METROPHAGE, Part 3

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Richard Kadrey
May 1995
***********************************************************************

						EIGHT:           			
				    The Menaced Assassin

	"You're a very stupid boy, Jonny-san."
	Water hit him and someone pulled the hood away. He found
himself face-down on the riveted steel floor of an abattoir. His shirt
was gone; the freezing water cut into him like knives.
	"How much of this have you taken?"
	He stood and Nimble Virtue tossed a packet of Mad Love at his
feet. It came to rest by the toe of his boot, where the water was icing
up over a flaking patch of dried blood. Welding marks, like narrow
scars of slag. The slaughterhouse had been grafted together from a
stack of old Sea Train cargo containers. A cryogenic pump hummed
at the far end of the place, like a beating heart, pushing liquid
oxygen through a network of pipes that criss-crossed the walls and
floor. From the ceiling, dull steel hooks held shapeless slabs of
discolored meat. Jonny looked at the slunk merchant.
	"We found your pockets packed with this. From the size of your
pupils, I would guess you've snorted up a small fortune's worth." She
wore a bulky floor-length coat of some opalescent sea-green fur.
Shrugging, she turned away from him, a tense, mechanical gesture.
Her exoskeleton whirred. "We could have extracted the information
we need painlessly, with drugs. But that seems impossible now. Who
knows what might happen when the mnemonics mixed with the
toxins you've ingested. We'll have to do it another way. But I want
you to remember," Nimble Virtue said, "You've brought this on
yourself (he heard her voice overlaid with Zamora's then: 'You beg
for it, Gordon--')."
	Easy Money and a thick-necked cowboy Jonny knew as Billy
Bump stepped into his field of vision. Easy was wearing a sleeveless
gray down jacket, Billy a surplus Army parka. Each held a Medusa.
Easy swung the whip end of his in a lazy arc before him. A bright,
almost luminous fury welled up in his eyes. "So when is it, asshole?"
he asked.
	"When is what?" Jonny asked.
	"When's the raid?" snapped the cowboy. He spoke in a thick
south Texas drawl, the result of a quartz chip implanted in the
speech center of his brain. He spit a rust-colored stream of tobacco
juice onto the floor. Billy Bump had picked up his name as teenager,
when he had a habit of pushing people in front of moving cars for
their pocket change.
	"I can't hear you," Easy said in a mock sing-song fashion.
	"Why bother?" Jonny asked. "You're not going to believe
anything I say."
	"Jonny, please tell me when Zamora is going to move against
us," said Nimble Virtue.
	"I don't know," Jonny told her.
	Easy Money whipped his arm out. The charged copper tips of
his Medusa snapped into Jonny's chest, blinding him with sparks. The
water radiated the shock across his arms and down into his groin.
Jonny doubled up and came to, finding himself clinging to a side of
gray meat for support. He could barely breath.
	"When are the raids?" asked Nimble Virtue.
	"I don't know," he said.
	"Asshole," said Easy.
	Jonny pushed himself from the meat and took off between the
stinking rows, but Billy was waiting for him. The cowboy jammed a
big boot into Jonny's stomach and brought the Medusa down across
his back. Jonny collapsed onto the metal floor.
	Above him, Nimble Virtue's face appeared. Through his
confusion and pain she seemed as gray and lifeless as her slunk.
Hard bones beneath dead meat. Maybe that's her secret, Jonny
thought dreamily. No more Johns, she's found another way to sell
herself.
	Easy Money kicked him in the ribs and shook the coils of his
Medusa over Jonny, sending sparks into his eyes. Jonny heard Billy
and Easy laugh. "Well it's cryin' time again," Billy sang.
	"Do you know where you are, Jonny-san?" asked Nimble Virtue.
	Jonny nodded. "Meat locker," he said, trying to get his breath.
	"Correct. And there is a warehouse full of my men just outside.
There is no way out of here without my say-so."
	"No way out," echoed Easy Money.
	"I could have these young men beat you all week. Do you
understand that?"
	He sat up. Strange lights boiled around the edges of his vision.
	"Yes," he said.
	"Good," said the slunk merchant. "Then why not be reasonable?
When are the raids?"
	"Tuesday," he said. Then: "Oh fuck, I told you: I don't know."
	Easy and Billy were on him, snapping the coils of their Medusas
down on Jonny's back and stomach. Pain and the mad dance of
sparks overwhelmed him, merged with the flow of sensory data
along his nerves until he was unable to tell where the white storm of
agony ended and his body began. When they stopped, his muscles
continued to convulse.
	"When are the raids?" asked Nimble Virtue.
	"I don't know," said Jonny. "Zamora didn't talk to me about
raids."
	"What did he talk about?"
	"I don't remember." Jonny crawled to his hands and knees.
Despite the cold, sweat was flowing from his arms and chest. "My
life," he said.
	"What?" Nimble Virtue demanded. She waited until he was in a
kneeling position, then she slapped him hard across the face. Jonny
felt the metal around her fingers tear his skin.
	"Conover," said Jonny. "Zamora wants me to turn Conover."
	At a signal from Nimble Virtue, Billy hit Jonny from behind.
While he was stunned, Easy secured hard loops of white plastic
around Jonny's wrists. Then Easy and Billy lifted him from the floor,
Easy pushing Jonny's arms over his head so that when they released
him, he was hanging by his wrists from one of the heavy steel hooks.
The pain was instant and terrible. He screamed.
	Nimble Virtue picked up the Medusa Easy had left on the floor
and approached Jonny. "Answer me quickly and simply," she said.
She gathered the coils of the Medusa together and pressed the
charged tips into Jonny's side. He convulsed on the hook and went
limp. "What is your name?" she asked.
	"Jonny Qabbala."
	"Your real name."
	It took him a moment. "Gordon Joao Acker."
	"Where were you born?"
	"The Hollywood Greyhound Station," he said. Easy and Billy
laughed again. It echoed. Jonny looked up; framed by the corroded
bulkhead around a ventilation shaft, he saw his hands, blood on his
arms.
	"What is your profession?" Nimble Virtue asked.
	"Dealer."
	"When did Colonel Zamora tell you to expect the raids?"
	"He didn't."
	"Liar!" yelled Nimble Virtue. She pressed the ends of the
Medusa into Jonny's stomach and held them there. "You stupid boy, I
can keep you up alive for weeks! Cut off a piece everyday and sell
you in the mercado!"
	When Jonny came to, he realized that he had blacked-out again.
Nimble Virtue was muttering in Japanese and making unpleasant
sucking sounds as the exoskeleton breathed her. Jonny's arms and
shoulders had gone numb. He thought he could hear music in the
next room. When Nimble Virtue looked at him, he said, "I can't tell
you what I don't know. Zamora just wanted to talk about the Alpha
Rats."
	Jonny saw something flicker over Nimble Virtue's face. "Take
him down," she said. Easy and Billy moved under him, lifted Jonny
off the hook and laid him out on the floor. Nimble Virtue moved
closer and put a hand on his leg. The fur of her coat tickled his
stomach. "Say it again. Say it or I'll have them put you back up."
	Jonny looked at her eyes. Fear or relief, he wondered. His head
swam. He wondered when the dream would be over and he would
wake up next to Ice and Sumi. "There's a deal," he said and his head
fell back.
	"Wrap him up," Nimble Virtue told one of the men. "But leave
his hands bound."
	Jonny lay on the cold steel, hoping it had worked. Fear kept
him still, but he was satisfied that they had bought the fainting act. A
trickle of relief washed through him. He could hear the purring of
Nimble Virtue's exoskeleton as she moved around the abattoir. "Get
the Arab back here," she said. "Tell him we can deal."
	Jonny listened to the foot steps. Billy's heavy and flat-footed,
his cowboy boots coming down like open-handed slaps; Nimble
Virtue's, rapid and light, with insect hums and clicks. Easy Money
moved in quick bursts, his club foot dragging behind him. Jonny
knew he would have to wait at least until Easy or Billy had left the
room before he could make a break. He willed himself to remain still,
to use what time he had to rest and collect himself. The sweat on his
right arm was freezing to the slaughterhouse floor. Just as he was
beginning to worry about frostbite, he felt Billy (he caught a whiff of
chew) wrap a rough woolen blanket around his shoulders.
	"Don't want you croaking out on us, now," he heard the cowboy
say.
	There was a loud buzz from the far end of the room. Jonny kept
his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. Movement, machine-like and
delicate. "What is it?" came Nimble Virtue's voice.
	Static. At first Jonny could not understand the voice. "--spotter
picked up police vans headed this way. Looks like a raid," the
intercom sputtered.
	Nimble Virtue cursed in Japanese. "Not now. I'm not ready," she
said.
	Jonny heard Easy Money: "It's the cops, not the Committee. No
sweat."
	"Perhaps," she said. The coldness came back to her voice, the
hard suggestion of efficiency. "Stay with him. You come with me." A
confusion of footsteps, all three of them moving around the room at
once. The abattoir door opened and closed. Then there was nothing.
Jonny could not stand it. He opened his eyes.
	At the far end of the room, Easy Money was leaning against the
cryogenic pump, grinning at him.
	"Ollie, ollie oxen free," Easy said. He chuckled and steam from
his breath curled around his grafted satyr horns. "Watching you's
like watching porn. I mean, you're so fucking trite, but I can't help it.
I still get off. Twisted, huh?"
	Jonny got up from the freezing floor and pulled the blanket
tight across his shoulders. "You gonna tell the teacher I was bad
when she left the room?"
	Easy shook his head. "Hell no," he said. "You think I care about
the bitch? I'm just watching the parade go by. Besides," he said,
strolling toward Jonny, "I know what you really want. You want the
stuff I took off Raquin. It's Conover's dope, isn't it? What is it? No,
don't tell me, you'd only lie, and I'd get pissed. Anyway, after we're
clear of this, maybe you and me, we can work out a deal. Meet me at
the Forest of Incandescent Bliss in Little Tokyo." Easy nodded toward
the door Nimble Virtue had just used. "That's one of Yokohama
Mama's clubs."
	"The Forest of Incandescent Bliss. Right," said Jonny.
	"I assume you're in contact with Conover, and can get me a fair
price."
	"No problem."
	Easy moved a little closer. He spoke to Jonny softly. "Tell me
the truth, you were gonna blow me away that night at the Pit,
weren't you?"
	"Who me? I was just stopping by to watch the movie stars."
	"Liar," said Easy Money. He smiled, "We're gonna have to work
that out, too."
	"Whatever you say."
	"But later," Easy said. Through the slaughterhouse wall came
the muffled sound of automatic weapons fire. The lights in the
abattoir went out. A few seconds later, emergency flood lamps flared
to life over the doors throwing the room into brilliant arctic relief.
"They'll be back in a minute. You better get back on the floor." Jonny
reluctantly lay back down and Easy bent over him. "One more thing,"
he said. "I'm not helping you, understand, but if I were you, I'd make
a real effort to get out of here. You don't want to deal with the bitch's
Arab friends."
	Jonny nodded. "Thanks." The meat locker shuddered. Nimble
Virtue and Billy hurried through the door.
	"Bring him!" shouted Nimble Virtue. "It is the police, but I don't
want him found."
	Jonny smelled tobacco again. He went limp as Billy grabbed
him around the chest and began hauling him toward the door. When
they hit warm air, Jonny dug his heels in and drove an elbow into
Billy's midsection. The cowboy groaned and fell back against a wall of
yellow fiberglass packing crates. Jonny spun, put a boot to Billy's chin
(just for fun, that) and took off running, Nimble Virtue shrieking
behind at him.
	He made one corner and hid between a cluster of rubberized
storage cylinders and the angled steel wall supports. Men armed
with Futukoros ran past him. Jonny's hands, when he looked at them,
were blue and swollen. Running again, he saw police wearing
breathing apparatus, moving among the long rows of crates. Down
another row, and he was gasping and stumbling, knee-deep in carbon
dioxide foam. He tried to climb out over a wall of crates, but lack of
oxygen muddled him. Black things with glassy eyes and tubes for
mouths grabbed him. He swung his bound hands weakly, but missed.
His feet could not find the floor.
	And the foam swallowed him.

	It seemed to him that he was always waking up in strange
places. As if his whole life had been a series of dull, terrifying
discoveries-- trying to find some point of reference, finding it and
having it swept away at the next moment. The feeling frightened and
infuriated him even as he nursed it along, believing that if he ever
lost his terror and rage he might lose himself, flicker and disappear
like an image on a video screen.
	Jonny woke up to a hot pain that extended from his shoulders,
across his back and down into his hands. When he moved his fingers,
pins and needles stabbed him. The familiar smell of prison (human
waste and disinfectants) turned his stomach.
	"Christ," he said, opening his eyes. "Don't they know any other
color but green?"
	The door of his cell scraped open and a balding waxy-faced
young man peered at him from the hall. Evidently he had been
waiting there for some time and Jonny's voice had startled him.
Jonny was relieved to see that the man was wearing the blue
uniform of the police department, and not Committee black.
	"Hello?" said the cop.
	Jonny swung his feet onto the floor and sat up on the pallet.
The cop tried to cover it, but Jonny saw his head snap back in
surprise. "I was just commenting on the accommodations," said
Jonny. "They suck." Pain, like a tight cord, cut through his middle.
	The cop frowned and closed the door. Jonny listened to his
footsteps as they faded down the corridor. Alone again, he pulled up
the stiff gray paper prison shirt and probed his ribs with the tips of
his fingers. Bruises and tender flesh there, but nothing seemed to be
broken.
	Surveying the cell, Jonny felt relief and a quiet kind of joy.
Dealing with the police, he knew from experience, would be no
problem. They were wired for failure, ridiculed even by the city
government that supported them; in the street, they were considered
a notch below meter-maids as authority figures. Most of the
department was staffed by boys who could not cut it in the
Committee, had blown their chance through lack of cunning or nerve
or the inability to zero in on and take advantage of the fine edge of
madness that was absolutely essential in Committee work.
	In their own odd way, the police were more vicious that the
Committee, a brutal down-scale version of their sister agency. Their
lack of power and the consequent pettiness of their concerns had,
over the years, become a kind of strength for them, a license to use
whatever savagery they thought required to complete the job at
hand. And the jobs took many forms; mostly, they concerned
shaking-down small-time smugglers, dealers and prostitutes for
protection from the gangs. These were often the same people who
were paying off one or more gang for protection from the police.
	Jonny reflected that the cop who had looked in his cell was
typical of the department. Older than most Committee boys and
lacking the spark of youthful certainty that death, when it came,
would be looking for someone else. Jonny decided he would feel the
cop out when he returned. See exactly what kind of story he wanted,
cop a plea and get assigned to a road gang or one of the Mayor's
neighborhood renewal projects. Jonny knew that once he was
outside, he was gone. With any luck, he figured he could be back on
the street in a week.
	It was about a half-hour, by his reckoning, before he heard
footsteps again. Two sets, walking with a purpose. The door of his cell
ground open and the cop he had seen earlier entered, followed by an
older man wearing a worn blue pin-stripe suit patched at the cuffs
with thread-jell, a cheap polymeric fiber that hardened when it came
into contact with air. The older man's tie was a shade too light to go
with his suit and was at least two seasons too thin. Jonny made him
for a bureaucrat. A public defender or maybe a social worker. He
would be the one to work on. Talk about his deprived childhood, the
violence in the streets...
	"Officer Acker," said the older man; his eyes were red and
anxious. His shoes were injection-molded polyvinyl, vending machine
numbers. "I'm Detective Sergeant Russo, and this is Officer Heckert."
	Jonny smiled and shook the hand Russo extended to him, but
his mind was kicking into overdrive. New tack, thinking: He called
me "officer."
	"I wanted to let you know, personally, that we're on top of the
situation," said Detective Russo, smiling as he sat down next to Jonny
on the plastic sleeping pallet. "You see, when you were brought in
with that bunch from the warehouse, Officer Heckert here ran retinal
scans on everybody to check for old and foreign warrants-- not
something we usually do until after arraignment, but considering the
volume of goods in the warehouse-- Then, when he saw Colonel
Zamora's note in your file, he crossed-checked your retinal print and
found your Committee record."
	That's it, Jonny thought. This lunatic thinks I'm still in the
Committee. I can walk right out of here. "Good work, Officer," Jonny
said. He nodded to Heckert. The cop nodded back, obviously happy
with his new-found status. "How is it you happened to raid the
warehouse when you did?"
	"Anonymous tip," said Heckert. "A woman's voice synthesized
to sound male. We ran the call through the analyzer and got a good
print, but I guess she doesn't have a record." The cop smiled. (Playing
hard boy, Jonny thought. Type of guy fails Committee application,
becomes police department and swears up and down he wanted to
be a cop all along, not a stuck-up Committee boy.) "Probably just
some chippie tryin' to get even with a boy friend."
	"Anyway," said Detective Russo, giving Heckert a disapproving
glance, "we called Colonel Zamora and he'll be by to pick you up
soon--"
	"You what?" Jonny yelled. He was on his feet, feeling as if the
bottom had just fallen out of his stomach. "Don't you know the
Committee's been compromised?" He knew he had to give them
something. He made it up as he went along. "Moles from the New
Palestine Federation penetrated the Committee months ago! I'm
undercover, investigating Arab terrorist cells operating in southern
California. They're insidious. Dumping mycotxins in the water table.
Releasing plague infested rats in the suburbs. This is strictly top-
level stuff, you understand. Eyes only. Washington and Tokyo are
involved, Sergeant Russo. None of this can leave this room."
	Russo's gaze passed from Heckert to Jonny and back again. His
forehead was furrowed (unsure of his responsibility, his culpability,
Jonny thought, unsure, also, if he's being mocked). "But surely you
can't suspect Colonel Zamora-- " Russo asked.
	"How do you know it was Zamora you were speaking to?" Jonny
yelled. He was angling closer to the door. He could see they were
buying the line of nonsense. It was there in the cops' eyes. Their
colorless bureaucratic blood was bubbling to the surface. He knew
they would let him gobecause they believed he was just like them:
another link in the chain of command that bound them and defined
them. But their gears shifted slowly, and Jonny felt he had to push
them along. "Listen pal, you may have blown my cover but good," he
said. "And if the Arabs get wind that I'm in here, with the data I've
got, we can all kiss our asses goodbye, 'cause they'll level this whole
complex, rather than have me get away."
	"Well then, we better get you someplace safe," said a gravelly
voice from the door. Jonny turned around. He had not even heard
Zamora coming, and now it was too late to do anything about it. He
turned back to the cops. "Wait, I was lying. I'm not really a Fed," he
said. "I'm a Croaker! An anarquista! Arrest me and I'll tell you
everything! Names and dates!"
	Detective Russo rose from the pallet and turned to Zamora. A
muscle jumped angrily along his quickly reddening jaw. "Colonel
Zamora, I hope you can explain what's going on here," he said. "Is or
is this not one of your men?"
	"Why Detective Sergeant Russo," said Zamora, "of course he is."
The Colonel smiled at him and Jonny felt ill. "Didn't you see my
notation in his record? Agent Acker has been under deep-cover for
some time now. Working among terrorists for so long, he's had a
breakdown. Convinced himself he's one of them. It happens
sometimes in these deep-cover cases. But we'll get him all the help
he needs."
	Russo grunted. "This man has wasted all our time, Colonel. And
put this department in an embarrassing position. I hope you get him
some help soon." He shook his head, jammed his hands into the
pockets of his shabby suit and started out of the cell. "Colonel
Zamora," he said, in a tired voice, "The next time you're having
trouble with your men, I'd appreciate your notifying the Department.
I realize that the Police aren't held in quite the same regard as the
Committee, but really-- "
	"You're absolutely right, detective," said Zamora. "Commun-
ication. That's what it's all about."
	Russo and Heckert left the cell (the younger man fixing Jonny
with a look of absolute loathing) and went one way down the
corridor, while Zamora and a couple of heavily-armed Committee
boys led Jonny in the opposite direction. In an a waiting area painted
in two tones of blistered green paint, Zamora grabbed Jonny (tearing
the cheap prison shirt) and punched him in the stomach. "That's for
being a smart ass," said the Colonel.
	Zamora shoved Jonny, still doubled-up, into an elevator.
Someone pushed a button and they started moving. Jonny saw his
reflection in one transparent wall, ghostly with receding rooftops and
cumulus clouds. The overcast sky burned muddily through the grime
and mirror-glazed Lexan that encased the rising car. Straightening,
Jonny looked at the Committee boys that flanked him. They appeared
to be about fourteen years old, radiating waves of amphetamine
tension. Both were skull-plugged into multiplexers set to coordinate
their Futukoros with the Sony targeting matrices that webbed their
chest and backs in tight diamond mesh. Each boy had a powerpack
around his waist and a datapatch, also jacked into the array, covering
one eye.
	"The best we have," said Zamora, indicating the boys. "See all
the trouble I go through for you?" he smiled sympathetically. "Look
at me, Gordon. I'm an avalanche. And I'm coming down hard on you
this time. You should not have blown our deal."
	"What deal?" asked Jonny. He rubbed his sore ribs. "We never
had a deal. You put a gun to my head and gave me an order. Bullshit,
that's what that is."
	Zamora shrugged. "Call it anything you like. The fact of the
matter is you fucked me over and now you've got to pay the price."
He looked away and Jonny followed his gaze as it settled out over the
docks. White articulated-boom cranes were off-loading bright silver
boxcars from container ships, sliding on their induction cushions like
the skeletons of immense horses.
	An old and familiar anger enclosed Jonny, like a fist tightening
in his chest. He choked; it reminded him of speed, the reckless and
undirected anger of the comedown.
	He looked at the floor, trying to clear his mind. Strands of
plastic-coated copper wire coiled at angles from around the dull
service panel beneath the elevator button pad. Jonny gained some
small sense of control by telling himself that he had denied Zamora
the thing he wanted most-- Conover. But he's got me, thought Jonny.
And he knew that Zamora would eventually get Conover anyway.
That thought brought the anger back, stronger that ever.
	"I see right through you, Colonel," said Jonny.
	Zamora raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh really?"
	"Damn straight," Jonny said. "It came to me while I was up
there in the hills. I haven't worked out all the details, but I know
you're in bed with the Arabs. I saw broadcasts from L.A., on a
restricted Arab Link channel. Obviously, if there are Arabs operating
in the city, you know about it. And if you know about it, it means
you're being paid off."
	"What if I told you weren't even warm?"
	"You'd be lying. Cause it's that Arab connection that makes you
so nervous about Conover. He's got CIA connections that go back
decades. You're afraid he's onto you, that he'll cut a deal with the
Feds and that you'll end up in a sterile room somewhere with wires
in your head, spilling every thought you ever had."
	"What makes you think I'm not prepared to go up there and
drag Conover down by his skinny neck?"
	"Because you don't want a war. Conover's not stupid. Obviously,
you know where he is. That hologram dome is just a carny trick to
impress the locals and the other lords, but he's got that haunted
house set up really nice against any kind of assault. You'd have to
flatten the whole hill to get him down. But if you did that, people
would start asking questions and you'd be back in the shit again.
That's why you told me that fairy tale about the Alpha Rats. You
thought I'd be all impressed and terrified of your heavy connections.
That I'd get Conover off that hill and come sucking around to you,
looking for table scraps."
	Colonel Zamora shook his head, let go with his throaty lizard
laugh. "God kid, you've really gone around the bend. Maybe we
should get you to a hospital after all," he said. "Naturally, there's
Arabs operating in Last Ass. Hell, Washington and Tokyo've got some
of the most influential Mullahs in Qom and Baghdad on the payroll.
It's the way of the world. (Economics, remember?) But these L.A
sand-scratchers are just a propaganda cell. Bureaucratic pussies that
couldn't keep me in lunch money."
	The elevator was still climbing. Jonny knew then that they
were headed for the hoverport on the roof. He shook his head. "I
know that you were lying that night back at the warehouse. You
don't have Sumi. If you did, you'd have brought her up already. Used
her to threaten me or something."
	Zamora smiled. The elevator was gradually slowing its ascent.
"You sure about that, Jimmy?" The Colonel reached out and gently
fingered the rip in Jonny's prison tunic. "You ready to bet your life on
it?"
	"You telling me I got anything to lose?" Jonny asked.
	Zamora laughed again. "No, probably not."
	The elevator shuddered as magnetic bolts locked it into place
below the hoverport. They were still two floors from the roof. Like
most port-equipped buildings in L.A., this one had a special,
restricted-access elevator they would have to use to reach the port.
"Get ready," Zamora told the Committee boys. Neither boy directly
acknowledged the order, but each moved, adjusting datapatches,
wiggling their shoulders to smooth the targeting webs. The boys
were living on a different level, Jonny knew, in the extended sense-
field of the targeting matrix, experiencing a digital approximation of
expanded consciousness. For a moment, Jonny found himself envying
them. He shook his head at the absurdity of his own mind. Nothing to
lose there, he thought.
	The elevator doors whispered open and Jonny was propelled
into the hall; Zamora came behind him, the Committee boys on either
side. The Colonel moved quickly to the other elevator, slid his
identification card into a slot under the key pad and pushed a button.
A few meters down the corridor, a prison maintenance worker was
using a caulk gun to apply a clear silicone sealant around the edges
of an observation window. The corridor itself was silent and
anonymous with beige walls and brown institutional carpeting; Jonny
was relieved to find that the vile prison smell did extend up to this
level.
	Time was definitely slowing, Jonny decided. He felt as if he
were moving through some heavy liquid medium, acutely aware of
his surroundings, pulsing with the exaggerated senses of the dying
and the doomed. Objects had taken on an almost holy significance.
Potted palms by the windows. Dull chrome lighting fixtures. The blue
overalls of the maintenance worker, his mottled skin. Pink shading to
black. Something in his hand. Silver bolt in a crossbow pistol.
	The name came out, involuntarily. "Man Ray," Jonny said. But
by then it was over. The Committee boy on his right was dead, a
slender length of super-conductive alloy bursting through his chest,
glittering there like a bloody spider, the ribbed filaments bent back,
tangling and shorting the targeting web-- frying the boy in his own
sense-data.
	The other boy was firing down the corridor, spraying the walls
with hot red tracers. Jonny spun and round-housed him in the
kidneys. An arm clamped around Jonny's throat, jerking him
backwards. "No!" Zamora shouted; the Committee boy had turned on
them; stoned and red-faced with rage, he had his gun pressed to
Jonny's jaw. There was a subdued hiss. And the boy fell back, his
throat split with a spidery bolt.
	The elevator doors opened and Zamora pulled Jonny through.
In death, the second Committee boy's eyes were like those of a
bewildered child. Jonny felt for him, but then his head was snapped
back savagely to meet the barrel of Zamora's Futukoro. "It's not that
easy!" the Colonel yelled. He flicked the barrel of his gun at Man Ray
and blasted between the closing doors, the sound thundering through
Jonny's head. Man Ray leaped the bodies of the dead Committee boys
and rolled clear of the shot. The elevator doors closed with a soft
thud and the car began to rise.
	"Nothing," Zamora whispered in Jonny's ear. "Not a move, not a
breath, not a sound." The arm around Jonny's throat tightened,
threatening to lift him off his feet. "You think your companeros are
cute? They're assholes. Got nothing going for them but card tricks."
	"Maybe," said Jonny, "but your boys are still dead."
	The car shivered gently to a halt and the doors opened under
the towering lighting gantries of the hoverport. The Colonel's
Futukoro pressed to his temple, Jonny crossed the tarmac, the Colonel
hugging his back. Smog-light bloodied the sky, the setting sun
burning feebly through hydrocarbon-laden mists. "Heads up,
children!" Zamora bellowed. "There's Croakers in the building!" Boys
moved in the dusty desert light.
	A dozen broad circles, were laid out evenly across the roof, like
illuminated manhole covers. The hovercar landing pads were
essentially waffled discs of carbon steel inset with guide lights, set on
a bed of leaking shock absorbers. At the moment, there was only one
car on the roof, resting on a pad at the far end of the port; Zamora
was pushing Jonny toward it as a dozen running Committee boys and
cops fanned-out behind them, preparing to lay down covering-fire
across the rooftop. Off to Jonny's left, a young cop with a lightning
bolt tattooed on each side of his bald scalp, was sending the aircraft
elevator to the basement, sealing the roof from the rest of the
building. Horns sounded and crimson warning beacons revolved. The
platform dropped about two meters and stopped. The roof lights
flickered and died.
	"Power's cut!" someone yelled.
	Zamora shoved Jonny forward, into the arms of a couple of
slope-browed Meat Boys. The taller of the two, an acne-scarred
chollo, tall even by Committee standards, said, "Where's Rick and
Pepe...?"
	"Shut up," said the Colonel. "They're gone. It's the asshole's
fault. Take him to the car."
	At the moment the Meat Boys' brutal fingers death-gripped
Jonny's shoulders, something fluttered in the air. The Mitsui Pacific
Bank complex, dark a moment before, glowed a pale, snowy gray,
and a black and white hologram of a woman's face coalesced in the
air, gridded with windows and shining robot washers. The image
refocused, tightened until only the eye remained. And the profile of a
man with a straight razor in his hand. The gray eye covered ten
stories at the top of the bank as the razor slid through the cornea,
cutting it neatly in half. On every side of the roof, buildings flared
behind tides of phosphenes. Pale dustings of porn flesh. The wet red
of an autopsy instructional. Collaged ads, too fast to follow: shoes,
cars, new eyes, cloned pets.
	From somewhere, a loudspeaker blared metallically: "We are
the revolt of the spirit humiliated by your works. We are the spark
in the wind, but the spark seeking the powder magazine!"
	"Get him out of here," said Zamora as the first concussion shook
the roof.
	The Croakers were above the hoverport when Jonny saw them,
high enough to still be silent under the whirling blades of their
ultralights. He figured they had launched themselves from the
nearby buildings under cover of the holograms. They were circling
now, dropping garlands of roses, playing cards, flocks of mechanical
doves, which spun on convection currents to the roof below, where
they exploded, ripping steel and tarmac from under the boys' feet,
billowing choking pink clouds of CS gas. "What'd I tell you?" Zamora
said. "They're hotdogs. It's going to be a turkey shoot."
	But the power cut in, and the carbon arcs atop the light
gantries glowed to life, blotting out the winged figures. "Shit," Zamora
yelled, hurrying across the roof. "Get him to detention," he yelled to
the Meat Boys. "Lose him and it's your asses."
	The shorter Meat Boy, a WASPish blonde with bad teeth,
nodded and pushed Jonny in the direction of the hovercar. "Name's
Stearn," he said. "This is Julio." He jerked his thumb at the taller boy.
"We'll break your back if you get cute." At about sixteen, Stearn was
nearly a meter taller than Jonny, his voice unnaturally deep, his
speech slurred by his distended acromegalic jaw.
	At the base of the hovercar platform, Jonny panicked, knowing
what would be waiting for him when they reached Committee
headquarters. He twisted in Stearn's grip, the cheap paper shirt
splitting at the shoulders, and vaulted up and over the hovercar. He
caught a glimpse of the pilot inside, an amber death's head in the
backwash from the navigation console. Down on the other side, Jonny
leaped off the platform and ran for the edge of the roof, waving his
arms and yelling at the Croakers. "Here! I'm here!"
	A fist, the size of Jonny's head, caught him between the
shoulder blades and knocked him flat. A moment later, he was
dragged to his feet. The Meat Boys double-timed him back to the
hovercar. On the far end of the roof, Croakers were bringing their
ultralights down, coasting to a halt amidst a wash of tear gas and
Futukoro fire.
	"All right!" yelled Jonny. "They're gonna use your balls for
paperweights, Ubu!"
	Stearn released him and Julio shoved Jonny, back-first, through
the canopy of the hovercar. He fell, staring up at the huge boot that
hovered above his face, and passed over him as Julio settled into the
seat on his right. The Meat Boy hauled him up as Stearn got in and
sat, boxing Jonny in on the left.
	Outside, the amplified voices continued: "I am here by the will
of the people and I won't leave until I get my raincoat back."
	Stearn snapped down the canopy and tapped the pilot on the
shoulder, yelling "Go!" The pilot hit the cut-in switch for the engines.
Sub-sonics rumbled in Jonny's guts as the hovercar's four Pratt and
Whitney engines burned to life. Ultralights settled to the roof a few
meters from the platform, and Croakers came scrambling for the car.
"Go!Vamonos!" yelled Stearn.
	Jonny jammed his leg between the forward seats and swung
his boot at the pilot's head. "Keep still," mumbled Stearn, shoving an
elbow into Jonny's throat.
	In a tear gas fog, the hovercar rose about two feet off the
platform. And banged down again. Something silver flashed by the
window. The pilot pushed the throttle forward, feeding more power
to the engines. The hovercar slowly began to rise, and swung out
over the street. Jonny saw Zamora below them, waving frantically.
One of the Meat Boy's cursed and Jonny looked up.
	The sickle end of a kusairigama was wrapped around the light
rack atop the car. Flash of a face in the window. Noise from the roof.
Jonny whooped at the sight. Three Croakers were chained to the roof
as the hovercar flew unsteadily twenty stories above the city.
	"I can't keep it steady," the pilot said. "There's something
wrong."
	Julio, leaned forward. "Look up, stupid," he said.
	The pilot turtled his head forward as an ax cracked the
windshield just above him. He pulled back on the control stick,
rocking the hovercar violently from side to side. The sound of metal
and fragmenting plastic came from above. The Croakers were spread
out on the roof, methodically hacking away at the canopy.
	Stearn had his gun out, pointing it up at the crotch of a Croaker
kneeling on the canopy above him. The pilot was still struggling with
the stick. The car pitched to the left, a complaining animal, and the
boy lost his aim.
	"Hold it still. I can't get a shot off," he yelled.
	"No!" screamed the pilot. "You might hit the stabilizers! It's
hard enough to control now."
	"Then shake them off," said Stearn.
	"Right, hang on."
	The pilot cranked the stick hard to the left and the hovercar
flipped. Jonny's feet left the floor. He reached out for the ceiling,
dangling a few centimeters above the seat by his safetybelt. The
Croakers were still outside, secured to the car by their chains.
	"I can't hold it," said the pilot. "Load's too much."
	"Hold it," Stearn ordered. He took aim at the Croaker by his
window.
	Jonny braced his back against the roof and rabbit punched the
Meat Boy with both fists, driving his face into the glass. The Futukoro
went off, blasting out the window. Shattered glass blew in on them
like a thousand flying knives. The sound of hot wind and the scream
of overworked turbines.
	The pilot righted them. The Croakers clambered back onto the
roof and went to work, hacking away at the body of the hovercar.
Stearn turned and stared at Jonny, jagged wedges of glass embedded
around the boy's eyes and mouth, glittering there like savage jewels.
Stearn lunged and locked his thick fingers around Jonny's throat,
squeezing. Jonny went for the boy's eyes, but missed, felt muscles in
his neck tear, felt his breath stop, the world begin to slide away.
	"Stop it!" Julio's voice cut through the wind. "We've got to get
him to detention," he said. "He's not yours!"
	But Stearn kept on squeezing. Jonny heard a muffled explosion,
and felt the fingers on his neck go slack. He struggled back. Stearn
had jerked upright, his shoulders twitching convulsively. Then he fell
forward, revealing a wet hole in his back.
	"Move!" yelled the Croaker with the gun. She was leaning in the
broken window, upside down, trying to get a shot at the other Meat
Boy.
	Jonny threw himself down on Stearn's body, heat of gunfire
across his back. When he dared to look up, Jonny saw the Croaker out
the window, lifeless puppet, chain slipping from around her wrist,
dead already as she tumbled from the car.
	Julio grunted some obscenity in Spanish. Jonny found him
stuffing a handkerchief into the hole in his shoulder. The Committee
boy smiled.
	"I won't kill you," he said, and pressed the barrel of his
Futukoro into Jonny's groin. "But I'll make you wish you were dead."
	"We're near the detention center," shouted the pilot. "I'm going
to set us down there."
	"Do it fast," Julio said. He pressed his back to the shattered
window and slid part-way out.
	Jonny felt his skin prickle at the thought of returning to
Committee headquarters. The hovercar was skimming over the roofs
of blacked-out skyscrapers. They neared Union Bank Plaza, with its
dry fountains and dead, brittle trees. Jonny saw the freeway. If he
could get the pilot to put the hovercar down there, he thought, he
and the Croakers could hijack a car and disappear. Jonny glanced at
Julio and saw the boy occupied with a Croaker who refused to hold
still and get shot.
	Using Stearn's body for cover, Jonny stamped his boot down
and drew out his long bladed knife. Leaning between the forward
seats, he touched the tip of the blade to the pilot's throat, pressing
just hard enough to draw blood. The pilot's head snapped back. "Set
it down by that fountain," Jonny whispered.
	"Yes sir," he said, and started a slow bank toward the Plaza.
Jonny heard a voice: "What the hell are you doing?"
	He swung around. Julio was pulled his head in through the
window, and Jonny caught him on the chin with his boot heel. Two
leather clad arms shot in behind the Meat Boy, latching onto handfuls
of his hair, dragging him back out the window. Julio seemed to panic
then; he waved his Futukoro all around the cabin, pointing it one
moment at the Croaker who had him, then swinging the gun back at
Jonny. As the he disappeared out the window, he pulled the trigger.
The pilot's head exploded, and the hovercar angled forward, nose-
diving for the pavement.
	Jonny reached under the body of the dead pilot and grabbed
the stick. Above him, he could hear Julio still struggling with the
Croakers. A shot went off through the roof. Jonny pulled back hard
on the stick, trying to forestall the crash. The hovercar banked
steeply, scraping down belly-first through the trees in Union Bank
Plaza.
	Across the street, amidst a jumble of rotting patio furniture, sat
the mirrored bulk of the Bonaventure Hotel. Jonny looked up just in
time to watch his own reflection crash into the building across the
street.


						NINE:
				The Treason of Images

	A light crusting of salt on his lips. The smell of damp cement
and fish.

	Los Angeles closed over him like the wing of a bird, distorted
like the image of a diamond caught in the concave surface of a
parabolic mirror. Distended, the city shattered; it could not hold. All
the gleaming office towers and prisons, all the cars and guns, the
junkies and the dealers, the dead and the dying came raining down
on him from the back of a wounded sky. And everybody seemed to
know his name but him.

	It occurred to Jonny that for someone who basically just
wanted to be left alone, he was spending an awful lot of time waking
up in bandages.
	That he was alive at all was less a surprise to him than a
burden. He kept wondering if there was some reason for it, some
purpose other than for other people's amusement. The back of his
head felt as if it had been pried open with a can opener and filled
with dry ice. He laughed at something (not entirely sure what), found
the edge of the bed with his hand and sat up.
	The smell of fish was stronger. There was a chittering, like the
voices of dolphins, rooms away. No light, though. He felt bandages on
his face, multiple layers of gauze and surgical tape. Scars on his
cheeks. He had surgery. Below the line of the dressing, he touched his
lips. They were swollen, his front teeth loose. His nose was probably
broken, too. Still, it could have been worse, he thought. His eyes
ached.

	His eyes.	

	Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice was screaming. His
own: like the roar of turbines, like metal twisting on metal.
	Eyes.
	The world tilted then, burdened by the weight of a single word.
"Blind," he said. It barely registered. He found he could hold it back,
if he tried, could examine the word from a distance, scan the
contours and convolusions of it, while never quite allowing it to take
on conscious meaning. But the weight of it was such that he could not
keep it away indefinitely; it fell, bringing memory crashing down on
him like the windshield of the hovercar. He was blind.
	I am blind.
	"Jonny?" It was a man's voice. Amplified. "Stay there. Don't get
up," it said.
	Below his bare feet, the floor was cold. He felt damp concrete,
limp strands of kelp and a few steps later, the rusted grillwork of a
floor drain. He could hear the ocean, very close by. Something
skittered across his right foot. A tiny crab. He felt others move away
each time he brought his foot down. A wall. He needed a wall,
something substantial to hold onto. He started back to where he
thought the bed was, then stopped. Unsure. He turned in a circle,
shouting, his head thrown back, his hands reflexive claws tearing at
the gauze. When it was all gone he was still standing there, panting.
No light at all.
	"Jonny, don't move."

	He started at the sound, took a step-- and was falling. A hand
closed on his shoulder and right arm, pulling him back. He lay on the
floor, his hands to his f ace, the dampness seeping through his pant
legs.

	"I told you to stay put. You almost walked into ten meters of
empty air just then." The voice was familiar.
	"Hey Groucho," Jonny said. "Guess what. I'm blind."
	"I already knew. You didn't have to go to all this trouble to
prove it to me," he said. The anarchist hauled him to his feet and
walked him back to the bed, a distance Jonny judged to be no more
than fifteen meters.
	"Christ, I'm a fuckin' veg," said Jonny.
	"Don't be stupid," said the anarchist. Jonny felt the distribution
of weight on the bed change as Groucho sat down. "You have your
hands; you have your mind. We sealed off what was left of your optic
nerves. There wasn't much more we could do."
	"Great," asked Jonny. "What about implants?"
	"I don't know.  We could probably rig something to give you
some kind of vision. Eventually," Groucho said. "Splice some nerve
cells from somewhere else in your body into your optic nerve tissue
and see if we can generate something to rebuild with. I'm not sure.
The trouble is, we're limited in what we can even attempt out here in
the hinterlands. We lost a lot of our equipment when the Committee
came down on us." Jonny felt him move. Some kind of gesture.
"Sorry, man."
	Jonny nodded. "Yeah. So where are we?"
	"A fish farm. It's been out of business for years. That's what
you almost fell into, one of the drained feeding tanks. Before it was a
farm, the place used to be a marine mammal center. There are pens
outside where the dolphins still come looking for a free lunch. I'm
afraid we've been encouraging them," he said. "They're beautiful
animals."
	"Gee whiz, tell me all about it," said Jonny. He took a deep
breath and swallowed. "Listen, I gotta know. Do I-- I mean, what do
I--?"
	"Your face is fine," said Groucho. "You may even consider it an
improvement. Although you have enough plastic and metal in your
skull now to qualify as a small appliance."
	Jonny shook his head. He tried to conjure up the image of
Groucho sitting next to him on the bed. The bed itself was easy.
Running his fingers around the edge, he felt bare metal and soft
rubberized bumpers, locked wheels beneath. A specimen cart, he
thought, covered with a foam sleeping mat. However, Groucho's face
eluded him. Jonny could never recall people's faces unless he was
looking right at them. He tried to picture the room. Bare concrete,
enameled tanks with chrome ladders leading to the bottom, drains in
the floor--
	Forget it.
	It was a shopping list, not a picture. He could imagine himself
(also faceless), Groucho and the bed, but beyond that was a void,
terra incognita. Nothing existed that was farther away than the end
of his arm. "Get used to it, asshole," he mumbled.
	"What?"
	"So what happens now?"
	"We go back to plan one," said Groucho. "The Croakers have
friends in Mexico. We should be able to get you down to Ensenada in
a couple of days, then over to the mainland. It's going to be a while
before we can do anything about your eyes."
	"Don't shit me, okay?" said Jonny. "If my optic nerves are as
gone as you say, then we're just blowing wind talking about nerve
splices. Realistically, we're really talking about a skull-plug run
through a digitizer and some kind of micro-video rig. You, or any of
your people, got the chops to fix that up?"
	"No. You've got to go to New Hope or some government clinic
for that kind of work."
	"Well, there you are," said Jonny flatly. The bed moved as
Groucho got up. Jonny studied the overlapping echoes of the
anarchist's footsteps as he moved around the room, counting the
number of beats between each heel click, imagining that this might
give him some sense of the room's layout or size. It did not. There
were other sounds: the white noise of surf, dolphins, the clicking of
crabs across the floor, all equally distant and unreal, as if, in the
absence of any visual stimulus, his brain were busily manufacturing
sensations for itself. "Maya, man. Sometimes I think this is all just
smoke and mirrors."
	"I thought that was acknowledged," said Groucho. The
anarchist's voice came from across the room, a little off to his left.
	"It used to make me crazy," Jonny said. "I roshis told me that
this was all an illusion. Well man, if this is all illusion, it must be
somebody else's, 'cause I wouldn't make up this shit." There was a
scraping on the concrete, a rustling of paper. Jonny thought Groucho
might be moving boxes.
	"That's just avoiding the issue," said Groucho. "It also sounds
like am elaborate excuse for suicide. Do you want to die?"
	"I don't know." Jonny shrugged. "Sometimes. Yeah."
	"It's hard," said Groucho. "We've become so numbed by the
presence of death that we toy with it, use it like a drug, building it
up in our minds as the great escape. The fallacy there, of course, is
that death is an illusion, too."
	"You're a three ring circus, man," said Jonny. "But it's all just
words. The Catholics got half the city under their thumbs with cheap
lighting effects and stained glass, the Muslims tell the hashishin that
dying for Allah is a ticket to heaven and Buddha says life is
suffering, which means I shouldn't bring anybody down by pointing
out that being blind, that this whole situation is completely fucked."
	"Don't you see, that's what illusion means? You're blind, you
say? I say, there's no one seeing and nothing to be seen," Groucho
replied. "How can you miss what never existed?"
	"That is such bullshit."
	"Ice told me you had a roshi once, that you used to sit. What
happened?" Groucho's voice was close again. He pressed something
into Jonny's hands. "Your boots. Sorry, somebody polished them.
They're black, again."
	Jonny leaned over the edge of the bed and started to pull on
his right boot. He said, "Yeah, I used to sit. I was young and it was
fashionable. Teeny-bopper Zen. Like lizard skin jackets or green
eyes."
	"You don't seem the type for that game."
	"Sure I am."
	"No, you like to think you are, because it's easy and it fits in
with an image you have of yourself, but, I think, you're not nearly
the cynic or fool you like to play at."
	As Jonny pulled on his other boot, he said, "That was you guys
tipped the cops to Nimble Virtue's warehouse, right?"
	Groucho sighed. "Taking you from the cops was going to be a
breeze. We never dreamed the idiots would call in the Committee,"
Groucho said. 	"Ice made the call, actually. She's safe, you know."
	Jonny smiled. "Thanks."
	"Sumi, too."
	"Jesus," he said, "is she here?"
	"Yes. She practically rigged all the lighting out here single-
handed. She's running the juice through the transit authority's power
grid."
	"That sounds like her," said Jonny. "Where is she? Take me to
her." He stood, but Groucho pushed him back on the bed.
	"You stay here. She and Ice are on a scavenging party to some
of the old oil platforms nearby. When they get back, I'll let them
know you've come around."
	"Thanks, man," Jonny said. He touched the neat rows of tiny
plastic staples they had used to close the incisions in his face. Tight
meridians of pain. He felt very tired.
	"The confidences of mad men. I would spend my life in
provoking
them," replied Groucho. "Take this." Jonny found a small cylinder of
soft plastic pressed into his hand. "Auto-injector," said Groucho. "It's
an endorphin analog. If the pain gets too bad, just remove the top to
expose the syringe, and hit a vein."
	When the anarchist left the room, Jonny popped the top of the
injector with his thumb and pressed the needle into the crook of his
left arm. A spring-loaded mechanism pumped home the drug.
Immediately, the pain was gone, replaced with a gentle disembodied
warmth, as if his blood had been replaced with heated syrup. He lay
down on the bed, feeling his muscles uncoil, and let the drug and the
deeper darkness of sleep wash over him. He listened to the ocean
and the dolphins, licked the salt from his lips, and hoped he would
not dream.

