I put the shotgun in an Adidas bag and padded it out with four pairs of tennis socks, not my style at all, but that was what I was aiming for: If they think you're crude, go technical; if they think you're technical, go crude. I'm a very technical boy. So I decided to get as crude as possible. These days, thought, you have to be pretty technical before you can even aspire to crudeness. I'd had to turn both those twelve-gauge shells from brass stock, on the lathe, and then load then myself; I'd had to dig up an old microfiche with instructions for hand- loading cartidges; I'd had to build a lever-action press to seat the primers -all very tricky. But I knew they'd work.
The meet was set for the Drome at 2300, but I rode the tube three stops past the closest platform and walked back. Immaculate procedure. I checked myself out in the chrome siding of a coffee kiosk, your basic sharp-faced Caucasoid with a ruff of stiff, dark hair. The girls at Under the Knife were big on Sony Mao, and it was getting harder to keep them from adding the chic suggestion of epicanthic folds. It probably wouldn't fool Ralfi Face, but it might get me next to his table. The Drome is a single narrow space with a bar down one side and tables along the other, thick with pimps and handlers and a arcame array of dealers. The Magnetic Dog Sisters were on the door that night, and I didn't relish trying to get out past them if things didn't work out. They were two meters tall and thin as greyhounds. One was black and the other white, but aside from that they were as nearly identical as cosmetic surgery could make them. They'd been lovers for years and were bad news in the tussle. I was never quite sure which one had originally been male.
Ralfi was sitting at his usual table. Owing me a lot of money. I had hundreds of megabytes
stashed in my head on an idiot.savant basis information I had no conscious access to. Ralfi
had left it there. He hadn't, however, came back for it. Only Ralfi could retrieve the data, with
a code phrase of his own invention. I'm not cheap to begin with, but my overtime on storage
is astronomical. And Ralfi had been very scarce.
Then I'd heard that Ralfi Face wanted to put out a contract on me. So I'd arranged to meet
him in the Drome, but I'd arranged it as Edward Bax, clandestine importer, late of Rio and
Peking.
The Drome stank of biz, a metallic tang of nervous tension. Muscle-boys scattered through
the crowd were flexing stock parts at one another and trying on this, cold grins, some of them
so lost under superstructures of muscle graft that their outlines weren't really human. Pardon
me. Pardon me, friends. Just Eddie Bax here, Fast Eddie the Importer, with his professionally
nondescript gym bag, and please ignore this shit, just wide enough to admit his right hand.
Ralfi wasn't alone. Eighty kilos of blond California beef perched alerty in the chair next to his,
martial arts written all over him. Fast Eddie Bax was in the chair opposite them before the
beef's hands were off the table. 'You black belt?' I asked eagerly. He nodded, blue eyes
running an automatic scanning pattern between my eyes and my hands. 'Me too,' I said. 'Got
mine here in the bag.' And I shoved my hand through the slit and thumbed the safety off.
Click. 'Double twelve-gauge with the triggers wired together.'
'That's a gun', 'Ralfi said, putting a plump. restraining hand on his boy's taut blue nylon chest.
'Johnny has a antique firearm in his bag.' So much for Enward Bax.
I guess he'd always been Ralfi Something or Orther, but he owed his acquired surname to a
singular vanity. Built something like an overripe pear, he'd worn the oncefamous face of
Christian White for twenty years - Christian White of the Atyan Reggae Band, Sony Mao to
his generation, and final champion of race rocks. I'm a whiz at trivia.
Christian White: classic pop face with a singer's highdefinition muscles, chiseled
cheekbones. Angelic in one light, handsomely depraved in another. But Ralfi's eyes lived
behind that face, and they were small and cold and black.
'Please,' he said, 'let's work this out like businessmen.' His voice was marked by a horrible
prehensile sincerity, and the corners of his beautifull Christian White mouth were always wet.
'Lewis here,' nodding in the beefboy's direction, 'is a meatball.' Lewis took his impassively,
looking like something built from a kit. 'You aren't a meatball, Johnny.'
'Sure I am, Ralfi, a nice meatball chock-full of implants where u can store your dirty laundry
while you go off shopping for people to kill me. From my end of this bag, Ralfi, it looks like
you've got some explaining to do.'
