She pulled the Venice toward her, opened it. The fish flickered out of phase, her system launching a subroutine.
Venice decompressed.
The Piazza in midwinter monochrome, its facades texturemapped in marble, porphyry, polished granite, jasper, alabaster (the rich mineral names scrolling at will in the menu of peripheral vision). This city of winged lions and golden horses. This default hour of gray and perpetual dawn.
She could be alone here, or visit with the Music Master.
Her father, phoning from Singapore to wish her a happy birthday, had told her that Hitler, during his first and only visit, had slipped away to range the streets alone, in these same small hours, mad perhaps, and trotting like a dog.
Chia, who had only a vague idea who Hitler might have been, and that mainly from references in songs, understood the urge. The stones of the Piazza flowed beneath her like silk, as she raised a silvered finger and sped into the maze of bridges, water, arches, walls.
She had no idea what this place was meant to mean, the how or why of it, but it fit so perfectly into itself and the space it occupied, water and stone slotting faultlessly into the mysterious whole.
The gnarliest piece of software ever, and here came the opening chords of Positron Premonition.
5. Nodal Points
Clinton Emory Hillman, twenty-five: hairdresser, sushi chef, music journalist, porno extra, reliable purveyor of proscribed fetal tissue cultures to three of the more endomorphic members of the decidedly meshbacked Dukes of Nuke Em, whose Gulf War Baby was eighteen with a bullet on the Billboard chart, in heavy rotation on I (heart) America, and had already been the subject of diplomatic protests from several Islamic states.
Kathy Torrance looked as though she might be prepared to be pleased. And the fetal tissue, Laney?
Well, Laney said, putting the phones down beside the computer, I think that might be the good part.
Why?
It has to be Iraqi. They make a point of insisting on that. They wont shoot up any other kind.
Youre hired.
I am?
You must have correlated the calls to Ventura with the parking charges from the garage in the Beverly Center. Although that running gag about Gulf War babies wouldve been hard to miss.
Wait a minute, Laney said. You knew.
Its the top segment on Wednesdays show. She closed the computer without bothering to turn off Clint Hillmans detweaked chin. But now Ive had a chance to watch you work, Laney. Youre a natural. I could almost believe there might actually be something to that nodal point bullshit. Some of your moves made no logical sense whatever, but Ive just watched you hone in, cold, on something it took three experienced researchers a month to excavate. You did it in just under half an hour.
Some of that was illegal, Laney said. Youre tied into parts of DatAmerican that you arent supposed to be.
Do you know what a nondisclosure agreement is, Laney?
Yamazaki looked up from his notebook. Very good, he said, probably to Blackwell. This is very good.
Blackwell shifted his weight, the chairs polycarbon frame creaking faintly in protest. But he didnt last there, did he?
A little over six months, