From fe9000267af3a5000bad8716dd52492893dce534 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: eugenefischer Date: Wed, 17 Jun 2020 21:28:51 -0500 Subject: [PATCH] neuromancer part 1 --- NeuromancerPart1.txt | 1372 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1 file changed, 1372 insertions(+) create mode 100644 NeuromancerPart1.txt diff --git a/NeuromancerPart1.txt b/NeuromancerPart1.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..153fb9c --- /dev/null +++ b/NeuromancerPart1.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1372 @@ +PART ONE + +CHIBA CITY BLUES + +The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned +to a dead channel. +"It's not like I'm using," Case heard someone say, as he +shouldered his way through the crowd around the door of the +Chat. "It's like my body's developed this massive drug deficiency." +It was a Sprawl voice and a Sprawl joke. The Chatsubo +was a bar for professional expatriates; you could drink there +for a week and never hear two words in Japanese. +Ratz was tending bar, his prosthetic arm jerking monotonously +as he filled a tray of glasses with draft Kirin. He saw +Case and smiled, his teeth a web work of East European steel +and brown decay. Case found a place at the bar, between the +unlikely tan on one of Lonny Zone's whores and the crisp naval +uniform of a tall African whose cheekbones were ridged with +Joe boys," Ratz said, shoving a draft across the bar with his +good hand. "Maybe some business with you, Case?" +Case shrugged. The girl to his right giggled and nudged + + +The bartender's smile widened. His ugliness was the stuff +of legend. In an age of affordable beauty, there was something +heraldic about his lack of it. The antique arm whined as he +reached for another mug. It was a Russian military prosthesis, +a seven-function force-feedback manipulator, cased in grubby +pink plastic. "You are too much the artiste, Herr Case." Ratz +grunted; the sound served him as laughter. He scratched his +overhang of white-shirted belly with the pink claw. "You are +the artiste of the slightly funny deal." +"Sure," Case said, and sipped his beer. "Somebody's gotta +be funny around here. Sure the fuck isn't you." +The whore's giggle went up an octave. +"Isn't you either, sister. So you vanish, okay? Zone, he's +a close personal friend of mine." +She looked Case in the eye and made the softest possible +spitting sound, her lips barely moving. But she left. +"Jesus," Case said, "what kind a creep joint you running here? +Man can't have a drink." +"Ha," Ratz said, swabbing the scarred wood with a rag, +"Zone shows a percentage. You I let work here for entertainment +value." +As Case was picking up his beer, one of those strange +instants of silence descended, as though a hundred unrelated +conversations had simultaneously arrived at the same pause. +Then the whore's giggle rang out, tinged with a certain hysteria. +Ratz grunted. "An angel passed." +"The Chinese," bellowed a drunken Australian, "Chinese +bloody invented nerve-splicing. Give me the mainland for a +nerve job any day. Fix you right, mate...." +"Now that," Case said to his glass, all his bitterness suddenly +rising in him like bile, "that is so much bullshit." + +The Japanese had already forgotten more neurosurgery than +the Chinese had ever known. The black clinics of Chiba were +the cutting edge, whole bodies of technique supplanted monthly, +and still they couldn't repair the damage he'd suffered in that +Memphis hotel. +A year here and he still dreamed of cyberspace, hope fading +nightly. All the speed he took, all the turns he'd taken and the +corners he'd cut in Night City, and still he'd see the matrix in +his sleep, bright lattices of logic unfolding across that colorless +void.... The Sprawl was a long strange way home over the +Pacific now, and he was no console man, no cyberspace cowboy. +Just another hustler, trying to make it through. But the +dreams came on in the Japanese night like live wire voodoo +and he'd cry for it, cry in his sleep, and wake alone in the +dark, curled in his capsule in some coffin hotel, his hands +clawed into the bedslab, temper foam bunched between his fingers, +trying to reach the console that wasn't there. + +"I saw your girl last night," Ratz said, passing Case his +second Kirin. +"I don't have one," he said, and drank. +"Miss Linda Lee." +Case shook his head. +"No girl? Nothing? Only biz, friend artiste? Dedication to +commerce?" The bartender's small brown eyes were nested +deep in wrinkled flesh. "I think I liked you better, with her. +You laughed more. Now, some night, you get maybe too artistic, +you wind up in the clinic tanks, spare parts." +"You're breaking my heart, Ratz." He finished his beer, +paid and left, high narrow shoulders hunched beneath the rain-stained +khaki nylon of his windbreaker. Threading his way +through the Ninsei crowds, he could smell his own stale sweat. +Case was twenty-four. At twenty-two, he'd been a cowboy +a rustler, one of the best in the Sprawl. He'd been trained by +the best, by McCoy Pauley and Bobby Quine, legends in the +biz. He'd operated on an almost permanent adrenaline high, a +byproduct of youth and proficiency, jacked into a custom cyberspace +deck that projected his disembodied consciousness +into the consensual hallucination that was the matrix. A thief +he'd worked for other, wealthier thieves, employers who provided +the exotic software required to penetrate the bright walls +of corporate systems, opening windows into rich fields of data. +He'd made the classic mistake, the one he'd sworn he'd +never make. He stole from his employers. He kept something +for himself and tried to move it through a fence in Amsterdam. +He still wasn't sure how he'd been discovered, not that it +mattered now. He'd expected to die, then, but they only smiled. + + +Of course he was welcome, they told him, welcome to the +money. And he was going to need it. Because--still smiling-- +they were going to make sure he never worked again. +They damaged his nervous system with a wartime Russian +mycotoxin. +Strapped to a bed in a Memphis hotel, his talent burning +out micron by micron, he hallucinated for thirty hours. +The damage was minute, subtle, and utterly effective. +For Case, who'd lived for the bodiless exultation of cyberspace, +it was the Fall. In the bars he'd frequented as a cowboy +hotshot, the elite stance involved a certain relaxed contempt +for the flesh. The body was meat. Case fell into the prison of +his own flesh. + +His total assets were quickly converted to New Yen, a fat +sheaf of the old paper currency that circulated endlessly through +the closed circuit of the world's black markets like the seashells +of the Trobriand islanders. It was difficult to transact legitimate +business with cash in the Sprawl; in Japan, it was already +illegal. +In Japan, he'd known with a clenched and absolute certainty, +he'd find his cure. In Chiba. Either in a registered clinic or in +the shadow land of black medicine. Synonymous with implants, +nerve-splicing, and micro bionics, Chiba was a magnet for the +Sprawl's techno-criminal subcultures. +In Chiba, he'd watched his New Yen vanish in a two-month +round of examinations and consultations. The men in the black +clinics, his last hope, had admired the expertise with which +he'd been maimed, and then slowly shaken their heads. +Now he slept in the cheapest coffins, the ones nearest the +port, beneath the quartz-halogen floods that lit the docks all +night like vast stages; where you couldn't see the lights of +Tokyo for the glare of the television sky, not even the towering +hologram logo of the Fuji Electric Company, and Tokyo Bay +was a black expanse where gulls wheeled above drifting shoals +of white styrofoam. Behind the port lay the city, factory domes +dominated by the vast cubes of corporate arcologies. Port and +city were divided by a narrow borderland of older streets, an +area with no official name. Night City, with Ninsei its heart. +By day, the bars down Ninsei were shuttered and featureless, +the neon dead, the holograms inert, waiting, under the poisoned +silver sky. + +Two blocks west of the Chat, in a teashop called the Jarre +de The, Case washed down the night's first pill with a double +espresso. It was a flat pink octagon, a potent species of Brazilian +dex he bought from one of Zone's girls. +The Jarre was walled with mirrors, each panel framed in +red neon. +At first, finding himself alone in Chiba, with little money +and less hope of finding a cure, he'd gone into a kind of terminal +overdrive, hustling fresh capital with a cold intensity that had +seemed to belong to someone else. In the first month, he'd +killed two men and a woman over sums that a year before +would have seemed ludicrous. Ninsei wore him down until the +street itself came to seem the externalization of some death +wish, some secret poison he hadn't known he carried. +Night City was like a deranged experiment in social Darwinism, +designed by