'It's this last batch of product, Johnny.' He sighed deeply. 'In my role as broker - ' 'Fence,' I
corrected.
'As broker, I am usually very careful as to sources.'
'You buy only from those who steal the best. Got it.'
He sighed again. 'I try,' he said wearily, 'not to buy from fools.. This time, I'm afraid, I've done
that.' Third sigh was the cue for Lewis to trigger the neural disruptor they'd taped under my
side of the table. I put everything I had into curling the index finger of my right hand, but I no
longer seemed to be connected to it. I could feel the metal of the gun and the foam-padded
tape. I'd wrapped around the stubby grip, but my hands were cool wax, distant and inert. I
was hoping Lewis was a true meatball, thick enough to go for the gym bag and snag my rigid
trigger finger, but he wasn't.
'We've been very worried about you Johnny. Very worried. You see, that's Yakuza property
you have there. A fool took it from them, Johnny. A dead fool.'
Lewis giggled.
It all made sense then, an ugly kind of sense, like bags of wet sand settling around my head.
Killing wasn't Ralfi's style. Lewis wasn't even Ralfi's style. But he'd got himself stuck between
the Sons of the Neon Chrysanthemum and something that belonged to them - or, more likely,
something of theirs that belonged to someone else. Ralfi, of course, could use the code
phrase to throw me into idiot savant, and I'd spill their hot program without remembering a
single quarter tone. For a fence like Ralfi, that would ordinarity have been enough. But not for
the Yakuza. The Yakuza would know about Squids, for one thing, and they wouldn't want to
worry about one lifting those dim and permanent traces of their program out of my head. I
didn't know very much about Squids, but I'd heard stories, and I made it a point never to
repeat them to my clients. No, the Yakuza wouldn't like that; it looked too much like
envidence. They hadn't got where they were by leaving evidence around. Or alive.
Lewis was grinning. I think he was visualizing a point just behind my forehead and imagining
how he could get there the hard way. 'Hey,' said a low voice, feminine, from somewhere
behind my right shoulder, 'you cowboys sure aren't having too lively a time.' 'Pack it, bitch,'
Lewis said, his tanned face very still. Ralfi looked blank.
'Lighten up. You want to buy some good free base?' She pulled up a chair and quickly sat
before either of them could stop her. She was barely inside my fixed field of vision, a thin girl
with mirrored glasses, her dark hair cut in a rough shag. She wore black leather, open over a
T- shirt slashed diagonally with stripes of red and black. 'Eight thou a gram weirht.'
Lewis snorted his exasperation and tried to slap her out of the chair. Somehow he didn't quite
connect, and her hand came up and seemed to brush his wrist as it passed. Bright blood
sprayed the table. He was clutching his wrist white-knuckle tight, blood tricklng from between
his fingers.
But hadn't her hand been empty?
He was going to need a tendon stapler. He stood up carefully, without bothering to push his
chair back. The chair toppled backward, and he stepped out of of my line of sight without a
word.
'He better get a medic to look at that,' she said. 'That's a nasty cut.'
'You have no idea,' said Ralfi, suddenly sounding very tired, 'the depths of shit you have just
gotten yourself into.'
'No kidding? Myster. I get real excited by mysteries. Like why your friends here's do quiet.
Frozen, like. Or what this thing here is for,' and she held up the little control unit that she'd
somehow taken from Lewis. Ralfi looked ill.
'You, ah, want maybe a quarter-million to give me that and take a walk?'
A fat hand came up to stroke his pale, lean face nervously.
'What I want,' she said, snapping her fingers so that the unit spun and glitterd, 'is work. A job.
Your boy hurt his wrist. But a quarter'll do for a retainer.'
Ralfi let his breath out explosively and began to laugh, exposing teeth that hadn't been kept
up to the Chriatian White standard. The she turned the disruptor off.
'Two million,' I said.
'My kind of man,' she said, and laughed. 'What's in the bag?'
'A shotgun.'
'Crude.' It might have been a compliment.'
Ralfi said nothing at all.
'Name's Millions. Molly Millions. You want to get out of here, boss? People are starting to
stare.' She stood up. She was wearing leather jeans the colour of dried blood.