	Sleep did not stay long. The drug did its work well, holding the
pain an arm's length away, but the analog left too much of his brain
in working order. He was just aware enough to notice the ghosts as
they floated high above his bed. Hot red and electric blue, moving
fast, like falling rain or static on a video monitor. He swung at them
open-handed, but missed. They were not there. They were inside.
Inside his head.
	A trick of the surgery, he told himself. Random signals twitched
from fried nerves, entering the visual center of his brain. Fireworks,
he thought. Great timing. Thank you very-fucking-much.
	When he fell asleep again, he dreamed of machinery, an under-
ground refinery, like a buried city. Cooling towers and steam and
choking clouds of synth-fuel fumes. He had run away from the state
school again. Jonny, ten years old, fat and out of breath, ran on
trembling legs and hid among the dull hills of cooling slag. A man
came after him. He wore a cheap plastic poncho and carried a gun.
Silent as death, half his face was hidden behind a pair of mirror
shades. When the man found him, all Jonny could do was raise his
blistered hands to cover his ears. At the last moment, he saw his
burned face reflected in the man's glasses. The refinery roared and
spat smoke. He cried, hoping he would not be able to hear the shot.

	"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Hey Jonny, come on, move your ass.
Somebody made little railroad tracks all over your sweet face."
	Startled, he awoke. He could still see the ghosts, but there were
fewer of them now. His skull was full of cotton. "Ice?" he said.
	"Who else, doll?"
	He sat up in bed, reached out and touched wet leather, cool and
smelling of the ocean. "Hiya, babe," she said, and kissed him with
salted lips. "I got a present for you." She guided his hand to the right,
until it touched something. Graceful planes of skin and bone defining
cheeks, below that, a strong jaw and mouth. Something happened in
his chest, a jolt, like pain, that instead was pure pleasure. Later, he
thought if he had eyes, he probably would have made a fool of
himself by blubbering. "Sumi," he said.
	"Can't put anything over on you," she replied.
	He held her, held on to her to keep from falling. If he let go, he
knew the floor would open up and swallow him. But he felt Ice's arm
join Sumi's across his back. They stayed that way for some time,
huddled there together, Jonny's head on Sumi's shoulder. His drugged
brain could hardly handle the input. It kept misfiring, triggering
emotions and memories at random. Fear. Love. A melted circuit
board. Desire. Mirror shades. A gun.
	"Where the fuck have you been?" he asked, finally. They
relaxed and moved apart on the bed, but remained touching.
	"You know Vyctor Vector?"
	"Sure," he said. "She's only el patron of the Naginata Sisters."
	"Well, I was setting up power out at her place; she's got this
squat in an old police station in Echo Park. The Sisters are using it as
their new club house. Built in security system, a gym, working
phones, you know? Anyway, when I finished up there, I went back
to home, but when I got there, the place was crawling with
Committee boys. I thought one of them might have spotted me, so I
high-tailed it through some movie crew downstairs, and back to
Vyctor's. The Sisters were cool. They put me up for awhile, then got
in touch with some smugglers they muscle for, who put me on to the
Croakers. And here I am."
	"Here you are," said Jonny. "Christ, we probably missed you by
maybe a couple of hours." He shook his head. "I thought you were
dead."
	"And we thought you were dead," said Ice. "'Course, before that
Sumi thought I was dead, and I thought, oh shit--" She laughed.
"Let's face it, everybody wrote off everybody these last few weeks.
But we made it. We foxed 'em."
	"We got lucky," Jonny said.
	"Maybe it's the same thing," said Sumi.
	"Maybe it doesn't fucking matter," Ice said.
	"I'm so out of touch," said Jonny. "What's it like on the street?
The Committee's push still on?"
	"Yeah. We thought with so many people sick, they'd forget
about it and back off," said Ice. "No such luck. They're just pumping
the boys full of amantadine and sending 'em out on search and
destroys, using the virus as an excuse to come down on anyone's
ever looked cross-eyed at the Committee."
	"That's why the Naginatas were moving," said Sumi. "Vyctor
said the Committee closed the Iron Orchid, where they used to hang
out."
	"Public Assembly Laws they call them." Ice all but spat the
words. "No gatherings of more than a certain number of people
within a kilometer of Los Angeles. The Colonel must be going nuts,"
she said. "He's getting positively medieval."
	"Does anybody have any ideas on how the virus is spreading?"
Jonny asked.
	"On a molecular level, the thing's just a lousy cold bug. A
rhinovirus. Vanilla as you can get," Ice replied.
	"What I saw on that micrograph at the clinic sure didn't look
like a cold virus," said Jonny.
	"Right," said Ice. "It's like one of those Chinese puzzle boxes.
You know, open up one box and there's a little box inside, you open
up the next box, there's a smaller one inside that, and on and on. On
one level, this thing looks like a phage, on another level, it's just a
cold bug. But the levels keep going. The molecular structure of this
thing's dense. We know something else, too. At least, we're
reasonably sure."
	"Sure of what?" asked Jonny.
	"It's man-made."
	"How do you know?" Jonny wished he could see Ice's face as
she talked. He could usually learn as much from her expressions as
from what she said.
	"Partly it's just a hunch (She would be frowning now.), but
natural bonds just don't feel like this mess. It's like somebody tried
to squeeze ten pounds of ugly into an eight pound box."
	"Tell him about the war," said Sumi.
	"What war?" asked Jonny.
	"I'm coming to it," Ice said. "It looks like what we got here is an
ultra-complex retrovirus, something back in the 'nineties they called
a layered virus. A primary bug attacks a system, in our case, the bug
is a viral analog of leprosy. It causes whatever damage it can, but
eventually the system's defenses kill it. Here's the tricky part,
though--"
	"There's another virus," said Jonny.
	"You got it, doll, " said Ice. "At some point, we don't know what
triggers it, but a secondary virus is activated. It uses the damage
caused by the first virus to attack the already weakened system. In
our case, the secondary virus uses the peripheral nerve damage
caused by the leprosy to travel backwards, on a substrate of nerve
cell axons, up into the brain. Almost the exact reverse of neuroblast
migration. We think it might be modeled on that."
	"What's the pathology of the second virus?" Jonny asked.
	Silence. "Syphilis," Sumi said.
	"Jesus."
	"Parenchymatous neurosyphilis, to be exact," said Ice. "A really
hyped-up version. Years worth of nerve damage get compressed into
a few days. Death occurs a week to two weeks after the symptoms
manifest." She took a breath. "It's a motherfucker, too. Physical,
mental and personality breakdown, epileptic attacks, lightning pains,
tremors; the full whack. Patient's pupils get small and irregular."
	"Argyll Robertson pupils," Jonny said.
	"Right. Looks like they got bugs in their eyes." Ice'svoice
trailed off, then it came back loud, full of frustration. "And the
syphilis is an analog, too, of course. So none of our standard therapies
are worth shit. Personally, I wouldn't go through it--"
	"Who would?" asked Jonny.
	"I mean I wouldn't want to die that way," said Ice. "I think if I
found out I had the bug, I'd do myself before I'd go through all that."
	"Yeah," whispered Sumi. He could feel the woman move,
leaning toward Ice to comfort her.
	Jonny thought that it was probably night outside. Even in the
relative quiet of evening, the sounds and smells of the ocean lent a
subtle sense of life to the old fish farm that Jonny appreciated. Raw
sensory data, enough to keep from feeling completely disconnected
with the world, poured through the seaward vents, sounds and
scents changing radically with the passing of the day. There were no
chittering dolphins sounds now, just the quiet lapping of water and
the scratching of crabs in the empty pools. Farther away were human
sounds. Occasional hammering, voices, the momentary roar of a car
engine. It would not be unpleasant, thought Jonny, to spend the rest
of his life here.
	"Tell me about the war," he said.
	"Down by the port, we liberated this warehouse of some guns
and fuel, and ended up this case. Had some floppy discs full of
declassified military documents. The war was that Arab and Jap
thing back in the 'nineties," said Ice. "Seems NATO's bio-warfare arm
was working on something a lot like the layered virus we're looking
at now. Operation Sisyphus. Trouble was, back then, they couldn't
always trigger either virus and when they did, they couldn't always
protect their troops. A lot of people died. There's apparently still a
zone in northern France that's off limits to civvies. After all that, the
project got a bad name; the research was considered too expensive
and too dangerous, so when the war-talk cooled down, the project
died. And the techs went back to making the world safe for
conventional warfare."
	"You think our virus could be the same one they were working
on back then?" asked Jonny.
	"A much more refined version, yeah. I'd be real surprised if in
the last seventy years, some of that original data didn't get walked
out of there from time to time," Ice replied. "I mean, we weren't even
looking for it."
Jonny nodded and his chin momentarily brushed Sumi's hand, which
rested his shoulder. "It fits," he said. "There's a New Palestine cell
operating in the city. They've been beaming leper videos to the folks
back home. Zamora told me they were just a propaganda unit, but he
was lying."
	"Hell, could be Aoki Vega or the goddamn Alpha Rats, for all
the difference it makes," said Ice.
	"She's right," said Sumi. "If this is some germ warfare thing,
we're probably not going to find any easy treatments for it."
	"Fuck it, if the Arabs want this city, they can have it," said
Jonny. 	"Groucho already talked to me about Mexico. He says we
can be down there in a couple of days."
	"I'm not going," said Ice. "Sumi'll take you, and I'll come later."
	"You still playing the artistic anarquista?" Jonny asked.
	"Fuck you," snapped Ice. "I've got commitments here. I'm a
Croaker and that means I'm part of this revolution, no matter what
you think of it."
Jonny turned to her voice. "Excuse me, but wasn't that you a little
while ago saying me how much you wanted us to be together again?
Well, here we are." He waited for her to say something and when she
did not he said, "What's the matter? You bored already?"
	He felt her get up and leave the bed; an emptiness developed
in her wake, a sense of loss that was more profound than the simple
lack of her physical presence. He put out his arm, but she was not
there and he could not find her. Ice's practiced steps were light and
almost silent from months of guerrilla raids and street warfare. Her
sudden absence reminded of his helplessness. "Ice?" he said.
	"I'm doing this." Her voice was firm and low, the tone she
always used when she wanted to project assurance, but was afraid
her voice might crack. 	"You can help me or not, make this easy
or hard, but I'm in the for the duration."
	"Why are you being such a shithead, Jonny?" asked Sumi. She
shook his sleeve gently. "What's the matter?" "Shit. I'm afraid," he
said. "I'm afraid for her and you. And I'm afraid for me. I don't want
to end up alone."
	"You won't be alone," said Sumi. "I'm going with you. Ice will
come."
	"He's afraid I'm going to take a walk again," came Ice's voice.
	"Shouldn't I be?" he asked.
	"No."
	He breathed deeply. His fingers picked idly at a paint blister on
the bed's molded metal handle. "I hate politics. It's the lowest act a
human being can sink to."
	"Yeah," said Ice, drawing the word out to the length of a breath.
	"Why don't you come here?" Jonny said.
	She came back to the bed and he kissed her for a long time.
Then he leaned back and kissed Sumi, and when he moved away,
found himself pressed in the warmth of two bodies as the women's
mouths met over his shoulder.
	The undressing was a haphazard affair. Jonny yanked at the
boots he had just put on and tried to help each woman out of her
clothes. Without his eyes, though, he just succeeded in tangling them
in their shirts. Sumi pushed him down on the bed and held him
there, reminding him that a couple of days was not a very long time,
and that maybe he should not help them.
Eventually, they bent together, in one three-way kiss. Hands moved
in phantom caresses and scratches over Jonny's body. The women
pressed him to the bed, embracing each other on top of him, exciting
each other while moving in slow undulations over his body.
	Occasionally their rhythm would change and he would feel a
tongue or hand would sweep over his belly or up his thigh. They
were teasing him, he realized. Making his blindness a part of their
lovemaking. He loved it.

