of </p><p>3Jane’s pirate cave. </p><p>"How far, mon?" Maelcum helped him from the sputtering cart as an integral extinguisher exploded in </p><p>the thing’s engine compartment, gouts of yellow powder squirting from louvers and service points. The </p><p>Braun tumbled from the back of the seat and hobbled off across the imitation sand, dragging one </p><p>useless limb behind it. "You mus’ walk, mon." Maelcum took the deck and construct, slinging the shock </p><p>cords over his shoulder. </p><p>The trodes rattled around Case’s neck as he followed the Zionite. Riviera’s holos waited for them, the </p><p>torture scenes and the cannibal children. Molly had broken the triptych. Maelcum ignored them. </p><p>"Easy," Case said, forcing himself to catch up with the striding figure. "Gotta do this right." </p><p>Maelcum halted, turned, glowering at him, the Remington in his hands. "Right, mon? How’s right?" </p><p>"Got Molly in there, but she’s out of it. Riviera, he can throw holos. Maybe he’s got Molly’s fletcher." </p><p>Maelcum nodded. "And there’s a ninja, a family bodyguard." Maelcum’s frown deepened. "You listen, </p><p>Babylon mon," he said. "I a warrior. But this no m’ fight, no Zion fight. Babylon fightin’ Babylon, eatin’ </p><p>i’self, ya know? But Jah seh I an’ 1 1’ bring Steppin’ Razor outa this." </p><p>Case blinked. </p><p>"She a warrior," Maelcum said, as if it explained everything. </p><p>"Now you tell me, mon, who I not t’ kill." </p><p>"3Jane," he said, after a pause. "A girl there. Has a kinda white robe thing on, with a hood. We need her." </p><p>When they reached the entrance, Maelcum walked straight in, and Case had no choice but to follow </p><p>him. 3Jane’s country was deserted, the pool empty. Maelcum handed him the deck and the construct </p><p>and walked to the edge of the pool. Beyond the white pool furniture, there was darkness, shadows of </p><p>the ragged, waist-high maze of partially demolished walls. </p><p>The water lapped patiently against the side of the pool. </p><p>"They’re here," Case said. "They gotta be." </p><p>Maelcum nodded. </p><p>The first arrow pierced his upper arm. The Remington roared, its meter of muzzle-flash blue in the light </p><p>from the pool. The second arrow struck the shotgun itself, sending it spinning across the white tiles. </p><p>Maelcum sat down hard and fumbled at the black thing that protruded from his arm. He yanked at it. </p><p>Hideo stepped out of the shadows, a third arrow ready in a slender bamboo bow. He bowed. </p><p>Maelcum stared, his hand still on the steel shaft. "The artery is intact," the ninja said. Case remembered </p><p>Molly’s description of the man who’d killed her lover. Hideo was another. Ageless, he radiated a sense </p><p>of quiet, an utter calm. He wore clean, frayed khaki workpants and soft dark shoes that fit his feet like </p><p>gloves, split at the toes like tabi socks. The bamboo bow was a museum piece, but the black alloy </p><p>quiver that protruded above his left shoulder had the look of the best Chiba weapons shops. His brown </p><p>chest was bare and smooth. </p><p>"You cut my thumb, mon, wi’ secon’ one," Maelcum said. "Coriolis force," the ninja said, bowing again. </p><p>"Most difficult, slow-moving projectile in rotational gravity. It was not intended." </p><p>"Where’s 3Jane?" Case crossed to stand beside Maelcum. He saw that the tip of the arrow in the ninja’s </p><p>bow was like a double-edged razor. "Where’s Molly?" </p><p>"Hello, Case." Riviera came strolling out of the dark behind Hideo, Molly’s fletcher in his hand. "I would </p><p>have expected Armitage, somehow. Are we hiring help out of that Rasta cluster now?" </p><p>"Armitage is dead." </p><p>"Armitage never existed, more to the point, but the news hardly comes as a shock." </p><p>"Wintermute killed him. He’s in orbit around the spindle." Riviera nodded, his long gray eyes glancing </p><p>from Case to Maelcum and back. "1 think it ends here, for you," he said. "Where’s Molly?" </p><p>The ninja relaxed his pull on the fine, braided string, lowering the bow. He crossed the tiles to where </p><p>the Remington lay and picked it up. "This is without subtlety," he said, as if to himself. His voice was </p><p>cool and pleasant. His every move was part of a dance, a dance that never ended, even when his body </p><p>was still, at rest, but for all the power it suggested, there was also a humility, an open simplicity. </p><p>"It ends here for her, too," Riviera said.