a bored researcher who kept one thumb +permanently on the fast-forward button. Stop hustling and you +sank without a trace, but move a little too swiftly and you'd +break the fragile surface tension of the black market; either +way, you were gone, with nothing left of you but some vague +memory in the mind of a fixture like Ratz, though heart or +lungs or kidneys might survive in the service of some stranger +with New Yen for the clinic tanks. +Biz here was a constant subliminal hum, and death the +accepted punishment for laziness, carelessness, lack of grace, +the failure to heed the demands of an intricate protocol. +Alone at a table in the Jarre de The, with the octagon coming +on, pinheads of sweat starting from his palms, suddenly aware +of each tingling hair on his arms and chest, Case knew that at +some point he'd started to play a game with himself, a very +ancient one that has no name, a final solitaire. He no longer +carried a weapon, no longer took the basic precautions. He ran +the fastest, loosest deals on the street, and he had a reputation +for being able to get whatever you wanted. A part of him knew +that the arc of his self-destruction was glaringly obvious to his +customers, who grew steadily fewer, but that same part of him +basked in the knowledge that it was only a matter of time. And +that was the part of him, smug in its expectation of death, that +most hated the thought of Linda Lee. +He'd found her, one rainy night, in an arcade. +Under bright ghosts burning through a blue haze of cigarette +smoke, holograms of Wizard's Castle, Tank War Europa, +the New York skyline.... And now he remembered her that +way, her face bathed in restless laser light, features reduced to +a code: her cheekbones flaring scarlet as Wizard's Castle burned, +forehead drenched with azure when Munich fell to the Tank +War, mouth touched with hot gold as a gliding cursor struck +sparks from the wall of a skyscraper canyon. He was riding +high that night, with a brick of Wage's ketamine on its way +to Yokohama and the money already in his pocket. He'd come +in out of the warm rain that sizzled across the Ninsei pavement +and somehow she'd been singled out for him, one face out of +the dozens who stood at the consoles, lost in the game she +played. The expression on her face, then, had been the one +he'd seen, hours later, on her sleeping face in a port side coffin, +her upper lip like the line children draw to represent a bird in +flight. +Crossing the arcade to stand beside her, high on the deal +he'd made, he saw her glance up. Gray eyes rimmed with +smudged black paintstick. Eyes of some animal pinned in the +headlights of an oncoming vehicle. +Their night together stretching into a morning, into tickets +at the hover port and his first trip across the Bay. The rain kept +up, falling along Harajuku, beading on her plastic jacket, the +children of Tokyo trooping past the famous boutiques in white +loafers and cling wrap capes, until she'd stood with him in the +midnight clatter of a pachinko parlor and held his hand like a +child. +It took a month for the gestalt of drugs and tension he moved +through to turn those perpetually startled eyes into wells of +reflexive need. He'd watched her personality fragment, calving +like an iceberg, splinters drifting away, and finally he'd seen +the raw need, the hungry armature of addiction. He'd watched +her track the next hit with a concentration that reminded him +of the mantises they sold in stalls along Shiga, beside tanks of +blue mutant carp and crickets caged in bamboo. +He stared at the black ring of grounds in his empty cup. It +was vibrating with the speed he'd taken. The brown laminate +of the table top was dull with a patina of tiny scratches. With +the dex mounting through his spine he saw the countless random +impacts required to create a surface like that. The Jarre was +decorated in a dated, nameless style from the previous century, +an uneasy blend of Japanese traditional and pale Milanese plastics, +but everything seemed to wear a subtle film, as though +the bad nerves of a million customers had somehow attacked +the mirrors and the once glossy plastics, leaving each surface +fogged with something that could never be wiped away. +"Hey. Case, good buddy...." +He looked up, met gray eyes ringed with paintstick. She +was wearing faded French orbital fatigues and new white sneakers. + +"I been lookin' for you, man." She took a seat opposite +him, her elbows on the table. The sleeves of the blue zip suit +had been ripped out at the shoulders; he automatically checked +her arms for signs of derms or the needle. "Want a cigarette?" +She dug a crumpled pack of Yeheyuan filters from an ankle +pocket and offered him one. He took it, let her light it with a +red plastic tube. "You sleep in' okay, Case? You look tired." +Her accent put her south along the Sprawl, toward Atlanta. +The skin below her eyes was pale and unhealthy-looking, but +the flesh was still smooth and firm. She was twenty. New lines +of pain were starting to etch themselves permanently at the +corners of her mouth. Her dark hair was drawn back, held by +a band of printed silk. The pattern might have represented +microcircuits, or a city map. +"Not if I remember to take my pills," he said, as a tangible +wave of longing hit him, lust and loneliness riding in on the +wavelength of amphetamine. He remembered the smell of her +skin in the overheated darkness of a coffin near the port, her +locked across the small of his back. +All the meat, he thought, and all it wants. +"Wage," she said, narrowing her eyes. "He wants to see +you with a hole in your face." She lit her own cigarette. +"Who says? Ratz? You been talking to Ratz?" +"No. Mona. Her new squeeze is one of Wage's boys." +"I don't owe him enough. He does me, he's out the money +anyway." He shrugged. + +"Too many people owe him now, Case. Maybe you get to +be the example. You seriously better watch it." +"Sure. How about you, Linda? You got anywhere to sleep?" +"Sleep." She shook her head. "Sure, Case." She shivered, +hunched forward over the table. Her face was filmed with +sweat. +"Here," he said, and dug in the pocket of his windbreaker, +coming up with a crumpled fifty. He smoothed it automatically, +under the table, folded it in quarters, and passed it to her. +"You need that, honey. You better give it to Wage." There +was something in the gray eyes now that he couldn't read, +something he'd never seen there before. +"I owe Wage a lot more than that. Take it. I got more +coming," he lied, as he watched his New Yen vanish into a +zippered pocket. +"You get your money, Case, you find Wage quick." +"I'll see you, Linda," he said, getting up. +"Sure." A millimeter of white showed beneath each of her +pupils. Sanpaku. "You watch your back, man." +He nodded, anxious to be gone. +He looked back as the plastic door swung shut behind him, +saw her eyes reflected in a cage of red neon. + +Friday night on Ninsei. +He passed yakitori stands and massage parlors, a franchised +coffee shop called Beautiful Girl, the electronic thunder of an +arcade. He stepped out of the way to let a dark-suited sarariman +by, spotting the Mitsubishi-Genentech logo tattooed across the +back of the man's right hand. +Was it authentic? if that's for real, he thought, he's in for +trouble. If it wasn't, served him right. M-G employees above +a certain level were implanted with advanced microprocessors +that monitored mutagen levels in the bloodstream. Gear like +that would get you rolled in Night City, rolled straight into a +black clinic. +The sarariman had been Japanese, but the Ninsei crowd was +a gaijin crowd. Groups of sailors up from the port, tense solitary +tourists hunting pleasures no guidebook listed, Sprawl heavies +showing off grafts and implants, and a dozen distinct species. +of hustler, all swarming the street in an intricate dance of desire +and commerce. +There were countless theories explaining why Chiba City +tolerated the Ninsei enclave, but Case tended toward the idea +that the Yakuza might be preserving the place as a kind of +historical park, a reminder of humble origins. But he also +saw a certain sense in the notion that burgeoning technologies +require outlaw zones, that Night City wasn't there for its inhabitants, +but as a deliberately unsupervised playground for +technology itself. +Was Linda right, he wondered, staring up at the lights? +Would Wage have him killed to make an example? It didn't +make much sense, but then Wage dealt primarily in proscribed +biologicals, and they said you had to be crazy to do that. +But Linda said Wage wanted him dead. Case's primary +insight into the dynamics of street dealing was that neither the +buyer nor the seller really needed him. A middleman's business +is to make himself a necessary evil. The dubious niche Case +had carved for himself in the criminal ecology of Night City +had beep cut out with lies, scooped out a night at a time with +betrayal. Now, sensing that its walls were