	The women changed places, moving back and forth across his
body. He lost track of them, could no longer tell one from the other.
One bent to his penis and he leaned back, shuddering pleasurably
against the other's breasts. The smell of their bodies overwhelmed
him.
	While the one remained on his cock, he tilted his head back
into the sweet-sour folds between the other's legs. He and the one he
was tonguing (he thought it might be Sumi) came together-- in that
instant he felt his life drain out into both of them, as theirs' drained
into him.
	The one on his cock stayed there until he was hard again and
mounted him from the top. The other woman moved between them
biting,
scratching, caressing the two of them as they moved together. Then
the women switched places and a new warmth enveloped him. He
felt one riding him (Sumi, he was sure.) lean across his chest and
brush her lips across the other's labia. Ice trembled to a climax as he
kissed her and the life moved between the three. The smells of
concrete and rust, sweat and sex flared and merged with his own
orgasm, lighting, for a moment, the vast and eyeless darkness in a
small act of binding.
	And then the light was gone and he was blind again, but this
time he did not feel so alone.

	"Big trouble." It was Groucho's voice.
	Jonny sat up in bed and fumbled for a light switch, then
remembered where he was. He felt Ice and Sumi stirring on either
side of him. "What's wrong?" he asked.
	"Zamora," said Groucho. "He's got the city sealed off. There are
goddamn jetfoils patrolling not a hundred yards out from here. Road
blocks on the freeways and secondary roads. Aerial recon on the
desert. Nobody's going anywhere."
	"How'd you hear about this?" asked Ice. Both women were up
now. Fabric rustled softly as they pulled on their clothes. Jonny
waited for someone to hand him his.
	"A rescue team just brought in a driver from up north," said
the anarchist. His voice was tired, hoarse. "She was riding point for a
camel train moving down the coast from San Francisco, bringing in
antibiotics and amantadine. Seems that everything was clean and
clear until they hit Ventura. Some of Pere Ubu's boys were waiting
and all hell broke loose."
	"She going to make it?" asked Jonny. Someone dropped his
clothes in his lap and he started to dress.
	"I doubt it," said Groucho. "She's shot up pretty badly. Gato just
shot her up with the last of our endorphins. I've been on the radio all
night. Ubu's got the town sealed up tight."
	"Think he's ready to move on the lords?" asked Ice.
	"No question about it," Groucho said. "This driver said they
made a run on New Hope, hoping they could pick off a warehouse.
The place is deserted."
	"Then we're fucked," said Jonny. "They've moved the heavy
money out of the way of war."
	"We're still safe out here, aren't we?" asked Sumi.
	"Not any more," said Jonny, pulling on his boots. "It's standard
Committee procedure to let a few people get away from any raid, just
to see where they run. They probably had that driver tagged all the
way out here."
	"Which is why we're going back to the city," Groucho said. "I
have people packing up anything we can use. The rest gets dumped.
We've got a few kilos of C-4 wired to pressure points all along the
superstructure of this building. When Ubu's boys get here, it will be
waiting for them."
	"What happens to Jonny?" Sumi asked.
	"Funny, that was my next question," Jonny said.
	Groucho sighed. "What can I say? We're pretty good for
weapons, but we have to coordinate with the other gangs before we
can hit the Committee. We can find something for you to do once we
get set up."
	"Like rolling bandages and hiding under beds when the
shooting starts? No thanks. I got other plans."
	"What?" asked Groucho.
	"Well, I don't mind telling you, Mister Conover was pretty
choked up when I took off from his place. He'll be glad to see me."
	"You sure you can trust him?"
	"Absolutamente," said Jonny. "He always been right by me and,
besides, if there's any way to move stuff out of town, he'll know
about it." He stood up from the bed and pulled on his shirt. The
sounds of movement, clattering tools and footsteps, things being
dragged across concrete, echoed through the complex; there was
tension in the voices Jonny heard, a frenetic buzz that he recognized
as the prelude to combat. At that moment, he no longer had any
desire to remain at the farm, thinking, The Colonel's taken that away,
too.
	"I'll need a driver," he said.
	"That's me," said Sumi.
	Jonny reached toward her voice and felt a hand close over his.
"You should go with them," he said. "They can use your help. If
Conover can't move me, it could mean sitting on our asses for a long
time."
	"We had a deal," said Sumi firmly. "I don't see where this
changes anything but the location. I go with you now and Ice joins us
later."
	"When the girl's right, she's right," said Ice.
	"You sure?" asked Jonny.
	"Completely," Sumi replied. "What about a car?"
	"No problem." Groucho's voice was farther away, near the noise
from the door. "Be ready to go in thirty minutes," he said.
	As the anarchist left, Jonny said, "He says that like we got to
pack or something."
	"He just wants to give us time to say good-bye," said Ice.
	Jonny laughed. "I don't think a half-hour is going to be enough,"
he said.

	Sumi took his hand, pulling Jonny through long and curving
corridors that buzzed with the staccato beat of voices (too many
languages at once, he could not understand any of it) and hurrying
feet. The smell of nervous sweat hung in the air, an undercurrent,
like a faint static charge.
	Outside, a cool salt breeze lapped at his face. The sun warmed
him. Sumi took him down two switchbacks and then out over hard
sand that crunched like broken glass under their feet. It was a sound
from his childhood. Fused silicon. He knew where they were now,
could picture the scene in his head. The smell of burning fossil fuels
came from his right, along with the growling of primitive combustion
engines. The sun was dead ahead. Yes, he could see it. The vehicles
that had been hidden under the pylons of the fish farm, were being
rolled out onto the blackened beach, leaving feathery webs of cracks
in the dead glass of the Pacific Palisades shore. Jonny had visited the
beach before.
	The summer of his twelfth birthday. He and a boy named Paolo
went over the wall from the Junipero Serra state school. In Santa
Monica they stole a small launch. Paolo piloted it up to the Palisades
and they weighed anchor at the sight of a wrecked
Venezuelan freighter. Liquid natural gas explosion, Paolo had said.
Wiped out the whole town. Jonny nodded, trying to look cool, but he
could barely keep his lunch down.
	There was not much of the freighter left above the surface. In
the leaking wet suits and respirators they found on the launch,
swimming through the wreckage of the ship's engine room. It had
been blown, nearly intact, onto an outcropping of rock a few dozen
meters below the water level. The big furnaces were crusted with
bright streamers of coral and undersea plants, like some weird ice
castle. On their way back to the surface, Jonny spotted something. An
odd shape below the big mussel-studded steam pipes. He swam
closer. A skeleton, blackened with the sea and time. The back of the
skull and ribs had melted when the ship burned, flowing in the same
pattern as the bulkhead walls, fusing with them. Hermit crabs and
barnacles had claimed the skull.
	Standing on the beach now, Jonny wondered if the sailor was
still out there, washed by the Pacific tides. He was the first dead man
Jonny had ever seen.

	Sumi took his hand and placed it on the warm metal roof of a
car. Jonny felt his way along the smooth finish until he came to a
seam where the roof met the door. He pulled the door open (it swung
up, not out) as an arm slid around his midsection. "You take care,
killer," Ice whispered. She pecked him below the ear.
	Jonny nodded. "You, too," he said. The sun was making the scars
on his face itch. He heard the women up by the headlights, speaking
in low tones. A rustle of fabric as they embraced. Then footsteps as
someone crunched away quickly across the sand. A hand touched his
arm. "You have to step up to get in," said Sumi. Trying hard not to let
her voice crack.
Jonny put a leg up over the side of the low-slung car, and settled
onto rotten leather upholstery. When he touched the dashboard, he
felt weathered wood. His fingers smelled lightly of varnish and
mildew. As Sumi got in, he ran his hands over the stick shift and
instrument panel, felt an embossed logo. It reminded him of another
car he had been in. Something Italian. Lamborghini? he wondered.
	"There's a shoulder harness to your right," said Sumi quietly.
	Buckling in, Jonny said, "She's going to be all right."
	"Right."
	Someone came running up to the car. "Here, take this." It was
Ice, breathless. She put something in Jonny's hands. Half a meter long
and heavy, it smelled of cordite and machine oil, had two chopped-
off cylinders mounted on a short wooden stock. A sawed-off shotgun.
"Figure you can't use a pistol right now, but if someone gets close
enough, this'll modify their opinion."
	Jonny weighed the gun in his hands. "I love you, too," he said.
	"Need any amantadine?"
	"No, Conover'll be holding," said Jonny.
	"Right." Ice touched his shoulder. "Gotta go," she said. And she
was running away again, off to where he could hear the other cars
warming up their engines.
	Sumi gunned the Lamborghini and slipped the car into gear.
"She's not coming back," Sumi said.
	"Just drive," said Jonny.

	It began to rain as they entered the city. They were driving
along Wilshire Boulevard, right through the withered heart of the
financial district. Jonny imagined he could feel the heat of the lights
as they passed Lockheed's brilliant torus and the flat black sphere of
Sony International, Sumi trying to blend the old Lamborghini into
the hesitant flow of rush hour traffic. Groups of Croakers had
preceded them, heading north and south from the beach, hoping to
pull away any surveillance teams that had followed the camel train
driver.
	Rain needled across the asphalt as they cruised through
Beverly Hills. Jonny thought it sounded like frying eggs. For the last
hour, a spring had been steadily working its way through the ruined
seat and into Jonny's back. He listened to thunder roll in the distance,
like a collapsing mountain, growing faint, until it faded completely
somewhere to the south. When they were in Hollywood, Jonny told
Sumi to head up into the hills.
	"Exactly, where are we going?" she asked.
	"Up high," said Jonny. "We want to rattle Conover's cage so his
security'll come and check us out."
	"Great," said Sumi. "How do you know they won't just blow us
away and ask questions later?"
	"They won't."
	"How do you know?"
	"I know."
	"How?"
	"Actually, I don't. But I've still got this," he said. From his jacket
pocket, he pulled the black card with the gold bar code. "Cops must
have left it when they decided I was still Committee meat. The card
transmits an identification code. They won't kill us if they scan us for
I.D."
	"If they scan us."
	"Right. If."