And I saw for the first time that the mirrored lenses were surgical inlays, the silver rising
smoothly from her high cheekbones, sealing her eyes in their sockets, I saw my new face
twinned there.
'I'm Johnny,' I said. 'We're taking Mr face with us.'
He was outside, waiting. Looking like your standard tourist tech, in plastic zoris and a silly
Hawaiian shirt printed with blowups of his firm's most popular microprocessor; a mild little
guy, the kind most likely to wind up drunk on sake in a bar that puts out miniature rice
crackers with seaweed garnish. He looked like the kind who sing the corporate anthem and
cry, who shake hands endlessly with the bartender. And the pimps and the dealers would
leave him alone, pegging him as innately conservative. Not up for much, and carefull with his
credit when he was.
The way I figured it later, they must have amputated part of his left thumb, somewhere
behind the first joint, replacing it with a prosthetic tip, and cored the stump, fiting it with a
spool and socket molded from one of the Ono-Sendai diamond analogs. Then they'd
carefully wound the spool with three meters of monomolecular filement. Molly got into some
kind of exchange with the Magnetic Dog Sisters, giving me a chance to usher Ralfi through
the door with the gym bag pressed lightly against the base of his spine. She seemend to
know them. I heard the black one laugh.
I glanced up, out of some passing reflex, maybe because I've never got used to it, to the
soaring arcs of light and the shadows of the geodesics above them. maybe that saved me.
Ralfi kept walking, but I don't think he was trying to escape. I think he'd already given up.
Probably he already had an idea of what we were up against.
I looked back down in time to see him explode.
Playback on full recall shows Ralfi stepping foward as the little tech sidles out os nowhere,
smilling. Just a suggestion of a bow, and his left thumb falls of. It'a a conjuring trick. The
thumb hangs suspended. Mirrors? Wires? And Ralfi stops, his back to us, dark crescents of
sweat under the armpits of his pale summer suit. He knows. He must have known. And then
the joke-shop thumbtip, heavy as lead, arcs out in a lighting yo-yo trick, and the invisible
thread connectingit to the killer's hand passes laterally through Ralfi's skull, just above his
eyebrows, whips up, and descends, slicing the pearshaped torso diaganally from shoulder to
rib cage. Cuts so fine that no blood flows until synapses misfire and the first tremors
surrender the body to gravity.
Ralfi tumbled apart in a pink cloud of fluids, the three mismatched section rolling forwardon
the tiled pavement. In total silence.
I brought the gym bag up, and my hand convulsed. The recoil nearly broke my wrist.
It must have been raining; ribbons of water cascaded from a ruptured geodesic and spattered
on the tile behind us. We crouched in the narrow gap between a surgical boutique and an
antique shop. She'd just edged one mirrored eye around the corner to report a single Volks
module in frond of the Drome, red lights fliashing. They were sweeping Ralfi up. Asking
questions.
I was covered in scorched white fluff. The tennis socks. The gym bag was a ragged plastic
cuff around my wrist. 'I don't see how the hell I missed him.'
'Cause he's faxt, so fast.' She hugged her knees and rocked back and forth on her bootheels.
'His nervous system's jacked up. He's factory custom.' She grinned and gave a little squeal of
delight. 'I'm gonna get that boy. Tonight. He's the best, number one, top dollar, state of the
art.'
'What you're going to get, for this boy's two million, is my ass out of here. Your boyfriend
back there was mostly grown in a vat in Chiba City. He's a Yakuza assassin.'
'Chiba. Yeah. See, Molly's been Chiba, too.' And she showed me her hands, fingers slighly
spread. Her fingers were slender, tapered, very white against the polished burgundy nails.
Ten blades snicked straight out from their recesses beneath her nails, each one a narrow,
doubleedged scalpel in pale blue steel.
* * *
I'd never spent much time in Nighttown. Nobody there had anything to pay me to remember,
and most of them had a lot they paid regularly to forget. Generations of sharpsshooters had
clipped away at the neon until the maintenance crews gave up. Even at noon the arcs were
soot-black against faintest pearl.
Where do you go when the world's wealthiest criminal order is feeling for you with calm,
distant fingers? Where do you hide from the Yakuza, so powerful that it owns comsats and at
least three shuttles? The Yakuza is a true multinational, like ITT and Ono-Sendai. Fifty years
before I was born the Yakuza had already absorbed the Triads, the Mafia, the Union Corse.