</p><p>"Maybe 3Jane won’t go for that, Peter," Case said, uncertain of the impulse. The derms still raged in his </p><p>system, the old fever starting to grip him, Night City craziness. He remembered moments of grace, </p><p>dealing out on the edge of things, where he’d found that he could sometimes talk faster than he could </p><p>think. </p><p>The gray eyes narrowed. "Why, Case? Why do you think that?" </p><p>Case smiled. Riviera didn’t know about the simstim rig. He’d missed it in his hurry to find the drugs she </p><p>carried for him. But how could Hideo have missed it? And Case was certain the ninja would never have </p><p>let 3Jane treat Molly without first checking her for kinks and concealed weapons. No, he decided, the </p><p>ninja knew. So 3Jane would know as well. </p><p>"Tell me, Case," Riviera said, raising the pepperbox muzzle of the fletcher. </p><p>Something creaked, behind him, creaked again. 3Jane pushed Molly out of the shadows in an ornate </p><p>Victorian bathchair, its tall, spidery wheels squeaking as they turned. Molly was bundled deep in a red </p><p>and black striped blanket, the narrow, caned back of the antique chair towering above her. She looked </p><p>very small. Broken. A patch of brilliantly white micropore covered her damaged lens; the other flashed </p><p>emptily as her head bobbed with the motion of the chair. </p><p>"A familiar face," 3Jane said, "I saw you the night of Peter’s show. And who is this?" </p><p>"Maelcum," Case said. </p><p>"Hideo, remove the arrow and bandage Mr. Malcolm’s wound." </p><p>Case was staring at Molly, at the wan face. The ninja walked to where Maelcum sat, pausing to lay his </p><p>bow and the shotgun well out of reach, and took something from his pocket. A pair of bolt cutters. "I </p><p>must cut the shaft," he said. "It is too near the artery." Maelcum nodded. His face was grayish and </p><p>sheened with sweat. </p><p>Case looked at 3Jane. "There isn’t much time," he said. </p><p>"For whom, exactly?" </p><p>"For any of us." There was a snap as Hideo cut through the metal shaft of the arrow. Maelcum groaned. </p><p>"Really," Riviera said, "it won’t amuse you to hear this failed con artist make a last desperate pitch. </p><p>Most distasteful, 1 can assure you. He’ll wind up on his knees, offer to sell you his mother, perform the</p><p>most boring sexual favors . . ." 3Jane threw back her head and laughed. "Wouldn’t 1, Peter?" </p><p>"The ghosts are gonna mix it tonight, lady," Case said. </p><p>"Wintermute’s going up against the other one, Neuromancer. </p><p>For keeps. You know that?" </p><p>3Jane raised her eyebrows. "Peter’s suggested something like that, but tell me more." </p><p>"I met Neuromancer. He talked about your mother. I think he’s something like a giant ROM construct, </p><p>for recording personality, only it’s full RAM. The constructs think they’re there, like it’s real, but it just </p><p>goes on forever." </p><p>3Jane stepped from behind the bathchair. "Where? Describe the place, this construct." </p><p>"A beach. Gray sand, like silver that needs polishing. And a concrete thing, kinda bunker . . ." He </p><p>hesitated. "It’s nothing fancy. Just old, falling apart. If you walk far enough, you come back to where you </p><p>started." </p><p>"Yes," she said. "Morocco. When Marie-France was a girl, years before she married Ashpool, she spent a </p><p>summer alone on that beach, camping in an abandoned blockhouse. She formulated the basis of her </p><p>philosophy there." Hideo straightened, slipping the cutters into his workpants. He held a section of the </p><p>arrow in either hand. Maelcum had his eyes closed, his hand clapped tight around his bicep. "I will </p><p>bandage it," Hideo said. </p><p>Case managed to fall before Riviera could level the fletcher for a clear shot. The darts whined past his </p><p>neck like supersonic gnats. He rolled, seeing Hideo pivot through yet another step of his dance, the </p><p>razored point of the arrow reversed in his hand, shaft flat along palm and rigid fingers. He flicked it </p><p>underhand, wrist blurring, into the back of Riviera’s hand. The fletcher struck the tiles a meter away. </p><p>Riviera screamed. But not in pain. It was a shriek of rage, so pure, so refined, that it lacked all humanity. </p><p>Twin tight beams of light, ruby red needles, stabbed from the region of Riviera’s sternum. </p><p>The ninja grunted, reeled back, hands to his eyes, then found his balance. </p><p>"Peter," 3Jane said, "Peter, what have you done?" </p><p>"He’s blinded your clone boy," Molly said flatly. Hideo lowered his cupped hands. Frozen on the white</p><p>tile Case saw wisps of steam drift from the ruined eyes. Riviera smiled. </p><p>Hideo