	He told her to park the car in the driveway of one of the
derelict houses in the Hollywoodland development. They waited
there in the rain. Jonny popped the door on his side to let in a little
of the breeze the swept down through the hills. The air smelled of
sage and manzanita. The staples on his face alternately itched and
stung him. He thought about the endorphins Groucho had given him
back at the fish farm, wished he had some now. He consoled himself
with the thought that Conover would have all the drugs he needed to
feel better. Better than better, Jonny thought, remembering the stash
of Mad Love. Quite a mixed blessing, that. It would be a bad time to
bliss-out again, with Ice in trouble and Zamora's push so near. They
might have to move on a moment's notice. And he knew that Sumi
hated to see him wasted. It brought back bad memories for them
both. The Committee. Ice running away. Sumi doesn't need that crap,
he thought, not now. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
	"Tired," said Sumi. "My head hurts. Stomach, too. I wish we'd
had a chance to eat something today."
He wanted to tell her about the Mad Love, ask her to help him keep
clean. "Conover's got these great cooks," he said. "They really lay it
on. You'll feel better once you've eaten." He started  to mention the
drugs. His lips moved, but the words would not come.
	Folly, he thought. Greed and folly.
	An hour passed. No contact with Conover or his people. Jonny
heard Sumi yawn. Her head settled on his shoulder, soft hair against
his cheek. He wondered if it was night yet. He was unaccustomed to
the sounds of the hills. Each gust of wind, each snap of a twig make
him jump. A part of him wished his hearing had gone with his sight.
Living by half-measures was getting to him. Sumi jerked her head
up.
	"What is it?" he asked.
	"Shh," she whispered. "Something's moving."
	"Conover's men?" he asked.
	"No. An animal."
	"What kind--?"
	Sumi screamed and something slammed into the front of the
Lamborghini like a truck. Then it was on the roof, clawing and
pounding on the canopy, trying to force it's way in through Jonny's
half-open door. He grabbed the handle and held on. "What the hell is
it?" he yelled.
	"A tiger!" screamed Sumi. She pounded on the glass. "Get off,
fucker! Demasu! Demasu!"
	The cat growled like rolling thunder. Jonny's door lifted a few
centimeters and something slid in. He felt wind on his face, heard
claws tearing up the dashboard. "Shoot it!" he yelled. Something cut
the air before his face. In his mind's eye he saw mad knives, bent
silver blades that smelled of musk and sweat coming for his scarred
face. "Shoot it, goddamnit!" He pulled harder on the door, but could
not budge it.
	"Where's the gun?" yelled Sumi.
	Jonny twisted in his seat, trying to keep his shoulder from the
ripping claws. He had slid the gun down between his seat and the car
wall. He felt along the rotten leather, coming up with spiderwebs and
dust. Then his hand fell on a wedge of polished wood. Something
sharp tore at his shoulder, scraped bone. He cursed once and fell
back against his seat, pulling the gun and letting off both barrels
through the window.
	At first there was nothing. When the roaring in his ears died
down, he was aware of a gentle, but persistent hissing beneath the
sound of the rain. There was a peculiar chemical smell in the air.
Almost metallic.
	"Christ," said Sumi. "It's a robot." Jonny heard her release the
latch and lift her door open. A creaking of springs as she stood in her
seat. "Looks like you got it in the neck. Took it's head clean off. Jesus,
you ought to see this. Steam, fiber optics and circuit boards all over
the place. Some kind of super-cooled liquid. It's bubbling the paint
right off the car."
	"Get back in," said Jonny. "They'll be coming soon."
	"I think they're here," said Sumi. Jonny heard he slide back into
her seat.
	Footsteps ground on stone off to the left. They came right for
the car; it sounded like three of them, making no attempt to mask
their approach. They would be armed, Jonny knew. And nervous
when they saw the ruined cat. Conover's rail guns could turn the
Lamborghini to slag in a few seconds... A man barked harsh Spanish
near the front of the vehicle. "Fuera! Fuera! Vamanos!"
	Jonny held up his hands. "Ricos! That you, man?"
	Someone came around the car and raised the shattered door
over Jonny's head. A low laugh. "Hey, maricon. I was all planned to
kick your ass, but I see somebody do it for me, no? Lucky for you."
	"Yeah, I must be about the luckiest guy in Last Ass," said Jonny.
	"Senor Conover es muy enojado, you take off like that," said
Ricos. "He be happy to see you." The man moved closer. "Quien es?"
	"That's Sumi," said Jonny. "She's a Watt Snatcher. Friend of
mine."
	"Not bad, maricon," said Ricos.
	"You keep staring, ass-eyes, you're gonna find out how bad I
am," Sumi said. Jonny smiled.
	Ricos tapped Jonny's shoulder. "Come on," he said. Then, "Hey
maricon, you bleeding."
	Jonny put his legs over the side of the car and slid to the
ground. Sumi came around the front and took his arm. "It's the story
of my life," he said.
	"We fix you up good," said Ricos, pushing Jonny toward the
trees. "Watch your step."
	"Very funny," Jonny said.

	"A nasty piece of work, son," said Mister Conover, turning
Jonny's face in his hands. "You're never going to have to learn to take
care of yourself, are you? The plastic surgery looks first-rate, though.
Tell me, what condition are the optic nerves in?"
	"Shot," said Jonny. Sumi sat next to him on the plush sofa in the
Victorian wing of Conover's mansion. The room was warm ad the air
smelled of aged wood and patchouli. The smuggler lord had given
them Earl Grey tea spiked with Napoleon brandy. Jonny was working
on his third cup, rolling with the buzz, letting it build up slowly. He
was warm and despite everything, was feeling pretty good. Conover
was having one of his twice-weekly blood changes. Jonny could hear
the medical techs moving quietly around the room, mumbling to each
other, adjusting tubes and compressors. "The optic nerves are sealed,
but they're pretty useless."
	"Interesting," said the smuggler lord. "I'm sorry my tiger
mauled you tonight."
	"That's okay," said Jonny. He moved his shoulder, feeling the
tight weave of gauze where the techs had dressed his wound. "Sorry
I had to blow its head off."
	"Completely understandable, given the circumstances," said
Conover. "I'm sorry, too, in a larger sense, that any of this had to
happen. All this was avoidable, if you had just stayed put. But you're
still young and sometimes your energy outstrips your sense.
Considering what you've been through, I think could forgo the I-told-
you-so's."
	"I'd appreciate that," said Jonny.
	The blood change took another hour. After that, Conover
announced that he was going to bed. On his way out, the smuggler
lord paused by the sofa and said, "Nice to have you back, son," and,
"Thank you for not hurting Ricos that night in the garage."
Jonny smiled toward Conover's voice. "All I wanted was the car. Did
you get it back?"
	"Of course," said Conover. "I took the fact you didn'tdo Ricos
any real damage as a sign of your goodwill. That you were not
Zamora's man, after all. But please--"
	"I know--"
	"Don't run off like that, again." Conover's tone was friendly
enough, but there was something underlying it that chilled Jonny. He
nodded at the lord.
	"No problem," he said.
	"Good," said Conover. "Fela, here, will take you to your room
when you're ready. I'm putting you in the same one you had last
time, Jonny. Since you're already somewhat familiar with the layout,
I thought you might be more comfortable there."
	"Yeah, thanks."
	"'Night all."
	"Good night," said Sumi.
	After Conover left, they finished their tea in silence. At three,
dozens of clocks, porcelain and grandfather, cuckoo, music box and
free standing chimed, rang and called the hour, slightly out of sync,
so that the sound had the effect of a musical waterfall. When the
sound died down, Jonny asked Fela, a member of Conover's African
house staff, to take them to their room.
	To his surprise, Jonny found that without his eyes to trick him,
the mansion was much less confusing than the last time he had been
there. He was learning the place by touch, sound and smell, not sight,
so the false doors and back-lit windows, the peculiar  angles of the
floor and wall joints could not throw him off. He memorized as much
of their trip through the house as he could, mentally comparing what
he was touching to what he had remembered seeing in the mansion.
He knew when they reached the corridor where their room lay.
Inside, he was greeted with the familiar feel of filigreed wood on the
French antiques. He felt a kind of elation, a childish sort of pride,
completely out of proportion to what he had accomplished. He smiled
and staples stung him.
Fela left them (silently, as always) and Jonny took Sumi out into the
hall, walking her past the paintings, describing each he could
remember. "That's a Goya, picture of a nude woman lying on a couch.
This is a Rembrandt, right? Dark portrait of an old man with no teeth.
On that table's a sculpture. I forget who did it. Bronze of ballerina."
	Sumi made appreciative noises as they walked along. He could
not tell if she was admiring the art or his memory or neither. He did
not really care, either way. He had a surprise for her.
	When Jonny felt the edge of a heavy gothic table, he stopped
and pointed to the wall above it. "What do you see?" he asked.
	"A painting of some kid dressed all in blue. He's holding a big
feathered hat," Sumi said. "Am I supposed to like this guy or
something? He's not my type."
	"It's 'Blue Boy' by Thomas Gainsborough. And it's a fake," Jonny
said. "The only one in the hall." He nodded back the way they had
come. "Touch it. The texture's just a holographic trick." He waited a
moment. "Well?"
	"Well what? What's supposed to happen?" asked Sumi.
	"It's plastic. Didn't you notice?"
	She grunted. "I don't think it's plastic."
	"Of course it is," insisted Jonny. "I found the real one in a
storage room-- " His fingers brushed wormed wood, but where he
was expecting thin, ridged optical plastic, he felt fleshy mounds of oil
paint. "Is this the right painting?" he asked.
	"It's a young boy dressed in blue," said Sumi.
Jonny shoved his hands in his pockets. He turned around in the hall,
confused, suddenly unsure in which direction their room lay. He
touched the painting again. Sumi took his arm and walked him back
to the room. He sat up the rest of the night brooding, wondering who
had changed the painting. Sumi tossed in her sleep. The brandy had
upset her stomach and she sweat with a low-grade fever. By dawn
(He could tell the sun was up by the warmth that came streaming
through the lace curtains. It made his face itch.), her fever had
broken. He lay down beside her on the damp sheets and fell asleep.
He dreamed, but there were no images, just darkness. Endless,
unbroken night.