Molly had an answer: You hide in the Pit, in the lowest circle, where any outside influence
generates swift, cocentric ripples of raw menace. You hide in Nighttown. Better yet, you hide
above Nighttown, because the Pit's inverted, and the bottom of its bowl touches the sky, the
sky that Nighttown never sees, sweating under its own filmament of acrylic resin, up where
the Lo Teks crouch in the dark like gargoyles, black-market cigarettes dangling from their
lips.
She had another answer, too.
'So you're locked up good and tight, Johnny-san? No way to get that program without the
password?' She led me into the shadows that waited beyord the bright tube platform. The
concrete walls were overlaid with graffiti, years of them twisting into a single metascrawl of
rage and frustration.
'The stored data are fed in through a modified series of microsurgical contraautism
prostheses.' I reeled off a numb version of my standard sales pitch. 'Client's code is stored in
a special chip; barring Squids, which we in the trade don't like to talk about, there's no way to
recover your phrase. Can't drug it out, cut it out, torture it. I don't know it, never did.'
'Squids? Crawly things with arms?' We emerged into a deserted street market. Shadowy
figures watched us from across a makeshift square littered with fish heads and rotting fruit.
'Superconducting quantum interfence detectors. Used them in the war to find submarines,
suss out enemy cyber systems.'
'Yeah? Navy stuff? From the war? Squid'll read that chip of yours?' She'd stopped walking,
and I felt her eyes on me behind those twin mirrors.
'Even the primitive models could measure a magnetic field a billionth the strenght of
geomagnetic force; it's like pulling a whisper out of cheering stadium.'
'Cops can do that already, with parabolic microphones and lasers.'
'But your data's still secure.' Pride in profession. 'No government'll let their cops have Squids,
not even the security heavies. Too much chance of interdepartmental funnies; they're too
likely to watergate you.'
'Navy stuff,' she said, and her grin gleamed in the shadows. 'Navy stuff. I got a friend down
here who was in the navy, name's Jones. I think you'd better meet him. He's a junkie, though.
So we'll have to take him something.'
'A junkie?'
'A dolphin.'
He was more than a dolphin, but from another dolphin's point of view he might have seemed
like something less. I watched him swirling sluggishly in his galvanized tank. Water stopped
over the side, wetting my shoes. He was surplus from the last war. A cyborg.
He rose out of the water, showing us the crusted plates along his sides, a kind of visual pun,
his grace nearly lost under articulated armor, clumsy and prehistoric. Twin deformities on
either side of his skull had been engineered to house sensor units. Silver lesions gleamed on
exposed sections of his gray-white hide.
Molly whistled. Jones thrashed his tail, and more water cascaded doen the side of the tank.
'What is this place?' I peered at vague shapes in the dark, rusting chain link and things under
tarps. Above the tank hung a clumsy wooden framework, crossed and recrossed by rows of
dusty Christmas lights.
'Funland. Zoo and carnival rides. "talk with the War Whale." All that. Some whale Jones is...'
Jones reared again and fixed me with a sad and ancient eye.
'How's he talk?' Suddenly I was anxious to go.
'Thta's the catch. Say "Hi," Jones.'
And all the bulbs lit simultaneously. They were flashing red, white, and blue.
RWBRWBRWB
RWBRWBRWB
RWBRWBRWB
RWBRWBRWB
RWBRWBRWB
'Good with symbols, see, but the code'w recricted. In the navy they had him wired into an
audiovisual display.' She drew the narrow package from a jacket pocket. 'Pure shit, Jones.
Want it?' He froze in the water and started to sink. I felt a strange panic, remembering that he
wasn't a fish that he could drown. 'We want the key to Johnny's bank, Jones. We want it fast.'
The lights flickered, died. 'Go for it, Jones!'
B
BBBBBBBBB
B
B
B
Blue bulbs, cruciform. Darkness. 'Pure! It's clean. Come on, Jones.'
WWWWWWWWW
WWWWWWWWW
WWWWWWWWW
WWWWWWWWW
WWWWWWWWW
White sodium glare washed her features, stark monochrome, shadows cleaving from her
cheekbones.
