Stop it, he said.
The projection unit shut itself down at his command; the dreamgirls vanished. The thing had originally belonged to Ling Warrens older brother; the girls hair and clothes were dated and vaguely ridiculous. You could talk with them and get them to do things with themselves and each other. Bobby remembered being thirteen and in love with Brandi, the one with the blue rubber pants. Now he valued the projections mainly for the illusion of space they could provide in the makeshift bedroom.
Something fucking happened, he said, pulling on black jeans and an almost-clean shirt. He shook his head. What? Fucking what? Some kind of power surge on the line? Some flukey action down at the Fission Authority? Maybe the base hed tried to invade had suffered some strange breakdown, or been attacked from another quarter... But he was left with the sense of having met someone, someone who... Hed unconsciously extended his right hand, fingers spread, beseechingly. Fuck, he said. The fingers balled into a fist. Then it came back: first, the sense of the big thing, the really big thing, reaching for him across cyberspace, and then the girl-impression. Someone brown, slender, crouching somewhere in a strange bright dark full of stars and wind. But it slid away as his mind went for it.
Hungry, he got into sandals and headed back toward the kitchen, rubbing at his hair with a damp towel. On his way through the living room, he noticed the ON telltale of the Ono-Sendai glaring at him from the carpet. 0 shit. He stood there and sucked at his teeth. It was still jacked in. Was it possible that it was still linked with the base hed tried to run? Could they tell he wasnt dead? He had no idea. One thing he did know, though, was that theyd have his number and good. He hadnt bothered with the cutouts and frills that wouldve kept them from running a backtrack.
They had his address.
Hunger forgotten, he spun into the bathroom and rooted through the soggy clothing until he found his credit chip.
He had two hundred and ten New Yen stashed in the hollow plastic handle of a multibit screwdriver. Screwdriver and credit chip secure in his jeans, he pulled on his oldest, heaviest pair of boots, then clawed unwashed clothing from beneath the bed. He came up with a black canvas jacket with at least a dozen pockets, one of them a single huge pouch across the small of the back, a kind of integral rucksack. There was a Japanese gravity knife with orange handles beneath his pillow; that went into a narrow pocket on the jackets left sleeve, near the cuff.
The dreamgirls clicked in as he was leaving: Bobby, Bobb-y, come back and play...
In his living room, he yanked the Ono-Sendais jack from the face of the Hitachi, coiling the fiber-optic lead and tucking it into a pocket. He did the same with the trode set, then slid the Ono-Sendai into the jackets pack-pocket.
The curtains were still drawn. He felt a surge of some new exhilaration. He was leaving. He had to leave. Already hed forgotten the pathetic fondness that his brush with death had generated. He parted the curtains carefully, a thumb-wide gap, and peered out.
It was late afternoon. In a few hours, the first lights would start blinking on in the dark bulks of the Projects. Big Playground swept away like a concrete sea; the Projects rose beyond the opposite shore, vast rectilinear structures softened by a random overlay of retrofitted greenhouse balconies, catfish tanks, solar heating systems, and the ubiquitous chicken-wire dishes.
Two-a-Day would be up there now, sleeping, in a world Bobby had never seen, the world of a mincome arcology. Two-a-Day came down to do business, mostly with the hotdoggers in Barrytown, and then he climbed back up. It had always looked good to Bobby, up there, so much happening on the balconies at night, amid red smudges of charcoal, little kids in their underwear swarming like monkeys, so small you could barely see them. Sometimes the wind would shift, and the smell of cooking would settle over Big Playground, and sometimes youd see an ultralight glide out from some secret country of rooftop so high up there. And always the mingled beat from a million speakers, waves of music that pulsed and faded in and out of the wind.
Two-a-Day never talked about his life, where he lived. Two-a-Day talked biz, or, to be more social, women. What Two-a-Day said about women made Bobby want to get out of Barrytown worse than ever, and Bobby knew that biz would be his only ticket out. But now he needed the dealer in a different way, because now he was entirely out of his depth.
Maybe Two-a-Day could tell him what was happening. There wasnt supposed to be any lethal stuff around that base Two-a-Day had picked it out for him, then rented him the software hed need to get in. And Two-a-Day was ready to fence anything he couldve gotten out with. So Two-a-Day had to know. Know something, anyway.
I dont even have your number, man, he said to the Projects, letting the curtains fall shut. Should he leave some-thing for his mother? A note? My ass, he said to the room behind him, out of here, and then he was out the door and down the hall, headed for the stairs. Forever, he added, kicking open an exit door.
Big Playground looked safe enough, except for a lone shirtless duster deep in some furious conversation with God. Bobby cut the duster a wide circle; he was shouting and jumping and karate-chopping the air. The duster had dried blood on his bare feet and the remnants of what had probably been a Lobe haircut.
Big Playground was neutral territory, at least in theory, and the Lobes were loosely confederated with the Gothicks; Bobby had fairly solid affiliations with the Gothicks, but retained his indie status. Barrytown was a dicey place to be an indie. At least, he thought, as the dusters angry gibberish faded behind him, the gangs gave you some structure. If you were Gothick and the Kasuals chopped you out, it made sense. Maybe the ultimate reasons behind it were crazy, but there were rules But indies got chopped out by dusters running on brainstem, by roaming predatory loonies from as far away as New Yorklike that Penis Collector character last summer, kept the goods in his pocket in a plastic bag...
Bobby had been trying to chart a way out of this landscape since the day he was born, or anyway it felt that way. Now, as he walked, the cyberspace deck in the pack-pocket banged against his spine. Like it. too, was urging him to get out. Come on, Two-a-Day, he said to the looming Projects, get your ass down outa there and be in Leons when I get there, okay?
Two-a-Day wasnt in Leons.
Nobody was, unless you wanted to count Leon, who was probing the inner mysteries of a wall-screen converter with a bent paper clip.
Why dont you just get a hammer and pound the fucker till it works? Bobby asked. Do you about as much good.
Leon looked up from the converter. He was probably in his forties, but it was hard to say. He seemed to be of no particular race, or, in certain lights, to belong to some race that nobody else belonged to. Lots of hypertrophied facial bone and a mane of curly, nonreflective black hair. His basement pirate club had been a fixture in Bobbys life for the past two years.
Leon stared dully at Bobby with his unnerving eyes, pupils of nacreous gray overlaid with a hint of translucent olive. Leons eyes made Bobby think of oysters and nail polish, two things he didnt particularly like to think about in connection with eyes. The color was like something theyd use to upholster barstools.
I just mean you cant fix shit like that by poking at it, Bobby added uncomfortably. Leon shook his head slowly and went back to his exploration. People paid to get into the place because Leon pirated kino and simstim off cable and ran a lot of stuff that Barrytowners couldnt otherwise afford to access. There was dealing in the back and you could make donations for drinks, mostly clean Ohio hooch cut with some synthetic orange drink Leon scored in industrial quantities.