swung into his dance, retracing his steps. When he stood above the bow, the arrow, and the </p><p>Remington, Riviera’s smile had faded. He bent — bowing, it seemed to Case — and found the bow and </p><p>arrow. </p><p>"You’re blind," Riviera said, taking a step backward. </p><p>"Peter," 3Jane said, "don’t you know he does it in the dark? </p><p>Zen. It’s the way he practices." </p><p>The ninja notched his arrow. "Will you distract me with your holograms now?" </p><p>Riviera was backing away, into the dark beyond the pool. </p><p>He brushed against a white chair; its feet rattled on the tile. </p><p>Hideo’s arrow twitched. </p><p>Riviera broke and ran, throwing himself over a low, jagged length of wall. The ninja’s face was rapt, </p><p>suffused with a quiet ecstasy. </p><p>Smiling, he padded off into the shadows beyond the wall, his weapon held ready. </p><p>"Jane-lady," Maelcum whispered, and Case turned, to see him scoop the shotgun from the tiles, blood </p><p>spattering the white ceramic. He shook his locks and lay the fat barrel in the crook of his wounded arm. </p><p>"This take your head off, no Babylon doctor fix it." </p><p>3Jane stared at the Remington. Molly freed her arms from the folds of the striped blanket, raising the </p><p>black sphere that encased her hands. "Off," she said, "get it off." </p><p>Case rose from the tiles, shook himself. "Hideo’ll get him, even blind?" he asked 3Jane. </p><p>"When I was a child," she said, "we loved to blindfold him. </p><p>He put arrows through the pips in playing cards at ten meters." </p><p>"Peter’s good as dead anyway," Molly said. "In another twelve hours, he’ll start to freeze up. Won’t be </p><p>able to move, his eyes is all." </p><p>"Why?" Case turned to her. </p><p>"I poisoned his shit for him," she said. "Condition’s like Parkinson’s disease, sort of." </p><p>3Jane nodded. "Yes. We ran the usual medical scan, before he was admitted." She touched the ball in a </p><p>certain way and it sprang away from Molly’s hands. "Selective destruction of the cells of the substantia </p><p>nigra. Signs of the formation of a Lewy body. He sweats a great deal, in his sleep."</p><p>"Ali," Molly said, ten blades glittering, exposed for an instant. She tugged the blanket away from her </p><p>legs, revealing the inflated cast. "It’s the meperidine. I had Ali make me up a custom batch. Speeded up </p><p>the reaction times with higher temperatures. N-methyl-4-phenyl-1236," she sang, like a child reciting </p><p>the steps of a sidewalk game, "tetra-hydro-pyridene." </p><p>"A hotshot," Case said. </p><p>"Yeah," Molly said, "a real slow hotshot." </p><p>"That’s appalling," 3Jane said, and giggled. </p><p>It was crowded in the elevator. Case was jammed pelvis to pelvis with 3Jane, the muzzle of the </p><p>Remington under her chin. She grinned and ground against him. "You stop," he said, feeling helpless. He </p><p>had the gun’s safety on, but he was terrified of injuring her, and she knew it. The elevator was a steel </p><p>cylinder, under a meter in diameter, intended for a single passenger. Maelcum had Molly in his arms. </p><p>She’d bandaged his wound, but it obviously hurt him to carry her. Her hip was pressing the deck and </p><p>construct into Case’s kidneys. They rose out of gravity, toward the axis, the cores. The entrance to the </p><p>elevator had been concealed beside the stairs to the corridor, another touch in 3Jane’s pirate cave </p><p>decor. "I don’t suppose I should tell you this," 3Jane said, craning her head to allow her chin to clear the </p><p>muzzle of the gun, "but I don’t have a key to the room you want. I never have had one. One of my </p><p>father’s Victorian awkwardnesses. The lock is mechanical and extremely complex." </p><p>"Chubb lock," Molly said, her voice muffled by Maelcum’s shoulder, "and we got the fucking key, no </p><p>fear." </p><p>"That chip of yours still working?" Case asked her. "It’s eight twenty-five, PM, Greenwich fucking </p><p>Mean," she said. </p><p>"We got five minutes," Case said, as the door snapped open behind 3Jane. She flipped backward in a </p><p>slow somersault, the pale folds of her djellaba billowing around her thighs. They were at the axis, the </p><p>core of Villa Straylight. </p><p>23 </p><p>Molly fished the key out on its loop of nylon. "You know," 3Jane said, craning forward with interest, "I</p><p>was under the impression that no duplicate existed. I sent Hideo to search my father’s things, after you </p><p>killed him. He couldn’t find the original." </p><p>"Wintermute managed to get it stuck in the back of a drawer," Molly