R RRRRR
R R
RRRRRRRRR
R R
RRRRR R
The arms of the red swastika were twisted in her silver glasses. 'Give it to him,' I said. 'We've
got it.'
Ralfi Face. No imagination.
Jones heaved half his armored bulk over the edge of his tank, and I thought the metal would
give way. Molly stabbed him overhand with the Syrette, driving the needle between two
plates. Propellant hissed. Patterns of light exploded, sparming across the frame and then
fading to black.
We left him drifting, rolling languorously in the dark water. Maybe he was dreaming of his war
in the Pacific, of the cyber mines he'd swept, nosing gently into their circuitry with the Squid
he'd used to pick Ralfi's pathetic password from the chip buried in my head.
'I can see them slipping up when he was demobbed, letting him out of the navy with that gear
intact, but how does a cybernetic dolphin get wired to smack?'
'The war,' she said. 'They all were. Navy did it. How else you get'em working for you?'
I'm not sure this profiles as good business,' the pirate said, angling for better money. 'Target
specs on a comsat that isn't in the book -'
'Waste my time and you won't profile at all,' said Molly, learning across his scarred plastic
desk to prod him with her forefinger.
'So maybe you want to buy your microwaves somewhere else?' he was a tough kid, behind
his Mao-job. A Nighttowner by birth, probably. Her hand blurred down the frond of his jacket,
completely severing a lapel without even rumpling the fabric.
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William Gibson: Johnny Mnemonic
'So we got a deal ot not?'
'Deal,' he said starting at his ruined lapel with what he must have hoped was only polite
interest. 'Deal.' While I checked the two records we'd bought she extracted the slip of paper
I'd given her from the zippered wrist pocket of her jacket. She unfolded it and read sirently,
moving her lips. She shrugged. 'This is it?'
'Shoot,' I said, punching the RECORD studs of the two desks simultaneously.
'Christian White,' she recited, 'and his Aryan Reggae Band.' Fairtful Ralfi, a fan to his dying
day.
Transition to idiot-savant mode is always less abrupt than I except it to be. The pirate
broadcaster's front was a failing travel agancy in a pastel cube that boasted a desk, three
chairs, and a faded poster of a Swiss orbital spa. A pair of toy birds with blown-glass bodies
and tin legs were sipping monotonously from a Styrofoarm cup of water on the ledge beside
Molly's shoulder. As I phased into mode, they accelerated gradually until their DayGlo-
feathered crowns became solid arcs of color. The LEDs that told seconds on the plastic wall
clock had become meaningless pulsing grids, and Molly and the Mao-faced boy grew hazy,
their arms blurring occasionally in insect-quick ghosts of gesture. And then it all faded to cool
gray static and an endless tone poem in the artificial language.
I sat and sang dead Ralfi's stolen program for three hours.
The mall runs forty kilometers from end, a ragged overlap of Fuller domes roofing what was
once a suburbanartery. If they turn off the arcs on a clean day. a gray approximation of
sunlight filters through layers of acrylic, a view like the prison sketches of Giovanni Piranesi.
The three southernmost kilometers roof Nighttown. Nighttown pays no taxes, no utilities. The
neon arcs are dead, and the geodesics have been smoked black by decades of cooking fires.
In the nearly total darkness of a Nighttown noon, who notices a few dozen mad children lost
in the rafters?
We'd been climbing for two hours, up concrete stairs and steel ladders with perforated rungs,
past abandoned gantries and dust-covered tools. We'd started in what looked like a disused
maintenance yard, stacked with truangular roofing segments. Everything there had been
covered with that same uniform layer of spraybomb graffiti: gang names, dates back to the
turn of the century. The graffiti followed us up, gradually thinning until a single name was
repeated at intervals. LO TEK. In dripping black capitals.
'Who's Lo Tek?'
'Not us, boss.' She climbed a shivering aluminium ladder and vanished throught a hole in a
sheet of corrugated plastic. '"Low technique, low technology."' The plastic muffled her voice. I
followed her up, nursing an aching wrist. 'Lo Teks, they'd think that shotgun trick of yours was
effete.'
An hour later I dragged myself up through another hole, this one sawed crookedly in a
sagging sheet of plywood, and met my first Lo Tek.