	"It's the nineties all over again," Conover told Jonny and Sumi.
Silent waiters set bowls of what smelled like miso soup before them
on the low lacquered table. They were in the Japanese wing. Conover
had gone all out for the dinner, the third the three had shared. Silk
kimonos had arrived at Jonny and Sumi's room earlier that evening,
along with split-toe socks and wooden sandals. The scent of
sandalwood incense filled the house, along with koto music, fragile,
ancient, quarter-tone melodies, coming from the halls and every
room, flowing from speakers hidden in the walls. The three of them
sat cross-legged on tatami mats, firm, pumpkin-sized pillows resting
against their backs.
	"It was an exciting time. There was blood in the air then, too,"
the smuggler lord continued. Jonny thought he sounded a little
drunk. He had been celebrating by himself the completion of some
big business deal. It amazed Jonny how, in the midst of what seemed
to him to be absolute bug-fuck madness, Conover could calmly carry
on with business as usual. Earlier that evening he had mentioned this
to Conover and the smuggler lord had explained that it had mostly to
do with his age. "Nothing much surprises me anymore. Or frightens
me, for that matter," he had said. "It's all re-runs now. Has been for
years."
	Now, Conover said, "Nineteen ninety six was the year of
reckoning. How good is your history, Jonny?"
	"'Bout as good as my math," he said between sips of hot
soybean soup.
	"How about you, my dear?" Conover said to Sumi.
	"Ninety six? That's the year of the Saudi revolution. When the
oil ran out, right?"
	Conover, laughed and slapped the tabletop. "An educated young
woman, how delightful," said the smuggler lord. "Yes, indeed, in
ninety six the oil ran out. For us. The west. Of course, it was still
there-- in the ground, but there was so little left that the New
Palestine Federation wanted to freeze all exports. That's what
brought down the House of Saudi. They opposed the embargo and
down they came, like a house of cards."
	"That's it?" asked Jonny. Someone took away his empty soup
bowl and set a plate before him. He sniffed. Pickled cabbage. "That's
what that whole stupid non-war was about? They wouldn't sell us
their oil?"
	"No, no, no," Conover said. "That was part of it, to be sure. But it
goes much deeper than that, back years and years. If you read
histories of that period, they'll tell you the shooting started when
somebody blew-up the Malaga fusion reactor in southern Spain. The
CIA claimed the Arabs took it out with a surface to surface missile
from Tangier. For their part, the Arabs claimed that radical members
of the Green Party or some other environmental group did it without
knowing the damned thing was on-line."
	"Did they really blow up the reactor?" Sumi asked.
	"Yes indeed. Wiped out a hundred square kilometers of prime
Spanish real estate, too. But as to starting the war... It's like saying
the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand started World War One.
The event is true, the ultimate outcome is accurate, but the event
becomes meaningless when you remove it from its context. "
	"Who's Archbishop Ferdinand?" asked Jonny.
	"It was Islam itself we had to kill," said Conover. Jonny heard
the smuggler lord sipping tea. He picked at his pickled cabbage,
waiting for Conover to continue. Even drunk, the man was
interesting.
	"This goes back to the nineteen seventies and the early oil
embargoes. When the Arabs first let the world know they were
aware of their own power. You have to understand, that world
communication was still at a very primitive stage. There was no
World Link, no skull-plugs. Your average westerner knew nothing of
the middle east. Muslims scared the hell out of middle America. All
most people knew of Islam came from the twentieth-century
equivalents of the World Link. Videos of hostage taking, flag
burnings, young men driving trucks full of explosives into the sides
of buildings. Utterly alien images. How were we frighten these
people? Intimidate them? We couldn't. There we were, the most
powerful country on earth and we were powerless to stop a handful
of radicals. 'Fanatics' we called them. 'Muslim extremists'."
	"Terrorists," said Jonny.
	"Oh yes. A very flexible word," Conover replied. "Generally used
to describe anybody we don't like. But the Arabs-- after all the years
we had been shitting on these people, they were starting to shit back,
and that was unacceptable. It was bad for morale and, more
importantly, it was bad for business. We had to squash them. It was
going to be Central America all over again. Boom!" Conover yelled.
"Flat as a pancake."
	Jonny set down his chop sticks and, not finding a napkin, licked
his fingertips. He had picked-up the habit of keeping one or two
fingers on his plate at all times. It was the only way he could find his
food.
	"You really think that old mess is heating up again?" he asked.
	"I was speaking metaphorically," Conover explained. "I simply
meant to draw an analogy between that old war and our current
situation in L.A."
	"Who's the Arabs and who's the U.S.?" asked Jonny. "I suppose
we'll figure that out when he see who wins." "The war in ninety-six
died down in a few days, right?" asked Sumi. "Nobody really wanted
to start World War Three."
	"The war plans died, yes, but it was more like a few years,"
said Conover. "Don't forget that's where our economy went, right
down the black holes of all those oil fields we didn't own. The
moment they signed the Reykjavik treaty, we were dead. All those
booming war-time industries collapsed overnight. Then, when the
Depression was at its worst, the Alpha Rats landed on the moon, cut
off the mines and our lunar research labs and finished us off. We're
probably the first country on record to ever go into receivership. The
Japanese picked us up for a song." The smuggler lord was silent, as if
remembering. "Some people think it comes down to accumulated bad
karma. My dear--" Conover said suddenly-- "are you all right?"
	Jonny reached out and found Sumi's hand. It was hot and moist
with sweat. "I'm fine," she said irritably, pulling from his grip. "The
food up here's too rich for me. I can't keep it down."
	"She's been running a fever on and off for a couple of days,"
said Jonny. He touched her face. She was burning up.
	"Don't do that," she said.
	Jonny heard Conover get up and move around to their side of
the table. "Please," the smuggler lord said quietly. He was quiet for a
moment. Jonny knew the lord was checking Sumi's eyes. Hepatitis
was still common in the city, and the D strain was a killer.
	"Why, didn't you tell me about the fever sooner?" Conover
asked.
	Jonny shrugged. "We were out at that fish farm. It was wet. I
thought maybe she got a cold. It just didn't seem important," he said,
and saying it, he knew he was lying. He and Sumi had both been
afraid of the same thing when she became ill, and at moments of
stress it was easy to fall back on old habits. A year before they had
avoided talking openly about Ice's leaving and the daily knowledge
of it had eaten them up. Now they could not discuss Sumi's illness,
could not take the simplest measures to treat it because to treat it
would be to acknowledge its presence, and that was impossible. Sumi
could not be ill, not with what they both knew was loose in the city.
	"I'm going to have my techs check you out, Sumi," Conover said.
His heavy footsteps moved across the straw mat. A light door slid
back.
	"Please don't... Mister Conover?... Please... Jonny, make him stop.
I don't... want to know..."
Jonny pulled her to him and she put her arms around his neck. She
shook with fever and wept quietly. Jonny found himself supporting
more and more of her weight. "Hurry!" he yelled.
	It was like waking up blind all over again. His mind was
working, racing, in fact, like an overheated engine, but nothing was
getting through. The information, the possibility that Sumi might be
fatally ill was utterly unacceptable. Bad dreams, bad data.
	"It's all right, babe," he whispered. "Everything's gonna be all
right."
	Medical techs were coming down the hall, preceded by the
smell of antiseptic. Something followed them. Jonny heard it
brushing against the rice paper walls, something that floated forward
steadily on an induction cushion. The techs pushed it up to sliding
doors and left it there, humming quietly. He felt Sumi being gently
lifted from him. Opening his arms, she slipped away, into a space
occupied by smooth, reassuring voices, the smell of scrubbed skin
and Betadine.
	"Jonny?" He heard her as they set her on whatever they had
brought with them. "Don't let them take me, please. Jonny? They're
wearing masks. I can't see their faces." He sat there at the table as
they took her away. "Jonny? I'm scared. Jonny?" Footsteps. The
buzzing of induction coils.
	He cradled his head in his hands. "Jesus-fucking-Christ." He
took deep breaths, pressed his fists to his temples. And hit himself.
And again. And again.
	"Stop it." Conover held Jonny's fists. "You're not helping her
with that. We have to wait for the lab results."
	"You know what it's going to say," Jonny said.
	"No, I don't," said Conover. "And neither do you, unless you've
developed some special sense you haven't told me about."
	"It's the virus," Jonny said. "She's got the fucking leprosy."
	"This is a good med team. Russians," said the smuggler lord.
"I'm moving them for a private clinic in Kyoto. Now they can earn
their keep."
	"She's been all over the city," Jonny said. "It was her job. Watt
Snatcher goes anywhere people need power. She's been all over.
Probably been exposed to it a hundred times."
	Conover sat down next to him. "We'll know soon enough."
	Jonny stretched his legs out on the tatami mat, running his
fingers over the scars on his face. He thought of the micrograph of
the virus he had seen at the Croakers' black clinic: the pseudo-
phage's distorted head, its thin, insect legs holding it in place while it
pumped out its genetic material. Then the cloning of the plague. The
cell exploding. Poison in the bloodstream.
	"Mister Conover," Jonny began quietly, "if I asked you a couple
of personal questions, would you be straight with me?"
	"If I can." The smuggler lord's voice was deep, guarded,
rumbling from the depths of his belly.
"I can't help thinking that you more about this leprosy analog than
you've been letting on. Let me ask you, that stuff Easy Money took
off you, was that connected with the virus? Maybe a specimen?"
	At first, Jonny did not think the lord would answer, but as he
was putting together another question he heard, "Yes."
	"I've moved a few disease cultures and infected organs myself,"
said Jonny, "to gangs into research. But this virus is something else.
It's like something a government lab or a multinational would come
up with."
	"I just move merchandise," said Conover. "I have no idea who
the original owner is. The deal was conducted through a third party."
	"Any chance that original owner is Arab?" asked Jonny.
	"I have no idea," Conover replied.
	"Do you know if Easy Money has any Arab connections?"
	"Not to my knowledge."
	"But it is possible."
	"Easy Money would work for Colonel Zamora, the Arabs or
Mother Goose if she had cash," said Conover.
	"Right. And if Easy was moonlighting for the Arabs, what better
place to work than with you, using your connections and your
protection?" Jonny said. "If he knew about that virus shipment and
was waiting for it, he could have been tipped by a go-between that
you had it, snatched it and taken off."
	Conover dragged something across the table. The sound of
liquid being poured. Jonny felt a small cup was pressed into his hand.
He sniffed the liquid. Sake. He gulped the whole thing down. "Easy
says he has a second vial from the shipment and he's willing to sell
it. Is it unreasonable to assume that if there are two vials involved,
one might be the virus and the other, something to kill it?"
	"No. That's not unreasonable at all," said Conover. "Do you know
where Easy is?"
	"Maybe," said Jonny. "What I can't figure, though, is that if Easy
is working for the Arabs, why he's willing to sell us the second vial?"
	"Easy is greedy," said Conover. "Why should he turn a single
profit when he can double his money by splitting the vials and
selling them individually?"
	"Yeah. That's just the way he'd do it."
	"So what are we going to do about this?" asked the smuggler
lord. "It's obvious you know where Easy is hiding, but you won't tell
me."
	"I didn't say I wouldn't tell you. I just want to make a deal
first."
	Conover laughed. "Why didn't I see this coming?" he said. Jonny
heard him pour out more sake. A cup was pushed into his hand.
"Your terms?" Conover asked.
	"If Sumi has the new leprosy," Jonny said, "when I get this stuff
from Easy, she's the first one to get a shot."
	"I have no problem with that."
	"There's more," said Jonny.
	"My," said Conover appreciatively, "you're growing up, son.
You're finally beginning to think like a business man."
	"The second part is that I'm in on the pick-up. I want to be
right there when the deal goes down. I want to hold the vial in my
hand and know it's safe."
"You of all people should know how stupid an idea that is," Conover
said. "The last time you left here you were healthy. Now you have a
face that's half plastic and no eyes at all."
	"It's a yes or no proposition," said Jonny. "No go, no show."
	Jonny could sense the smuggler lord thinking. He sipped his
sake and waited, confident that he knew what the lord's answer
would be. He felt an odd, distant amusement at having bested
Conover in a business deal. Below them, behind re-inforced concrete
doors, layers of steel and EMP shielding was Conover's underground
clinic. Jonny knew that the techs were down there studying Sumi's
blood, running tubes into her arms, down her throat, taking tissue
samples and watching her on video monitors from distant rooms,
manipulating diagnostic devices with nursing-drones, checking her
for signs of infection, but keeping well away from her. There was a
ball of acid burning in the pit of his stomach.
	"I'll accept your deal," Conover said, finally. "But before we can
proceed, I have a deal of my own that you must accept." "
	"What is it?" Jonny asked.
	"It's simple, really, and not terribly unpleasant. I just want
your word that you and Sumi, when she is well, will remain here as
my guests, with complete run of the house and grounds, for as long
as I deem necessary."
	"That's it?" asked Jonny.
	"That's it," Conover replied.
	There were footsteps coming down the corridor. Jonny picked
at a loose piece of tatami as Conover went to the sliding door. Low
voices. "Thank you," Conover said, and sat down again next to Jonny.
"It's the test results."
	"I don't want to hear it. If it was good news you'd have said so
from the door," Jonny said. "Shit. People like me, we spend our whole
lives tripping over our feet. But Sumi, she doesn't deserve this." He
tried to conjure her face, but he could not find it. The inside of his
head felt hollow, as if someone had scooped his brains out and
chromed the inside of his skull. "You've got a deal, " Jonny said.
	"Excellent," said Conover. He poured them each another cup of
sake. "A drink to seal the deal, and off to bed for you. You're going to
need strength tomorrow."
	"Yeah, dealing with Easy's a real drain."
	"You won't be cutting any deals tomorrow, I'm afraid.
Tomorrow, you're going under the knife."
	"What do you mean?"
	"I mean," said the smuggler lord, draining his cup and smacking
his lips in satisfaction, "that at this time tomorrow, you'll be in
surgery. If you're going back down into that madhouse, it seems to
me the best way to make sure you find your way back up here is to
fix you up with a new pair of eyes."





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