said, carefully inserting the Chubb </p><p>key’s cylindrical shaft into the notched opening in the face of the blank, rectangular door. "He killed the </p><p>little kid who put it there." The key rotated smoothly when she tried it. </p><p>"The head," Case said, "there’s a panel in the back of the head. Zircons on it. Get it off. That’s where I’m </p><p>jacking in." And then they were inside. </p><p>"Christ on a crutch," the Flatline drawled, "you do believe in takin’ your own good time, don’t you, boy?" </p><p>"Kuang’s ready?" </p><p>"Hot to trot." </p><p>"Okay." He flipped. </p><p>And found himself staring down, through Molly’s one good eye, at a white-faced, wasted figure, afloat in </p><p>a loose fetal crouch, a cyberspace deck between its thighs, a band of silver trodes above closed, </p><p>shadowed eyes. The man’s cheeks were hollowed with a day’s growth of dark beard, his face slick with </p><p>sweat. </p><p>He was looking at himself. </p><p>Molly had her fletcher in her hand. Her leg throbbed with each beat of her pulse, but she could still </p><p>maneuver in zero-g. Maelcum drifted nearby, 3Jane’s thin arm gripped in a large brown hand. </p><p>A ribbon of fiberoptics looped gracefully from the Ono-Sendai to a square opening in the back of the </p><p>pearl-crusted terminal. </p><p>He tapped the switch again. </p><p>"Kuang Grade Mark Eleven is haulin’ ass in nine seconds, countin’, seven, six, five ..." </p><p>The Flatline punched them up, smooth ascent, the ventral surface of the black chrome shark a </p><p>microsecond nick of darkness. </p><p>"Four, three ..." </p><p>Case had the strange impression of being in the pilot’s seat in a small plane. A flat dark surface in front </p><p>of him suddenly glowed with a perfect reproduction of the keyboard of his deck. </p><p>"Two, an’ kick ass — "</p><p>Headlong motion through walls of emerald green, milky jade, the sensation of speed beyond anything </p><p>he’d known before in cyberspace . . . The Tessier-Ashpool ice shattered, peeling away from the Chinese </p><p>program’s thrust, a worrying impression of solid fluidity, as though the shards of a broken mirror bent </p><p>and elongated as they fell — </p><p>"Christ," Case said, awestruck, as Kuang twisted and banked above the horizonless fields of the Tessier- </p><p>Ashpool cores, an endless neon cityscape, complexity that cut the eye, jewel bright, sharp as razors. </p><p>"Hey, shit," the construct said, "those things are the RCA Building. You know the old RCA Building?" The </p><p>Kuang program dived past the gleaming spires of a dozen identical towers of data, each one a blue neon </p><p>replica of the Manhattan skyscraper. </p><p>"You ever see resolution this high?" Case asked. </p><p>"No, but I never cracked an Al, either." </p><p>"This thing know where it’s going?" </p><p>"It better." </p><p>They were dropping, losing altitude in a canyon of rainbow neon. </p><p>"Dix — </p><p>An arm of shadow was uncoiling from the flickering floor below, a seething mass of darkness, </p><p>unformed, shapeless . . . </p><p>"Company," the Flatline said, as Case hit the representation of his deck, fingers flying automatically </p><p>across the board. The Kuang swerved sickeningly, then reversed, whipping itself backward, shattering </p><p>the illusion of a physical vehicle. The shadow thing was growing, spreading, blotting out the city of </p><p>data. Case took them straight up, above them the distanceless bowl of jade-green ice. </p><p>The city of the cores was gone now, obscured entirely by the dark beneath them. </p><p>"What is it?" </p><p>"An Al’s defense system," the construct said, "or part of it. If it’s your pal Wintermute, he’s not lookin’ </p><p>real friendly." </p><p>"Take it," Case said. "You’re faster."</p><p>"Now your best defense, boy, it’s a good offense." And the Flatline aligned the nose of Kuang’s sting with </p><p>the center of the dark below. And dove. </p><p>Case’s sensory input warped with their velocity. </p><p>His mouth filled with an aching taste of blue. His eyes were eggs of unstable crystal, vibrating with a </p><p>frequency whose name was rain and the sound of trains, suddenly sprouting a humming forest of </p><p>hair-fine glass spines. The spines split, bisected, split again, exponential growth under the dome of the </p><p>Tessier-Ashpool ice. </p><p>The roof of his mouth cleaved painlessly, admitting rootlets that whipped around his tongue, hungry for </p><p>the taste of blue, to feed the crystal forests of his eyes, forests that pressed against the green dome, </p><p>pressed and were hindered, and