'S okay,' Molly said, her hand brushing my shoulder. 'It's just Dog. Hey, Dog.'
In the narrow beam of her taped flash, he regaeded us with his one eye and slowly extuded a
thick lenght of grayish tongue, licking huge canines. I wondered how they wrote off tooth-bud
transplants from Dopermans as low technology. Immunosuppressives don;t exactly grow on
trees.
'Moll.' Dental augmentation impeded his speech. A string of saliva dangled from the twisted
lower lip. 'Heard ya comin'. Long time.' He might have been fifteen, but the fangs and the
bright mosaic of scars compined with the gaping socket to present a mask of total bestiality. It
had taken time and a certain kind of creavity to assemble that face, and his posture told-me
he enjoyed living behind it. He wore a pair of decaying jeans, black with grime and shiny
along the creases. His chest and feet werebare. He did something with his mouth that
approximated a grin. 'Bein' followed, you.'
Far off, in Nighttown, a water vendor cried his trade.
'Strings jumping, Dog?' She swung her flash to the side, and I saw thin cords tied to eyebolts,
cords that ran to the edge and vanished.
'Kill the fuckin' light!'
She snapped it off.
'How come the one who's followin' you's got no light?'
'Doesn't need it. That one's bad news, Dog. Your sentries give him a tumble, they'll come
home in easy-tocarry sections.'
'This a friend, Moll?' He sounded uneasy. I heard his feet shift on the worn plywood.
'No. But he's mine. And this one,' slapping my shoulders, 'he's a friend. Got that?'
'Sure,' he said, without much enthusiasm, padding to the platform's adge, where the eyebolts
were. He began to pluck out some kind of message on the taut cords.
Nighttown spread beneath us like a toy village for rats; tiny windows showed candlelight, with
only a few harsh, bright squares lit by battery lanterns and carbide lamps. I imagined the old
men at their endless games of dominoes, under warm, fat drops of water that fell from wet
wash hung out on poles between the plywood shanties. Then I tried to imagine him climbing
patiently up throught the darkeness in his zoris and unly tourist shirt, bland and unhurried.
How was he tracking us?
'Good,' said Molly. 'he smells up.'
'Smoke?' Dog dragged a crumpled pack from his pocket and prized out a flattened cigarette. I
squinted at the trademark whilw he lit it for me with a kitchen match. Yiheyuan filters. Beijing
Cigarette Factory. I decided that the Lo Teks were black marketeers. Dog and Molly went
back to their argument, which seemed to revolve around Molly's desire to use some
particular piece of Lo Tek real estate.
'I've done you a lot of favors, man. I want that floor. And I want the musik.'
'You're not Lo Tek...'
This must have been going on for the better part of a twisted kilometer, Dog leading us along
swaying catwalks and up rope ladders. The Lo Teks leech their webs and huddling places to
the city's fabric with thick gobs of epoxy and sleep above the abyss in mesh hammocks.
Their country is so attenuated that in places it consists of little more than holds and feet,
sawed into geodesic struts.
The Killing Floor, she called it. Scrambling after her, my new Eddie Bax shoes slipping on
worm metal and damp plywood, I wondered how it could be any more lethal than the rest of
the territory. At the same time I sensed that Dog's protests were rirtual and that she already
expected to get whatever it was she wanted.
Somewhere beneath us, Jones would be circling his takn, feeling the first twinges of junk
sickness. The police would be boring the Drome regulars with questions about Ralfi. What
did he do? Who was he with before he stepped outside? And the Yakuza would be settling its
ghostly bulk over the city's data banks, probing for faint images of me reflected in numbered
accounts, securities transactions, bills for utilities. We're an information economy. They teach
you that in school. What they don't tell you is that it's impossible to move, to live, to operate at
any level without leaving traces, bits, seemingly meaningless fragments of personal
information. Fragments that can be retrieved, amplified...
But by now the pirate would have shuttled our message into line for blackbox transmissions
to the Yakuza comsat. A simple message: Call off the dogs or we wideband your program.
The programm. I had no idea what it contained. I still don't. I only sing the song, with zero
comprehension. It was probably research data, the Yakuza being given to advanced forms of
industrial espionage. A genteel business, stealing from Ono-Sendai as a matter of course
and politely holding their data for ransom, threatening to blunt the conglomorate's research
edge by making the product public. But why couldn't any number play? Wouldn't they be
happier with something to sell back to Ono-Sendai, happier than they'd be with one dead
Johnny from Memory Lane?