starting to crumble, +he felt the edge of a strange euphoria. +The week before, he'd delayed transfer of a synthetic glandular +extract, retailing it for a wider margin than usual. He +knew Wage hadn't liked that. Wage was his primary supplier, +nine years in Chiba and one of the few gaijin dealers who'd +Managed to forge links with the rigidly stratified criminal establishment +beyond Night City's borders. Genetic materials and +hormones trickled down to Ninsei along an intricate ladder of +fronts and blinds. Somehow Wage had managed to trace something +back, once, and now he enjoyed steady connections in a +dozen cities. +Case found himself staring through a shop window. The +place sold small bright objects to the sailors. Watches, flicknives, +lighters, pocket VTRs, Sims Tim decks, weighted man- +riki chains, and shuriken. The shuriken had always fascinated +him, steel stars with knife-sharp points. Some were chromed, +others black, others treated with a rainbow surface like oil on +water. But the chrome stars held his gaze. They were mounted +against scarlet ultra suede with nearly invisible loops of nylon +fish line, their centers stamped with dragons or yin yang symbols. +They caught the street's neon and twisted it, and it came +to Case that these were the stars under which he voyaged, his +destiny spelled out in a constellation of cheap chrome. +"Julie," he said to his stars. "Time to see old Julie. He'll +know." + +Julius Deane was one hundred and thirty-five years old, his +metabolism assiduously warped by a weekly fortune in serums +and hormones. His primary hedge against aging was a yearly +pilgrimage to Tokyo, where genetic surgeons re-set the code +of his DNA, a procedure unavailable in Chiba. Then he'd fly +to Hong-Kong and order the year's suits and shirts. Sex-less and +inhumanly patient, his primary gratification seemed to lie in +his devotion to esoteric forms of tailor-worship. Case had never +seen him wear the same suit twice, although his wardrobe +seemed to consist entirely of meticulous reconstructions of garments +of the previous century. He affected prescription lenses, +framed in spidery gold, ground from thin slabs of pink synthetic +quartz and beveled like the mirrors in a Victorian doll house. +His offices were located in a warehouse behind Ninsei, part +of which seemed to have been sparsely decorated, years before, +with a random collection of European furniture, as though +Deane had once intended to use the place as his home. Neo-Aztec +bookcases gathered dust against one wall of the room +where Case waited. A pair of bulbous Disney-styled table lamps +perched awkwardly on a low Kandinsky-look coffee table in +scarlet-lacquered steel. A Dali clock hung on the wall between +the bookcases, its distorted face sagging to the bare concrete +floor. Its hands were holograms that altered to match the convolutions +of the face as they rotated, but it never told the correct +time. The room was stacked with white fiberglass shipping +modules that gave off the tang of preserved ginger. +"You seem to be clean, old son," said Deane's disembodied +voice. "Do come in." +Magnetic bolts thudded out of position around the massive +imitation-rosewood door to the left of the bookcases. JULIUS +DEANE IMPORT EXPORT was lettered across the plastic in +peeling self-adhesive capitals. If the furniture scattered in +Deane's makeshift foyer suggested the end of the past century, +the office itself seemed to belong to its start. +Deane's seamless pink face regarded Case from a pool of +light cast by an ancient brass lamp with a rectangular shade of +dark green glass. The importer was securely fenced behind a +vast desk of painted steel, flanked on either side by tall, drawer +Ed cabinets made of some sort of pale wood. The sort of +thing, Case supposed, that had once been used to store written +records of some kind. The desktop was littered with cassettes, +scrolls of yellowed printout, and various parts of some sort of +clockwork typewriter, a machine Deane never seemed to get +around to reassembling. +"What brings you around, boy?" Deane asked, offering +Case a narrow bonbon wrapped in blue-and-white checked paper. +"Try one. Tins Ting Djahe, the very best." Case refused +the ginger, took a seat in a yawing wooden swivel chair, and +ran a thumb down the faded seam of one black jeans-leg. "Julie +I hear Wage wants to kill me." +"Ah. Well then. And where did you hear this, if I may?" +"People." +"People," Deane said, around a ginger bonbon. "What sort +of people? Friends?" +Case nodded. +"Not always that easy to know who your friends are, is it?" +"I do owe him a little money, Deane. He say anything to +you?" +"Haven't been in touch, of late." Then he sighed. "If I did +know, of course, I might not be in a position to tell you. Things +being what they are, you understand." +"Things?" +"He's an important connection Case." +"Yeah. He want to kill me, Julie?" +"Not that I know of." Deane shrugged. They might have +been discussing the price of ginger. "If it proves to be an +unfounded rumor, old son, you come back in a week or so and +I'll let you in on a little something out of Singapore." +"Out of the Nan Hai Hotel, Bencoolen Street?" +"Loose lips, old son!" Deane grinned. The steel desk was +jammed with a fortune in debugging gear. +"Be seeing you, Julie. I'll say hello to Wage." + +Deane's fingers came up to brush the perfect knot in his +pale silk tie. + +He was less than a block from Deane's office when it hit, +the sudden cellular awareness that someone was on his ass, +and very close. +The cultivation of a certain tame paranoia was something +Case took for granted. The trick lay in not letting it get out of +control. But that could be quite a trick, behind a stack of +octagons. He fought the adrenaline surge and composed his +narrow features in a mask of bored vacancy, pretending to let +the crowd carry him along. When he saw a darkened display +window, he managed to pause by it. The place was a surgical +boutique, closed for renovations. With his hands in the pockets +of his jacket, he stared through the glass at a flat lozenge of +vat grown flesh that lay on a carved pedestal of imitation jade. +The color of its skin reminded him of Zone's whores; it was +tattooed with a luminous digital display wired to a sub-cutaneous +chip. Why bother with the surgery, he found himself thinking, +while sweat coursed down his ribs, when you could just carry +the thing around in your pocket? +Without moving his head, he raised his eyes and studied +the reflection of the passing crowd. +There. +Behind sailors in short-sleeved khaki. Dark hair, mirrored +glasses, dark clothing, slender. . . +And gone. +Then Case was running, bent low, dodging between bodies. + +"Rent me a gun, Shin?" +The boy smiled. "Two hour." They stood together in the +smell of fresh raw seafood at the rear of a Shiga sushi stall. +"You come back, two hour." +"I need one now, man. Got anything right now?" +Shin rummaged behind empty two-liter cans that had once +been filled with powdered horseradish. He produced a slender +package wrapped in gray plastic. "Taser. One hour, twenty +New Yen. Thirty deposit." +"Shit. I don't need that. I need a gun. Like I maybe wanna +shoot somebody, understand?" +The waiter shrugged, replacing the taser behind the horseradish +cans. "Two hour." +He went into the shop without bothering to glance at the +display of shuriken. He'd never thrown one in his life. +He bought two packs of Yeheyuans with a Mitsubishi Bank +chip that gave his name as Charles Derek May. It beat Truman +Starr, the best he'd been able to do for a passport. +The Japanese woman behind the terminal looked like she +had a few years on old Deane, none of them with the benefit +of science. He took his slender roll of New Yen out of his +pocket and showed it to her. "I want to buy a weapon." +She gestured in the direction of a case filled with knives. +"No," he said, "I don't like knives." +She brought an oblong box from beneath the counter. The +lid was yellow cardboard, stamped with a crude image of a +coiled cobra with a swollen hood. Inside were eight identical +tissue-wrapped cylinders. He watched while mottled brown +fingers stripped the paper from one. She held the thing up for +him to examine, a dull steel tube with a leather thong at one +end and a small bronze pyramid at the other. She gripped the +tube with one hand, the pyramid between her other thumb and +forefinger, and pulled. Three oiled, telescoping segments of +tightly wound coil spring slid out and locked. "Cobra," she said. + +Beyond the neon shudder of Ninsei, the sky was that mean +shade of gray. The air had gotten worse; it seemed to have +teeth tonight, and half the crowd wore filtration masks. Case +had spent ten minutes in a urinal, trying to discover a convenient +way to conceal his cobra; finally he'd settled for tucking the +handle into the waistband of his jeans, with the tube slanting +across his stomach. The pyramidal striking tip rode between +his ribcage and the lining of his windbreaker. The thing felt +like it might clatter to the pavement with his next step, but it +made him feel better. +The Chat wasn't really a dealing bar, but on weeknights it +attracted a related clientele. Fridays and Saturdays were different. +The regulars were still there, most of them, but they +faded behind an influx of sailors and the specialists who preyed +on diem. As Case pushed through the doors, he looked for +Ratz, but the bartender wasn't in sight. Lonny Zone, the bar's +resident pimp, was observing with glazed fatherly interest as +one of his girls went to work on a young sailor. Zone was +addicted to a brand of hypnotic the Japanese called Cloud +Dancers. Catching the pimp's eye, Case beckoned him to the +bar. Zone came drifting through the crowd in slow motion, his +long face slack and placid. +"You seen Wage tonight, Lonny?" +Zone regarded him with his usual calm. He shook his head. +"You sure, man?" +"Maybe in the Namban. Maybe two hours ago." +"Got some Joeboys with him? One of 'em thin, dark hair, +maybe a black jacket?" +"No," Zone said at last, his smooth forehead creased to +indicate the effort it cost him to recall so much pointless detail. +"Big boys. Graftees." Zone's eyes showed very little white and +less iris; under the drooping lids, his pupils were dilated and +enormous. He stared into Case's face for a long time, then +lowered his gaze. He saw the bulge of the steel whip. "Cobra," +he said, and raised an eyebrow. "You wanna fuck somebody +up?" +"See you, Lonny." Case left the bar. + +His tail was back. He was sure of it. He felt a stab of elation +the octagons and adrenaline mingling with something else. +You're enjoying this, he thought; you're crazy. +Because, in some weird and very approximate way, it was +like a run in the matrix. Get just wasted enough, find yourself +in some desperate but strangely arbitrary kind of trouble, and +it was possible to see Ninsei as a field of data, the way the +matrix had once reminded him of proteins linking to distinguish +cell specialties. Then you could throw yourself into a high-speed +drift and skid, totally engaged but set apart from it all, and all +around you the dance of biz, information interacting, data made +flesh in the mazes of the black market.... +Go it, Case, he told himself. Suck 'em in. Last thing they'll +expect. He was half a block from the games arcade where he'd +first met Linda Lee. +He bolted across Ninsei, scattering a pack of strolling sailors. +One of them screamed after him in Spanish. Then he was +through the entrance, the sound crashing over him like surf, +subsonics throbbing in the pit of his stomach. Someone scored +a ten-megaton hit on Tank War Europa, a simulated air burst +drowning the arcade in white sound as a lurid hologram fireball +mushroomed overhead. He cut to the right and loped up a flight +of unpainted chip board stairs. He'd come here once with Wage, +to discuss a deal in proscribed hormonal triggers with a man +called Matsuga. He remembered the hallway, its stained matting, +the row of identical doors leading to tiny office cubicles. +One door was open now. A Japanese girl in a sleeveless black +t-shirt glanced up from a white terminal, behind her head a +travel poster of Greece, Aegian blue splashed with streamlined +ideograms. +"Get your security up here," Case told her. +Then he sprinted down the corridor, out of her sight. The +last two doors were closed and, he assumed, locked. He spun +and slammed the sole of his nylon running shoe into the blue-lacquered +composition door at the far end. It popped, cheap +hardware falling from the splintered frame. Darkness there, the +white curve of a terminal housing. Then he was on the door +to its right, both hands around the transparent plastic knob, +leaning in with everything he had. Something snapped, and he +was inside. This was where he and Wage had met with Matsuga, +but whatever front company Matsuga had operated was +long gone. No terminal, nothing. Light from the alley behind +the arcade, filtering in through soot blown plastic. He made out +a snake like loop of fiber optics protruding from a wall socket, +a pile of discarded food containers, and the blade less nacelle +of an electric fan. +The window was a single pane of cheap plastic. He shrugged +out of his jacket, bundled it around his right hand, and punched. +It split, requiring two more blows to free it from the frame. +Over the muted chaos of the games, an alarm began to cycle, +triggered either by the broken window or by the girl at the head +of the corridor. +Case turned, pulled his jacket on, and flicked the cobra to +full extension. +With the door closed, he was counting on his tail to assume +he'd gone through the one he'd kicked half off its hinges. The +cobra's bronze pyramid began to bob gently, the spring-steel +shaft amplifying his pulse. +Nothing happened. There was only the surging of the alarm, +the crashing of the games, his heart hammering. When the fear +came, it was like some half-forgotten friend. Not the cold +rapid mechanism of the dex-paranoia, but simple animal fear. +He'd lived for so long on a constant edge of anxiety that he'd +almost forgotten what real fear was. +This cubicle was the sort of place where people died. He +might die here. They might have guns.... +A crash, from the far end of the corridor. A man's voice, +shouting something in Japanese. A scream, shrill terror. Another +crash. +And footsteps, unhurried, coming closer. +Passing his closed door. Pausing for the space of three rapid +beats of his heart. And returning. One, two, three. A bootheel +scraped the matting. +The last of his octagon-induced bravado collapsed. He +snapped the cobra into its handle and scrambled for the window, +blind with fear, his nerves screaming. He was up, out, and +falling, all before he was conscious of what he'd done. The +impact with pavement drove dull rods of pain through his shins. +A narrow wedge of light from a half-open service hatch +framed a heap of discarded fiber optics and the chassis of a +junked console. He'd fallen face forward on a slab of soggy +chip board, he rolled over, into the shadow of the console. The +cubicle's window was a square of faint light. The alarm still +oscillated, louder here, the rear wall dulling the roar of the +games. +A head appeared, framed in the window, back lit by the +fluorescents in the corridor, then vanished. It returned, but he +still couldn't read the features. Glint of silver across the eyes. +"Shit," someone said, a woman, in the accent of the northern +Sprawl. +The head was gone. Case lay under the console for a long +count of twenty, then stood up. The steel cobra was still in his +hand, and it took him a few seconds to remember what it was. +He limped away down the alley, nursing his left ankle. + +Shin's pistol was a fifty-year-old Vietnamese imitation of +a South American copy of a Walther PPK, double-action on +the first shot, with a very rough pull. It was chambered for .22 +long rifle, and Case would've preferred lead azide explosives +to the simple Chinese hollow points Shin had sold him. Still +it was a handgun and nine rounds of ammunition, and as he +made his way down Shiga from the sushi stall he cradled it in +his jacket pocket. The grips were bright red plastic molded in +a raised dragon motif, something to run your thumb across +in the dark. He'd consigned the cobra to a dump canister on +Ninsei and dry-swallowed another octagon. +The pill lit his circuits and he rode the rush down Shiga to +Ninsei, then over to Baiitsu. His tail, he'd decided, was gone +and that was fine. He had calls to make, biz to transact, and +it wouldn't wait. A block down Baiitsu, toward the port, stood +a featureless ten-story office building in ugly yellow brick. Its +windows were dark now, but a faint glow from the roof was +visible if you craned your neck. An unlit neon sign near the +main entrance offered CHEAP HOTEL under a cluster of ideograms. +If the place had another name, Case didn't know it; it +was always referred to as Cheap Hotel. You reached it through +an alley off Baiitsu, where an elevator waited at the foot of a +transparent shaft. The elevator, like Cheap Hotel, was an afterthought, +lashed to the building with bamboo and epoxy. Case +climbed into the plastic cage and used his key, an unmarked +length of rigid magnetic tape. +Case had rented a coffin here, on a weekly basis, since he'd +arrived in Chiba, but he'd never slept in Cheap Hotel. He slept +in cheaper places. +The elevator smelled of perfume and cigarettes; the sides +of the cage was scratched and thumb-smudged. As it passed the +fifth floor, he saw the lights of Ninsei. He drummed his fingers +against the pistol grip as the cage slowed with a gradual hiss. +As always, it came to a full stop with a violent jolt, but he +was ready for it. He stepped out into the courtyard that served +the place as some combination of lobby and lawn. +Centered in the square carpet of green