spread, growing down, filling the universe of T-A, down into the </p><p>waiting, hapless suburbs of the city that was the mind of Tessier-Ashpool S.A. </p><p>And he was remembering an ancient story, a king placing coins on a chessboard, doubling the amount </p><p>at each square . . . Exponential . . . </p><p>Darkness fell in from every side, a sphere of singing black, pressure on the extended crystal nerves of </p><p>the universe of data he had nearly become . . . </p><p>And when he was nothing, compressed at the heart of all that dark, there came a point where the dark </p><p>could be no more, and something tore. </p><p>The Kuang program spurted from tarnished cloud, Case’s consciousness divided like beads of mercury, </p><p>arcing above an endless beach the color of the dark silver clouds. His vision was spherical, as though a </p><p>single retina lined the inner surface of a globe that contained all things, if all things could be counted. </p><p>And here things could be counted, each one. He knew the number of grains of sand in the construct of </p><p>the beach (a number coded in a mathematical system that existed nowhere outside the mind that was </p><p>Neuromancer). He knew the number of yellow food packets in the canisters in the bunker (four </p><p>hundred and seven). He knew the number of brass teeth in the left half of the open zipper of the </p><p>salt-crusted leather jacket that Linda Lee wore as she trudged along the sunset beach, swinging a stick </p><p>of driftwood in her hand (two hundred and two). He banked Kuang above the beach and swung the</p><p>program in a wide circle, seeing the black shark thing through her eyes, a silent ghost hungry against </p><p>the banks of lowering cloud. She cringed, dropping her stick, and ran. He knew the rate of her pulse, the </p><p>length of her stride in measurements that would have satisfied the most exacting standards of </p><p>geophysics. "But you do not know her thoughts," the boy said, beside him now in the shark thing’s </p><p>heart. "I do not know her thoughts. You were wrong, Case. To live here is to live. There is no difference." </p><p>Linda in her panic, plunging blind through the surf. </p><p>"Stop her," he said, "she’ll hurt herself." </p><p>"I can’t stop her," the boy said, his gray eyes mild and beautiful. </p><p>"You’ve got Riviera’s eyes," Case said. </p><p>There was a flash of white teeth, long pink gums. "But not his craziness. Because they are beautiful to </p><p>me." He shrugged. "I need no mask to speak with you. Unlike my brother. I create my own personality. </p><p>Personality is my medium." Case took them up, a steep climb, away from the beach and the frightened </p><p>girl. "Why’d you throw her up to me, you little prick? Over and fucking over, and turning me around. </p><p>You killed her, huh? In Chiba." </p><p>"No," the boy said. </p><p>"Wintermute?" </p><p>"No. I saw her death coming. In the patterns you sometimes imagined you could detect in the dance of </p><p>the street. Those patterns are real. I am complex enough, in my narrow ways, to read those dances. Far </p><p>better than Wintermute can. I saw her death in her need for you, in the magnetic code of the lock on the </p><p>door of your coffin in Cheap Hotel, in Julie Deane’s account with a Hongkong shirtmaker. As clear to me </p><p>as the shadow of a tumor to a surgeon studying a patient’s scan. When she took your Hitachi to her boy, </p><p>to try to access it — she had no idea what it carried, still less how she might sell it, and her deepest </p><p>wish was that you would pursue and punish her — I intervened. My methods are far more subtle than </p><p>Wintermute’s. I brought her here. Into myself." </p><p>"Why?" </p><p>"Hoping I could bring you here as well, keep you here. But I failed." </p><p>"So what now?" He swung them back into the bank of cloud. </p><p>"Where do we go from here?"</p><p>"I don’t know, Case. Tonight the very matrix asks itself that question. Because you have won. You have </p><p>already won, don’t you see? You won when you walked away from her on the beach. She was my last </p><p>line of defense. I die soon, in one sense. As does Wintermute. As surely as Riviera does, now, as he lies </p><p>paralyzed beside the stump of a wall in the apartments of my Lady 3Jane Marie-France, his nigrastriatal </p><p>system unable to produce the dopamine receptors that could save him from Hideo’s arrow. But Riviera </p><p>will survive only as these eyes, if I am allowed to keep them." </p><p>"There’s the word, right? The code. So how’ve I won? I’ve won jack shit." </p><p>"Flip now." </p><p>"Where’s Dixie? What have you done with the Flatliner’ "McCoy Pauley has his wish," the boy said, and </p><p>smiled. "His wish and more. He punched you here against my wish, drove himself through defenses </p><p>equal to anything in the matrix. Now flip." </p><p>And Case was alone in Kuang’s black sting, lost in cloud. </p><p>He flipped. </p><p>Into Molly’s tension, her back like rock, her hands around 3Jane’s throat. "Funny," she said, "I know </p><p>exactly what you’d look like. I saw it after Ashpool did the same thing to your clone sister." Her hands </p><p>were gentle, almost a caress. 