Their programm was on its way to an address in Sydney, to a place that held letters for
clients and didn't ask questions once you'd paid a small retainer. Fourth-class surface mail.
I'd erased most of the other copy and recorded our message in the resulting gap, leaving just
enough of the programm to identify it as the real thing.
My wrist hurt. I wanted to stop, to lie down, to sleep. I knew that I'd lose my grip and fall soon,
knew that the sharp black shoes I'd bought for my evening as Eddie Bax would lose their
purchase and carry me down to Nighttown. But he rose in my mind like a cheap religious
hologram, glowing, the enlarged chip in his Hawaiian shirt looming like a reconnaissance
shot of some doomed urban nucleus.
So I followed Dog and Molly through Lo Tek heaven, jury-rigged and jerry-built from scraps
that even Nighttown didn't want. The Killing Floor was eight meters on a side. A giant had
threaded steel cable back and forth through a junkyard and drawn it all taut. It creaked when
it moved, and it moved constantly, swaying and buckingas the gathering Lo Teks arranged
themselves on the shelf of plywood surrounding it. The wood was silver with age, polished
with long use and deeply etched with initials, threats, declarations of passion. This was
suspended from a separate set of cables, which last themselves in darkness beyord the raw
white glare of the two ancient floods suspended above the Floor.
A girl with teeth like Dog's hit the Floor on all fours. Her breast were tattooed with indigo
spirals. Then she was across the Floor, laughing, grappling with a boy who was drinking dark
liquid from a liter flask. Lo Tek fansion ran to scars and tattoos. And teeth. The electricity they
were tapping to light the Killing Floor seemed to be an exception to their overall aesthetic,
made in the name of... rirtual, sport, art? I didn't know, but I could see that the Floor was
something special. I had the look of having been assembled over generations.
I held the useless shotgun under my jacket. Its hardness and left were comforting, even
thought I had no more shells. And it came to me that I had no idea at all of what was really
happening, or of what was supposed to happen. And that was the nature of my game,
because I'd spent most of my life as a blind receptacle to be filled with other people;s
knowledge and then drained, spouting synthetic languages I'd never understand. A very
technical boy. Sure.
And then I noticed just how quiet the Lo Teks had become. He was there, at the edge of the
light, taking in the Killing Floor and the gallery of silent Lo Teks with a tourist's calm. And as
our eyes met for the first time with mutual recognition, a memory clicked into place for me, of
Paris, and the long Mercedes electrics gliding through the rain to Notre Dame; mobile
greenhouses, Japanese faces behind the glass, and a hundred Nikons rising in blind
phototropism, flowers of steel and crystel. Behind his eyes, as they found me, those same
shutters whirring.
I looked for Molly Millions, but she was gone. The Lo Teks parted to let him step up on to the
bench. He bowed, smiling, and stepped smoothly out of his sandals, leaving them side by
side, perfectly aligned, and then he stepped down on to the Killing Floor. He came for me,
across that shifting trampoline of scrap, as easily as any tourist padding across synthetic pile
in any featureless hotel.
Molly hit the Floor, moving.
The Floor screamed.
It was miked and amplified, with pickups riding the four fat coil springs at the corners and
contact mikes taped at random to rusting machine fragments. Somewhere the Lo Teks had
an amp and a synthesizer, and now I made out of shapes of speakers overhead, above the
cruel white floods.
A drumbeat began, electronic, like an amplified heart, steady as a metronome.
She'd removed her leather jacket and boots; her T-shirt was sleeveless, faint teeltales of
Chiba City circuitry traced along her thin arms. Her leather jeans greamed under the floods.
She began to dance.
She flexed her knees, white feet tensed on a flattened gas tank, and the Killing Floor began
to heave in response. The sound it made was like a world ending, like the wires that hold
heaven snapping and coiling across the sky.
He rode with it, for a few heartbeats, and then he moved, judging the movement of the Floor
perfectly, like a man stepping from one flat stone to another in an ornamental garden.