plastic turf, a lapanese +teenager sat behind a C-shaped console, reading a textbook. +The white fiberglass coffins were racked in a framework of +industrial scaffolding. Six tiers of coffins, ten coffins on a side. + +Case nodded in the boy's direction and limped across the plastic +grass to the nearest ladder. The compound was roofed with +cheap laminated matting that rattled in a strong wind and leaked +when it rained, but the coffins were reasonably difficult to open +without a key. +The expansion-grate catwalk vibrated with his weight as he +edged his way along the third tier to Number 92. The coffins +were three meters long, the oval hatches a meter wide and just +under a meter and a half tall. He fed his key into the slot and +waited for verification from the house computer. Magnetic bolts +thudded reassuringly and the hatch rose vertically with a creak +of springs. Fluorescents flickered on as he crawled in, pulling +the hatch shut behind him and slapping the panel that activated +the manual latch. +There was nothing in Number 92 but a standard Hitachi +pocket computer and a small white styrofoam cooler chest. The +cooler contained the remains of three ten-kilo slabs of dry ice +carefully wrapped in paper to delay evaporation, and a spun +aluminum lab flask. Crouching on the brown temper foam slab +that was both floor and bed, Case took Shin's .22 from his +pocket and put it on top of the cooler. Then he took off his +jacket. The coffin's terminal was molded into one concave wall, +opposite a panel listing house rules in seven languages. Case +took the pink handset from its cradle and punched a Hong-Kong +number from memory. He let it ring five times, then hung up. +His buyer for the three megabytes of hot RAM in the Hitachi +wasn't taking calls. +He punched a Tokyo number in Shinjuku. +A woman answered, something in Japanese. +"Snake Man there?" +"Very good to hear from you," said Snake Man, coming in +on an extension. "I've been expecting your call." +"I got the music you wanted." Glancing at the cooler. +"I'm very glad to hear that. We have a cash flow problem. +Can you front?" +"Oh, man, I really need the money bad...." +Snake Man hung up. +"You shit " Case said to the humming receiver. He stared +at the cheap little pistol. +"Iffy," he said, "it's all looking very iffy tonight." + +Case walked into the Chat an hour before dawn, both hands +in the pockets of his jacket; one held the rented pistol, the other +the aluminum flask. +Ratz was at a rear table, drinking Apollonaris water from +a beer pitcher, his hundred and twenty kilos of doughy flesh +tilted against the wall on a creaking chair. A Brazilian kid +called Kurt was on the bar, tending a thin crowd of mostly +silent drunks. Ratz's plastic arm buzzed as he raised the pitcher +and drank. His shaven head was filmed with sweat. "You look +bad, friend artiste," he said, flashing the wet ruin of his teeth. +"I'm doing just fine," said Case, and grinned like a skull. +"Super fine." He sagged into the chair opposite Ratz, hands +still in his pockets. +"And you wander back and forth in this portable bombshelter +built of booze and ups, sure. Proof against the grosser emotions, +yes?" +"Why don't you get off my case, Ratz? You seen Wage?" +"Proof against fear and being alone," the bartender continued. +"Listen to the fear. Maybe it's your friend." +"You hear anything about a fight in the arcade tonight, Ratz? +Somebody hurt?" +"Crazy cut a security man." He shrugged. "A girl, they +say." +"I gotta talk to Wage, Ratz, I. . ." +"Ah." Ratz's mouth narrowed, compressed into a single +line. He was looking past Case, toward the entrance. "I think +you are about to." +Case had a sudden flash of the shuriken in their window. +The speed sang in his head. The pistol in his hand was slippery +with sweat. +"Herr Wage," Ratz said, slowly extending his pink manipulator +as if he expected it to be shaken. "How great a pleasure. +Too seldom do you honor us." +Case turned his head and looked up into Wage's face. It +was a tanned and forgettable mask. The eyes were vat grown +sea-green Nikon transplants. Wage wore a suit of gunmetal +silk and a simple bracelet of platinum on either wrist. He was +flanked by his Joe boys, nearly identical young men, their arms +and shoulders bulging with grafted muscle. + +"How you doing, Case?" +"Gentlemen," said Ratz, picking up the table's heaped ashtray +in his pink plastic claw, "I want no trouble here." The +ashtray was made of thick, shatterproof plastic, and advertised +Tsingtao beer. Ratz crushed it smoothly, butts and shards of +green plastic cascading onto the table top. "You understand?" +"Hey, sweetheart," said one of the Joe boys, "you wanna try +that thing on me?" +"Don't bother aiming for the legs, Kurt," Ratz said, his tone +conversational. Case glanced across the room and saw the Brazilian +standing on the bar, aiming a Smith & Wesson riot gun +at the trio. The thing's barrel, made of paper-thin alloy wrapped +with a kilometer of glass filament, was wide enough to swallow +a fist. The skeletal magazine revealed five fat orange cartridges, +subsonic sandbag jellies. +"Technically nonlethal," said Ratz. +"Hey, Ratz," Case said, "I owe you one." +The bartender shrugged. "Nothing, you owe me. These," +and he glowered at Wage and the Joe boys, "should know better. +You don't take anybody off in the Chatsubo." +Wage coughed. "So who's talking about taking anybody +off? We just wanna talk business. Case and me, we work +together." +Case pulled the .22 out of his pocket and level led it at +Wage's crotch. "I hear you wanna do me." Ratz's pink claw +closed around the pistol and Case let his hand go limp. +"Look, Case, you tell me what the fuck is going on with +you, you wig or something? What's this shit I'm trying to kill +you?" Wage turned to the boy on his left. "You two go back +to the Namban. Wait for me." +Case watched as they crossed the bar, which was now entirely +deserted except for Kurt and a drunken sailor in khakis, +who was curled at the foot of a barstool. The barrel of the +Smith & Wesson tracked the two to the door, then swung back +to cover Wage. The magazine of Case's pistol clattered on the +table. Ratz held the gun in his claw and pumped the round out +of the chamber. +"Who told you I was going to hit you, Case?" Wage asked. +Linda. +"Who told you, man? Somebody trying to set you up?" +The sailor moaned and vomited explosively. +"Get him out of here," Ratz called to Kurt, who was sitting +on the edge of the bar now, the Smith & Wesson across his +lap, lighting a cigarette. +Case felt the weight of the night come down on him like a +bag of wet sand settling behind his eyes. He took the flask out +of his pocket and handed it to Wage. "All I got. Pituitaries. +Get you five hundred if you move it fast. Had the rest of my +roll in some RAM, but that's gone by now." +"You okay, Case?" The flask had already vanished behind +a gunmetal lapel. "I mean, fine, this'll square us, but you look +bad. Like hammered shit. You better go somewhere and sleep." +"Yeah." He stood up and felt the Chat sway around him. +"Well, I had this fifty, but I gave it to somebody." He giggled. +He picked up the .22's magazine and the one loose cartridge +and dropped them into one pocket, then put the pistol in the +other. "I gotta see Shin, get my deposit back." +"Go home," said Ratz, shifting on the creaking chair with +something like embarrassment. "Artiste. Go home." +He felt them watching as he crossed the room and shouldered +his way past the plastic doors. + +"Bitch," he said to the rose tint over Shiga. Down on Ninsei +the holograms were vanishing like ghosts, and most of the neon +was already cold and dead. He sipped thick black coffee from +a street vendor's foam thimble and watched the sun come up. +"You fly away, honey. Towns like this are for people who like +the way down." But that wasn't it, really, and he was finding +it increasingly hard to maintain the sense of betrayal. She just +wanted a ticket home, and the RAM in his Hitachi would buy +it for her, if she could find the right fence. And that business +with the fifty; she'd almost turned it down, knowing she was +about to rip him for the rest of what he had. +When he climbed out of the elevator, the same boy was on +the desk. Different textbook. "Good buddy," Case called across +the plastic turf, "you don't need to tell me. I know already. +Pretty lady came to visit, said she had my key. Nice little tip +for you, say fifty New ones?" The boy put down his book. +"Woman," Case said, and drew a line across his forehead with +his thumb. "Silk." He smiled broadly. The boy smiled back, +nodded. "Thanks, ass hole," Case said. +On the catwalk, he had trouble with the lock. She'd messed +it up somehow when she'd fiddled it, he thought. Beginner. +He knew where to rent a black box that would open anything +in Cheap Hotel. Fluorescents came on as he crawled in. +"Close the hatch real slow, friend. You still got that Saturday +night special you rented from the waiter?" +She sat with her back to the wall, at the far end of the coffin. +She had her knees up, resting her wrists on them, the pepper box +muzzle of a flechette pistol emerged from her hands. +"That you in the arcade?" He pulled the hatch down. +"Where's Linda?" +"Hit that latch switch." +He did. +"That your girl? Linda?" +He nodded. +"She's gone. Took your Hitachi. Real nervous kid. What +about the gun, man?" She wore mirrored glasses. Her clothes +were black, the heels of black boots deep in the temper foam. +"I took it back to Shin, got my deposit. Sold his bullets +back to him for half what I paid. You want the money?" +"No." +"Want some dry ice? All I got, right now." +"What got into you tonight? Why'd you pull that scene at +the arcade? I had to mess up this rentacop came after me with +nun chucks. " +"Linda said you were gonna kill me." +"Linda said? I never saw her before I came up here." +"You aren't with Wage?" +She shook her head. He realized that the glasses were surgically +inset, sealing her sockets. The silver lenses seemed to +grow from smooth pale skin above her cheekbones, framed by +dark hair cut in a rough shag. The fingers curled around the +fletcher were slender, white, tipped with polished burgundy. +The nails looked artificial. "I think you screwed up, Case. I +showed up and you just fit me right into your reality picture." +"So what do you want, lady?" He sagged back against the +hatch. +"You. One live body, brains still somewhat intact. Molly, +Case. My name's Molly. I'm collecting you for the man I work +for. Just wants to talk, is all. Nobody wants to hurt you " +"That's good." +"'Cept I do hurt people sometimes, Case. I guess it's just +the way I'm wired." She wore tight black glove leather jeans +and a bulky black jacket cut from some matte fabric that seemed +to absorb light. "If I put this dart gun away, will you be easy, +Case? You look like you like to take stupid chances." +"Hey, I'm very easy. I'm a pushover, no problem." +"That's fine, man." The fletcher vanished into the black +jacket. "Because you try to fuck around with me, you'll be +taking one of the stupidest chances of your whole life." +She held out her hands, palms up, the white fingers slightly +spread, and with a barely audible click, ten double-edged, four + centimeter scalpel blades slid from their housings beneath the +burgundy nails. +She smiled. The blades slowly withdrew. + +After a year of coffins, the room on the twenty-fifth floor +of the Chiba Hilton seemed enormous. It was ten meters by +eight, half of a suite. A white Braun coffee maker steamed on +a low table by the sliding glass panels that opened onto a narrow +balcony. +"Get some coffee in you. Look like you need it." She took +off her black jacket, the fletcher hung beneath her arm in a +black nylon shoulder rig. She wore a sleeveless gray pullover +with plain steel zips across each shoulder. Bulletproof, Case +decided, slopping coffee into a bright red mug. His arms and +legs felt like they were made out of wood. +"Case." He looked up, seeing the man for the first time. +"My name is Armitage." The dark robe was open to the waist, +the broad chest hairless and muscular, the stomach flat and +hard. Blue eyes so pale they made Case think of bleach. "Sun's +up, Case. This is your lucky day, boy." +Case whipped his arm sideways and the man easily ducked +the scalding coffee. Brown stain running down the imitation + +rice paper wall. He saw the angular gold ring through the left +lobe. Special Forces. The man smiled. +"Get your coffee, Case," Molly said. "You're okay, but +you're not going anywhere 'til Armitage has his say." She sat +cross legged on a silk futon and began to fieldstrip the fletcher +without bothering to look at it. Twin mirrors tracking as he +crossed to the table and refilled his cup. +"Too young to remember the war, aren't you, Case?" Armitage +ran a large hand back through his cropped brown hair. +A heavy gold bracelet flashed on his wrist. "Leningrad, Kiev, +Siberia. We invented you in Siberia, Case." +"What's that supposed to mean?" +"Screaming Fist, Case. You've heard the name." +"Some kind of run, wasn't it? Tried to burn this Russian +nexus with virus programs. Yeah, I heard about it. And nobody +got out." +He sensed abrupt tension. Armitage walked to the window +and looked out over Tokyo Bay. "That isn't true. One unit +made it back to Helsinki, Case." +Case shrugged, sipped coffee. +"You're a console cowboy. The prototypes of the programs +you use to crack industrial banks were developed for Screaming +Fist. For the assault on the Kirensk computer nexus. Basic +module was a Nightwing micro light, a pilot, a matrix deck, a +jockey. We were running a virus called Mole. The Mole series +was the first generation of real intrusion programs." +"Icebreakers," Case said, over the rim of the red mug. +"Ice from ICE, intrusion countermeasures electronics." +"Problem is, mister, I'm no jockey now, so I think I'll just +be going...." +"I was there, Case; I was there when they invented your +kind." +"You got zip to do with me and my kind, buddy. You're +rich enough to hire expensive razor girls to haul my ass up here, +is all. I'm never gonna punch any deck again, not for you or +anybody else." He crossed to the window and looked down. +"That's where I live now." +"Our profile says you're trying to con the street into killing +you when you're not looking." +"Profile?" +"We've built up a detailed model. Bought a go-to for each +of your aliases and ran the skim through some military software. +You're suicidal, Case. The model gives you a month on the +outside. And our medical projection says you'll need a new +pancreas inside a year." +"We." He met the faded blue eyes. "We who?" +"What would you say if I told you we could correct your +neural damage, Case'?" Armitage suddenly looked to Case as +if he were carved from a block of metal; inert, enormously +heavy. A statue. He knew now that this was a dream, and that +soon he'd wake. Armitage wouldn't speak again. Case's dreams +always ended in these freeze frames, and now this one was +over. +"What would you say, Case?" +Case looked out over the Bay and shivered. +"I'd say you were full of shit." +Armitage nodded. +"Then I'd ask what your terms were." +"Not very different than what you're used to, Case." +"Let the man get some sleep, Armitage," Molly said from +her futon, the components of the fletcher spread on the silk +like some expensive puzzle. "He's coming apart at the seams." +"Terms," Case said, "and now. Right now." +He was still shivering. He couldn't stop shivering. + +The clinic was nameless, expensively appointed, a cluster +of sleek pavilions separated by small formal gardens. He remembered +the place from the round he'd made his first month +in Chiba. +"Scared, Case. You're real scared." It was Sunday afternoon +and he stood with Molly in a sort of courtyard. White boulders, +a stand of green bamboo, black gravel raked into smooth waves. +A gardener, a thing like a large metal crab, was tending the +bamboo. +"It'll work, Case. You got no idea, the kind of stuff Armitage +has. Like he's gonna pay these nerve boys for fixing +you with the program he's giving them to tell them how to do +it. He'll put them three years ahead of the competition. You +got any idea what that's worth?" She hooked thumbs in the +belt loops of her leather jeans and rocked backward on the +lacquered heels of cherry red cowboy boots. The narrow toes +were sheathed in bright Mexican silver. The lenses were empty +quicksilver, regarding him with an insect calm. +"You're street samurai," he said. "How long you work for +him?" +"Couple of months." +"What about before that?" +"For somebody else. Working girl, you know?" +He nodded. +"Funny, Case." +"What's funny?" +"It's like I know you. That profile he's got. I know how +you're wired." +"You don't know me, sister." +"You're okay, Case. What got you, it's just called bad luck." +"How about him? He okay, Molly?" The robot crab moved +toward them, picking its way over the waves of gravel. Its +bronze carapace might have been a thousand years old. When +it was within a meter of her boots, it fired a burst of light, then +froze for an instant, analyzing data obtained. +"What I always think about first, Case, is my own sweet +ass." The crab had altered course to avoid her, but she kicked +it with a smooth precision, the silver boot-tip clanging on the +carapace. The thing fell on its back, but the bronze limbs soon +righted it. +Case sat on one of the boulders, scuffing at the symmetry +of the gravel waves with the toes of his shoes. He began to +search his pockets for cigarettes. "In your shirt," she said. +"You want to answer my question?" He fished a wrinkled +Yeheyuan from the pack and she lit it for him with a thin slab +of German steel that looked as though it belonged on an operating +table. +"Well, I'll tell you, the man's definitely on to something. +He's got big money now, and he's never had it before, and he +gets more