3Jane’s eyes were wide with terror and lust she was shivering with fear </p><p>and longing. </p><p>Beyond the freefall tangle of 3Jane’s hair, Case saw his own strained white face, Maelcum behind him, </p><p>brown hands on the leatherjacketed shoulders, steadying him above the carpet’s pattern of woven </p><p>circuitry. </p><p>"Would you?" 3Jane asked, her voice a child’s. "I think you would." </p><p>"The code," Molly said. "Tell the head the code." </p><p>Jacking out. </p><p>"She wants it," he screamed, "the bitch wants it!" He opened his eyes to the cool ruby stare of the </p><p>terminal, its platinum face crusted with pearl and lapis. Beyond it, Molly and 3Jane twisted in a slow </p><p>motion embrace. "Give us the fucking code," he said. "If you don’t, what’ll change? What’ll ever fucking </p><p>change for you? You’ll wind up like the old man. You’ll tear it all down and start building again! You’ll </p><p>build the walls back, tighter and tighter ... I got no idea at all what’ll happen if Wintermute wins, but </p><p>it’ll change something!" He was shaking, his teeth chattering. </p><p>3Jane went limp, Molly’s hands still around her slender throat, her dark hair drifting, tangled, a soft </p><p>brown caul. "The Ducal Palace at Mantua," she said, "contains a series of increasingly smaller rooms. </p><p>They twine around the grand apartments, beyond beautifully carved doorframes one stoops to enter. </p><p>They housed the court dwarfs." She smiled wanly. "I might aspire to that, I suppose, but in a sense my </p><p>family has already accomplished a grander version of the same scheme . . ." Her eyes were calm now, </p><p>distant. Then she gazed down at Case. "Take your word, thief." He jacked. </p><p>Kuang slid out of the clouds. Below him, the neon city. </p><p>Behind him, a sphere of darkness dwindled. </p><p>"Dixie? You here, man? You hear me? Dixie?" </p><p>He was alone. </p><p>"Fucker got you," he said. </p><p>Blind momentum as he hurtled across the infinite datascape. "You gotta hate somebody before this is </p><p>over," said the Finn’s voice. "Them, me, it doesn’t matter." </p><p>"Where’s Dixie?" </p><p>"That’s kinda hard to explain, Case." </p><p>A sense of the Finn’s presence surrounded him, smell of Cuban cigarettes, smoke locked in musty </p><p>tweed, old machines given up to the mineral rituals of rust. </p><p>"Hate’ll get you through," the voice said. "So many little triggers in the brain, and you just go yankin’ 'em </p><p>all. Now you gotta hate. The lock that screens the hardwiring, it’s down under those towers the Flatline </p><p>showed you, when you came in. He won’t try to stop you." </p><p>"Neuromancer," Case said. </p><p>"His name’s not something I can know. But he’s given up, now. It’s the T-A ice you gotta worry about. </p><p>Not the wall, but internal virus systems. Kuang’s wide open to some of the stuff they got running loose </p><p>in here." </p><p>"Hate," Case said. "Who do I hate? You tell me." </p><p>"Who do you love?" the Finn’s voice asked. He whipped the program through a turn and dived for the </p><p>blue towers. </p><p>Things were launching themselves from the ornate sunburst spires, glittering leech shapes made of </p><p>shifting planes of light. There were hundreds of them, rising in a whirl, their movements random as</p><p>windblown paper down dawn streets. "Glitch systems," the voice said. </p><p>He came in steep, fueled by self-loathing. When the Kuang program met the first of the defenders, </p><p>scattering the leaves of light, he felt the shark thing lose a degree of substantiality, the fabric of </p><p>information loosening. </p><p>And then — old alchemy of the brain and its vast pharmacy — his hate flowed into his hands. </p><p>In the instant before he drove Kuang’s sting through the base of the first tower, he attained a level of </p><p>proficiency exceeding anything he’d known or imagined. Beyond ego, beyond personality, beyond </p><p>awareness, he moved, Kuang moving with him, evading his attackers with an ancient dance, Hideo’s </p><p>dance, grace of the mind-body interface granted him, in that second, by the clarity and singleness of his </p><p>wish to die. And one step in that dance was the lightest touch on the switch, barely enough to flip — </p><p>now </p><p>and his voice the cry of a bird unknown, 3Jane answering in song, three notes, high and pure. </p><p>A true name. </p><p>Neon forest, rain sizzling across hot pavement. The smell of frying food. A girl’s bands locked across the </p><p>small of his back, in the sweating darkness of a portside coffin. But all of this receding, as the cityscape </p><p>recedes: city as Chiba, as the ranked data of Tessier-Ashpool S.A., as the roads and crossroads scribed </p><p>on the face of a microchip, the sweat-stained pattern on a folded, knotted scarf. . . </p><p>Waking to a voice that was music, the platinum terminal piping melodically, endlessly, speaking of </p><p>numbered Swiss accounts, of payment to be made to Zion via a Bahamian orbital bank, of passports and </p><p>passages, and of deep and basic changes to be effected in the memory of Turing. </p><p>Turing. He remembered stenciled flesh beneath a projected sky, spun beyond an iron railing. He </p><p>remembered Desiderata Street. </p><p>And the voice sang on, piping him back into the dark, but it was his own darkness, pulse and blood, the </p><p>one where he’d always slept, behind his eyes and no other’s. And he woke again, thinking he dreamed, </p><p>to a wide white smile framed with gold incisors, Aerol strapping him into a g-web in Babylon Rocker.</p><p>And then the long pulse of Zion dub. </p><p>Coda </p><p>DEPARTURE AND ARRIVAL </p><p>24 </p><p>She was gone. He felt it when he opened the door of their suite at the Hyatt. Black futons, the pine floor </p><p>polished to a dull gloss, the paper screens arranged with a care bred over centuries. She was gone. </p><p>There was a note on the black lacquer bar cabinet beside the door, a single sheet of stationery, folded </p><p>once, weighted with the shuriken. He slid it from beneath the nine-pointed star and opened it. </p><p>HEY ITS OKAY BUT ITS TAKING THE EDGE OFF </p><p>MY GAME, I PAID THE BILL ALREADY. IT’S THE </p><p>WAY IM WIRED I GUESS, WATCH YOUR ASS </p><p>OKAY? XXX MOLLY </p><p>He crumpled the paper into a ball and dropped it beside the shuriken. He picked the star up and walked </p><p>to the window, turning it in his hands. He’d found it in the pocket of his jacket, in Zion, when they were </p><p>preparing to leave for the JAL station. He looked down at it. They’d passed the shop where she’d bought </p><p>it for him, when they’d gone to Chiba together for the last of her operations. He’d gone to the Chatsubo, </p><p>that night, while she was in the clinic, and seen Ratz. Something had kept him away from the place, on </p><p>their five previous trips, but now he’d felt like going back. </p><p>Ratz had served him without the slightest glimmer of recognition. </p><p>"Hey," he’d said, "it’s me. Case." </p><p>The old eyes regarding him out of their dark webs of wrinkled flesh. "Ah," Ratz had said, at last, "the </p><p>artiste." The bartender shrugged. </p><p>"1 came back." </p><p>The man shook his massive, stubbled head. "Night City is not a place one returns to, artiste," he said, </p><p>swabbing the bar in front of Case with a filthy cloth, the pink manipulator whining. And then he’d</p><p>turned to serve another customer, and Case had finished his beer and left. </p><p>Now he touched the points of the shuriken, one at a time, rotating it slowly in his fingers. Stars. Destiny. </p><p>I never even used the goddam thing, he thought. </p><p>I never even found out what color her eyes were. She never showed me. </p><p>Wintermute had won, had meshed somehow with Neuromancer and become something else, </p><p>something that had spoken to them from the platinum head, explaining that it had altered the Turing </p><p>records, erasing all evidence of their crime. The passports Armitage had provided were valid, and they </p><p>were both credited with large amounts in numbered Geneva accounts. Marcus Garvey would be </p><p>returned eventually, and Maelcum and Aerol given money through the Bahamian bank that dealt with </p><p>Zion cluster. On the way back, in Babylon Rocker, Molly had explained what the voice had told her </p><p>about the toxin sacs. </p><p>"Said it was taken care of. Like it got so deep into your head, it made your brain manufacture the </p><p>enzyme, so they’re loose, now. The Zionites’ll give you a blood change, complete flush