He pulled the tip from his trumb with the grace of a man at ease with social gesture and flung
it at her. Under the floods, the filament eas refracting thread of rainbow. She threw herself flat
and rolled, jackknifing up as the molecule whipped past, steel claws snapping into the light in
what must have been an automatic rictus of defense. The drum pulse quickened, and she
bounced with it, her dark hair wild around the blank silver lenses, her mouth thin, lips taut
with concentration. The Killing Floor boomed and roared, and the Lo Teks were screaming
their excitement.
He retracted the filament to a whirling meter-wide circle of ghostly polychrome and spun it in
front of him, trumbless hand held lever with his sternum. A shield.
And Molly seemed to let something go, something inside, and that was the real start of her
mad-dog dance. She jumped, twisting, lunging sideways, landing with both feet on an alloy
engine block wired directly to one of the coil springs. I cupped my hands over my ears and
knelt in a vertigo of sound, thinking Floor and benches were on their way down, down to
Nighttown, and I saw us tearing through the shanties, the wet wash, exploding on the tiles
like rotten fruit. But the cables held, and the Killing Floor rose and fell like a crazy metal sea.
And Molly danced on it.
And at the end, just before he made his final cast with the filament, I saw in his face, an
expression that didn't seem to belong there. It wasn't fear and it wasn't anger. I think it was
disbelief, stunned incomprehension mingled with pure aesthetic revulsion at what he was
seeing, hearing - at what was happening to him. He retracted the whirling filament, the ghost
disk shrinking to the size of a dinner plate as he whipped his arm above his head and brought
it down, the thumbtip curving out for Molly like a live thing.
The Floor carried her down, the molecule passing just above her head; the Floor whiplashed,
lifting him into the path of the taut molecule. It shold have passed hermlessly over his head
and been withdrawn into its diamondhard socket. It took his hand off just behind the wrist.
There was a gap in the Floor in frond of him, and he went through it like a diver, with a
strange deliberate grace, a defeated kamikaze on his way down to Nighttown. Partly, I think,
he took that dive to buy himself a few seconds of the dignity of silence. She'd killed him with
culture shock.
The Lo Teks roared, but someone shut the amplifier off, and Molly rode the Killing Floor into
silence, hanging on now, her face white and blank, until the pitching slower and there was
only a faint pinging of tortured metal and the grating of rust on rust.
We searched the Floor for the severed hand, but we never found it. All we found was a
graceful curve in one piece of rusted steel, where the molecule went through. Its edge was
bright as new chrome.
We never learned whether the Yakuza had a accepted our terms, or ever whether they got
our message. As far as I know, their program is still waiting for Eddie Bax on a shelf in the
back room of a gift shop on the third level of Sydney Central-5. Probably they sold the
original back to Ono-Sendai months ago. But maybe they did get the pirate's broadcast,
because nobody's come looking for me yet, and it's been nearly a year. If they do come,
they'll have a long climp up through the dark, past Dog's sentries, and I don't look much like
Eddie Bax these days.
I let Molly take care of that, with a local anesthetic. And my new teeth have almost grown in.
I decited to stay up here. When I looked out across the Killing Floor, before he came, I saw
how hollow I was. And I knew I was sick of being a bucket. So now I climb down and visit
Jones, almost every night. We're partners now, Jones and I, and Molly Millions, too. Molly
handles our business in the Drome. Jones is still in Funland, but he has a bigger tank, with
fresh seawater trucked in once a week. And he has his junk, when he needs it. He still talks
to the kids with his frame of lights, but he talks to me on a new display unit in a shed that I
rent there, a better unit than the one he used in the navy.
And we're all making good money, better money than I made before, because Jone's Squid
can read the traces of anything that anyone ever srored in me, and he gives it to me on the
display unit in languages I can Understand. So we're learning a lot about all my formed
clients. And one day I'll have a surgeon dig all the silicon out of my amygdalae, and I'll live
with my own memories and nobody else's, the way other people do. But not for a while.
In the meantime it's really okay up here, way up in the dark, smoking a Chinese filtertip and
listening to the condensation that drips from the geodesics. Real quiet up here - unless a pair
of Lo Teks decide to dance on the Killing Floor.
It's educational, too. With Jones to help me figure things out, I'm getting to be the most
technical boy in town.
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