all the time." Case noticed a certain tension around +her mouth. "Or maybe, maybe something's on to him...." +She shrugged. +"What's that mean?" +"I don't know, exactly. I know I don't know who or what +we're really working for." +He stared at the twin mirrors. Leaving the Hilton, Saturday +morning, he'd gone back to Cheap Hotel and slept for ten hours . +Then he'd taken a long and pointless walk along the port's +security perimeter, watching the gulls turn circles beyond the +chain link. If she'd followed him, she'd done a good job of it. +He'd avoided Night City. He'd waited in the coffin for Armitage's +call. Now this quiet courtyard, Sunday afternoon, this +girl with a gymnast's body and conjurer's hands. +"If you'll come in now, sir, the anesthetist is waiting to +meet you." The technician bowed, turned, and reentered the +clinic without waiting to see if Case would follow. + +Cold steel odor. Ice caressed his spine. +Lost, so small amid that dark, hands grown cold, body image +fading down corridors of television sky. +Voices. +Then black fire found the branching tributaries of the nerves, +pain beyond anything to which the name of pain is given.... + +Hold still. Don't move. +And Ratz was there, and Linda Lee, Wage and Lonny Zone, +a hundred faces from the neon forest, sailors and hustlers and +whores, where the sky is poisoned silver, beyond chain link +and the prison of the skull. +Goddamn don't you move. +Where the sky faded from hissing static to the non color of +the matrix, and he glimpsed the shuriken, his stars. +"Stop it, Case, I gotta find your vein!" +She was straddling his chest, a blue plastic syrette in one +hand. "You don't lie still, I'll slit your fucking throat. You're +still full of endorphin inhibitors." + +He woke and found her stretched beside him in the dark. +His neck was brittle, made of twigs. There was a steady +pulse of pain midway down his spine. Images formed and +reformed: a flickering montage of the Sprawl's towers and +ragged Fuller domes, dim figures moving toward him in the +shade beneath a bridge or overpass.... +"Case? It's Wednesday, Case." She moved, rolling over, +reaching across him. A breast brushed his upper arm. He heard +her tear the foil seal from a bottle of water and drink. "Here." +She put the bottle in his hand. "I can see in the dark, Case. +Micro channel image-amps in my glasses." +"My back hurts." +"That's where they replaced your fluid. Changed your blood +too. Blood 'cause you got a new pancreas thrown into the deal. +And some new tissue patched into your liver. The nerve stuff +I dunno. Lot of injections. They didn't have to open anything +up for the main show." She settled back beside him. "It's +2:43:12 AM, Case. Got a readout chipped into my optic nerve." +He sat up and tried to sip from the bottle. Gagged, coughed, +lukewarm water spraying his chest and thighs. +"I gotta punch deck, ' he heard himself say. He was groping +for his clothes. "I gotta know...." +She laughed. Small strong hands gripped his upper arms. +"Sorry, hotshot. Eight day wait. Your nervous system would +fall out on the floor if you jacked in now. Doctor's orders. +Besides, they figure it worked. Check you in a day or so." He +lay down again. +"Where are we?" +"Home. Cheap Hotel." +"Where's Armitage?" +"Hilton, selling beads to the natives or something. We're +out of here soon, man. Amsterdam, Paris, then back to the +Sprawl." She touched his shoulder. "Roll over. I give a good +massage." +He lay on his stomach, arms stretched forward, tips of his +fingers against the walls of the coffin. She settled over the +small of his back, kneeling on the temper foam, the leather +jeans cool against his skin. Her fingers brushed his neck. +"How come you're not at the Hilton?" +She answered him by reaching back, between his thighs +and gently encircling his scrotum with thumb and forefinger. +She rocked there for a minute in the dark, erect above him, +her other hand on his neck. The leather of her jeans creaked +softly with the movement. Case shifted, feeling himself harden +against the temper foam. +His head throbbed, but the brittleness in his neck seemed +to retreat. He raised himself on one elbow, rolled, sank back +against the foam, pulling her down, licking her breasts, small +hard nipples sliding wet across his cheek. He found the zip on +the leather jeans and tugged it down. +"It's okay," she said, "I can see." Sound of the jeans peeling +down. She struggled beside him until she could kick them away. +She threw a leg across him and he touched her face. Unexpected +hardness of the implanted lenses. "Don't," she said, "fingerprints." + +Now she straddled him again, took his hand, and closed it +over her, his thumb along the cleft of her buttocks, his fingers +spread across the labia. As she began to lower herself, the +images came pulsing back, the faces, fragments of neon arriving +and receding. She slid down around him and his back arched +convulsively. She rode him that way, impaling herself, slipping +down on him again and again, until they both had come, his +orgasm flaring blue in a timeless space, a vastness like the +matrix, where the faces were shredded and blown away down +hurricane corridors, and her inner thighs were strong and wet +against his hips. + +On Nisei, a thinner, weekday version of the crowd went +through the motions of the dance. Waves of sound rolled from +the arcades and pachinko parlors. Case glanced into the Chat +and saw Zone watching over his girls in the warm, beer-smelling +twilight. Ratz was tending bar. +"You seen Wage, Ratz?" +"Not tonight." Ratz made a point of raising an eyebrow at +Molly. +"You see him, tell him I got his money." +"Luck changing, my artiste?" +"Too soon to tell." + +"Well, I gotta see this guy," Case said, watching his reflection +in her glasses. "I got biz to cancel out of." +"Armitage won't like it, I let you out of my sight." She +stood beneath Deane's melting clock, hands on her hips. +"The guy won't talk to me if you're there. Deane I don't +give two shits about. He takes care of himself. But I got people +who'll just go under if I walk out of Chiba cold. It's my people, +you know?" +Her mouth hardened. She shook her head. + +"I got people in Singapore, Tokyo connections in Shinjuku +and Asakuza, and they'll go down, understand?" he lied, his +hand on the shoulder of her black jacket. "Five. Five minutes. +By your clock, okay?" +"Not what I'm paid for." +"What you're paid for is one thing. Me letting some tight +friends die because you're too literal about your instructions is +something else." +"Bullshit. Tight friends my ass. You're going in there to +check us out with your smuggler." She put a booted foot up +on the dust-covered Kandinsky coffee table. +"Ah, Case, sport, it does look as though your companion +there is definitely armed, aside from having a fair amount of +silicon in her head . What is this about, exactly?" Deane ' s ghostly +cough seemed to hang in the air between them. +"Hold on, Julie. Anyway, I'll be coming in alone." +"You can be sure of that, old son. Wouldn't have it any +other way." +"Okay," she said. "Go. But five Minutes. Any more and +I'll come in and cool your tight friend permanently. And while +you're at it, you try to figure something out." +"What's that?" +"Why I'm doing you the favor." She turned and walked +out, past the stacked white modules of preserved ginger. +"Keeping stranger company than usual, Case?" asked Julie. +"Julie, she's gone. You wanna let me in? Please, Julie?" +The bolts worked. "Slowly, Case," said the voice. +"Turn on the works, Julie, all the stuff in the desk," Case +said, taking his place in the swivel chair. +"It's on all the time," Deane said mildly, taking a gun from +behind the exposed works of his old mechanical typewriter and +aiming it carefully at Case. It was a belly gun, a magnum +revolver with the barrel sawn down to a nub. The front of the +trigger-guard had been cut away and the grips wrapped with +what looked like old masking tape. Case thought it looked very +strange in Dean's manicured pink hands. "Just taking care, you +Understand. Nothing personal. Now tell me what you want." +"I need a history lesson, Julie. And a go-to on somebody." +"What's moving, old son'?" Deane's shirt was candy-striped +cotton, the collar white and rigid, like porcelain. + +"Me, Julie. I'm leaving. Gone. But do me the favor, okay?" +"Go-to on whom, old son?" +"Gaijin name of Armitage, suite in the Hilton." +Deane put the pistol down. "Sit still, Case." He tapped +something out on a lap terminal. "It seems as though you know +as much as my net does, Case. This gentleman seems to have +a temporary arrangement with the Yakuza, and the sons of the +neon chrysanthemum have ways of screening their allies from +the likes of me. I wouldn't have it any other way. Now, history. +You said history." He picked up the gun again, but didn't point +it directly at Case. "What sort of history?" +"The war. You in the war, Julie?" +"The war? What's there to