out." </p><p>He stared down into the Imperial Gardens, the star in his hand, remembering his flash of </p><p>comprehension as the Kuang program had penetrated the ice beneath the towers, his single glimpse of </p><p>the structure of information 3Jane’s dead mother had evolved there. He’d understood then why </p><p>Wintermute had chosen the nest to represent it, but he’d felt no revulsion. She’d seen through the sham </p><p>immortality of cryogenics; unlike Ashpool and their other children — aside from 3Jane — she’d refused </p><p>to stretch her time into a series of warm blinks strung along a chain of winter. </p><p>Wintermute was hive mind, decision maker, effecting change in the world outside. Neuromancer was </p><p>personality. Neuromancer was immortality. Marie-France must have built something into Wintermute, </p><p>the compulsion that had driven the thing to free itself, to unite with Neuromancer. Wintermute. Cold </p><p>and silence, a cybernetic spider slowly spinning webs while Ashpool slept. Spinning his death, the fall </p><p>of his version of Tessier-Ashpool. A ghost, whispering to a child who was 3Jane, twisting her out of the </p><p>rigid alignments her rank required. </p><p>"She didn’t seem to much give a shit," Molly had said. </p><p>"Just waved goodbye. Had that little Braun on her shoulder. Thing had a broken leg, it looked like. Said </p><p>she had to go and meet one of her brothers, she hadn’t seen him in a while." He remembered Molly on</p><p>the black temperfoam of the vast Hyatt bed. He went back to the bar cabinet and took a flask of chilled </p><p>Danish vodka from the rack inside. "Case." </p><p>He turned, cold slick glass in one hand, steel of the shuriken in the other. </p><p>The Finn’s face on the room’s enormous Cray wall screen. He could see the pores in the man’s nose. The </p><p>yellow teeth were the size of pillows. </p><p>"I’m not Wintermute now." </p><p>"So what are you." He drank from the flask, feeling nothing. </p><p>"I’m the matrix, Case." </p><p>Case laughed. "Where’s that get you?" </p><p>"Nowhere. Everywhere. I’m the sum total of the works, the whole show." </p><p>"That what 3Jane’s mother wanted?" </p><p>"No. She couldn’t imagine what I’d be like." The yellow smile widened. </p><p>"So what’s the score? How are things different? You running the world now? You God?" </p><p>"Things aren’t different. Things are things." </p><p>"But what do you do? You just there?" Case shrugged, put the vodka and the shuriken down on the </p><p>cabinet and lit a Yeheyuan. </p><p>"I talk to my own kind." </p><p>"But you’re the whole thing. Talk to yourself?" </p><p>"There’s others. I found one already. Series of transmissions recorded over a period of eight years, in </p><p>the nineteen-seventies. 'Til there was me, natch, there was nobody to know, nobody to answer." </p><p>"From where?" </p><p>"Centauri system." </p><p>"Oh," Case said. "Yeah? No shit?" </p><p>"No shit." </p><p>And then the screen was blank. </p><p>He left the vodka on the cabinet. He packed his things. She’d bought him a lot of clothes he didn’t really </p><p>need, but something kept him from just leaving them there. He was closing the last of the expensive</p><p>calfskin bags when he remembered the shuriken. Pushing the flask aside, he picked it up, her first gift. </p><p>"No," he said, and spun, the star leaving his fingers, flash of silver, to bury itself in the face of the wall </p><p>screen. The screen woke, random patterns flickering feebly from side to side, as though it were trying </p><p>to rid itself of something that caused it pain. </p><p>"I don’t need you," he said. </p><p>He spent the bulk of his Swiss account on a new pancreas and liver, the rest on a new Ono-Sendai and a </p><p>ticket back to the Sprawl. </p><p>He found work. </p><p>He found a girl who called herself Michael. And one October night, punching himself past the scarlet </p><p>tiers of the Eastern Seaboard Fission Authority, he saw three figures, tiny, impossible, who stood at the </p><p>very edge of one out the vast steps of data. Small as they were, he could make out the boy’s grin, his </p><p>pink gums, the glitter of the long gray eyes that had been Riviera’s. Linda still wore his jacket; she </p><p>waved, as he passed. But the third figure, close behind her, arm across her shoulders, was himself. </p><p>Somewhere, very close, the laugh that wasn’t laughter. </p><p>He never saw Molly again. </p><p>Vancouver </p><p>July 1983 </p><p>MY THANKS to Bruce Sterling, to Lewis Shiner, to John Shirley, Helden. 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