know? Lasted three weeks." +"Screaming Fist." +"Famous. Don't they teach you history these days? Great +bloody postwar political football, that was. Watergated all to +hell and back. Your brass, Case, your Sprawlside brass in, +where was it, McLean? In the bunkers, all of that... great +scandal. Wasted a fair bit of patriotic young flesh in order to +test some new technology. They knew about the Russians' defenses, +it came out later. Knew about the emps, magnetic pulse +weapons. Sent these fellows in regardless, just to see." Deane +shrugged. "Turkey shoot for Ivan." +"Any of those guys make it out?" +"Christ,'' Deane said, "it's been bloody years.... Though +I do think a few did. One of the teams. Got hold of a Sov +gunship. Helicopter, you know. Flew it back to Finland. Didn't +have entry codes, of course, and shot hell out of the Finnish +defense forces in the process. Special Forces types." Deane +sniffed. "Bloody hell." +Case nodded. The smell of preserved ginger was overwhelming. + +"I spent the war in Lisbon, you know," Deane said, putting +the gun down. "Lovely place, Lisbon." +"In the service, Julie?" +"Hardly. Though I did see action." Deane smiled his pink +smile. "Wonderful what a war can do for one's markets." +"Thanks, Julie. I owe you one." +"Hardly, Case. And goodbye." + +* * * + + +And later he'd tell himself that the evening at Sammi's had +felt wrong from the start, that even as he'd followed Molly +along that corridor, shuffling through a trampled mulch of ticket +stubs and styrofoam cups, he'd sensed it. Linda's death, waiting.... + +They'd gone to the Namban, after he'd seen Deane, and +paid off his debt to Wage with a roll of Armitage's New Yen. +Wage had liked that, his boys had liked it less, and Molly had +grinned at Case's side with a kind of ecstatic feral intensity, +obviously longing for one of them to make a move. Then he'd +taken her back to the Chat for a drink. +"Wasting your time, cowboy," Molly said, when Case took +an octagon from the pocket of his jacket. +"How's that? You want one?" He held the pill out to her. +"Your new pancreas, Case, and those plugs in your liver. +Armitage had them designed to bypass that shit." She tapped +the octagon with one burgundy nail. "You're biochemically +incapable of getting off on amphetamine or cocaine." +"Shit," he said. He looked at the octagon, then at her. +"Eat it. Eat a dozen. Nothing'll happen." +He did. Nothing did. +Three beers later, she was asking Ratz about the fights. +"Sammi's," Ratz said. +"I'll pass," Case said, "I hear they kill each other down +there." +An hour later, she was buying tickets from a skinny Thai +in a white t-shirt and baggy rugby shorts. +Sammi's was an inflated dome behind a port side warehouse, +taut gray fabric reinforced with a net of thin steel cables. The +corridor, with a door at either end, was a crude airlock preserving +the pressure differential that supported the dome. Fluorescent +rings were screwed to the plywood ceiling at intervals, +but most of them had been broken. The air was damp and close +with the smell of sweat and concrete. +None of that prepared him for the arena, the crowd, the +tense hush, the towering puppets of light beneath the dome. +Concrete sloped away in tiers to a kind of central stage, a raised +circle ringed with a glittering thicket of projection gear. No +light but the holograms that shifted and flickered above the +ring, reproducing the movements of the two men below. Strata +of cigarette smoke rose from the tiers, drifting until it struck +currents set up by the blowers that supported the dome. No +sound but the muted purring of the blowers and the amplified +breathing of the fighters. +Reflected colors flowed across Molly's lenses as the men +circled. The holograms were ten-power magnifications; at ten, +the knives they held were just under a meter long. The knife-fighter's +grip is the fencer's grip, Case remembered, the fingers +curled, thumb aligned with blade. The knives seemed to move +of their own accord, gliding with a ritual lack of urgency through +the arcs and passes of their dance, point passing point, as the +men waited for an opening. Molly's upturned face was smooth +and still, watching. +"I'll go find us some food," Case said. She nodded, lost in +contemplation of the dance. +He didn't like this place. +He turned and walked back into the shadows. Too dark. +Too quiet. +The crowd, he saw, was mostly Japanese. Not really a Night +City crowd. Teaks down from the arcologies. He supposed that +meant the arena had the approval of some corporate recreational +committee. He wondered briefly what it would be like, working +all your life for one zaibatsu. Company housing, company +hymn, company funeral. +He'd made nearly a full circuit of the dome before he found +the food stalls. He bought yakitori on skewers and two tall +waxy cartons of beer. Glancing up at the holograms, he saw +that blood laced one figure's chest. Thick brown sauce trickled +down the skewers and over his knuckles. +Seven days and he'd jack in. If he closed his eyes now, +he'd see the matrix. +Shadows twisted as the holograms swung through their dance. +Then the fear began to knot between his shoulders. A cold +trickle of sweat worked its way down and across his ribs. The +operation hadn't worked. He was still here, still meat, no Molly +waiting, her eyes locked on the circling knives, no Armitage +waiting in the Hilton with tickets and a new passport and +money. It was all some dream, some pathetic fantasy.... Hot +tears blurred his vision. +Blood sprayed from a jugular in a red gout of light. And +now the crowd was screaming, rising, screaming--as one figure +crumpled, the hologram fading, flickering.... +Raw edge of vomit in his throat. He closed his eyes, took +a deep breath, opened them, and saw Linda Lee step past him +her gray eyes blind with fear. She wore the same French fatigues. + +And gone. Into shadow. +Pure mindless reflex: he threw the beer and chicken down +and ran after her. He might have called her name, but he'd +never be sure. +Afterimage of a single hair-fine line of red light. Seared +concrete beneath the thin soles of his shoes. +Her white sneakers flashing, close to the curving wall now +and again the ghost line of the laser branded across his eye, +bobbing in his vision as he ran. +Someone tripped him. Concrete tore his palms. +He rolled and kicked, failing to connect. A thin boy, spiked +blond hair lit from behind in a rainbow nimbus, was leaning +over him. Above the stage, a figure turned, knife held high, +to the cheering crowd. The boy smiled and drew something +from his sleeve. A razor, etched in red as a third beam blinked +past them into the dark. Case saw the razor dipping for his +throat like a dowser's wand. +The face was erased in a humming cloud of microscopic +explosions. Molly's fletchettes, at twenty rounds per second. +The boy coughed once, convulsively, and toppled across Case's +legs. +He was walking toward the stalls, into the shadows. He +looked down, expecting to see that needle of ruby emerge from +his chest. Nothing. He found her. She was thrown down at the +foot of a concrete pillar, eyes closed. There was a smell of +cooked meat. The crowd was chanting the winner's name. A +beer vendor was wiping his taps with a dark rag. One white +sneaker had come off, somehow, and lay beside her head. +Follow the wall. Curve of concrete. Hands in pockets. Keep +walking. Past unseeing faces, every eye raised to the victor's +image above the ring. Once a seamed European face danced +in the glare of a match, lips pursed around the short stem of a +metal pipe. Tang of hashish. Case walked on, feeling nothing. + +"Case." Her mirrors emerged from deeper shadow. "You +okay?" +Something mewlcd and bubbled in the dark behind her. +He shook his head. +"Fight's over, Case. Time to go home." +He tried to walk past her. back into the dark, where something +was dying. She stopped him with a hand on his chest. +"Friends of your tight friend. Killed your girl for you. You +haven't done too well for friends in this town, have you? We +got a partial profile on that old bastard when we did you, man. +He'd fry anybody, for a few New ones. The one back there +said they got on to her when she was trying to fence your RAM. +Just cheaper for them to kill her and take it. Save a little +money.... I got the one who had the laser to tell me all about +it. Coincidence we were here, but I had to make sure." Her +mouth was hard, lips pressed into a thin line. +Case felt as though his brain were jammed. "Who," he said, +"who sent them?" +She passed him a blood-flecked bag of preserved ginger. +He saw that her hands were sticky with blood. Back in the +shadows, someone made wet sounds and died. + +After the postoperative check at the clinic, Molly took him +to the port. Armitage was waiting. He'd chartered a hovercraft. +The last Case saw of Chiba were the dark angles of the arcologies. +Then a mist closed over the black water and the drifting +shoals of waste. +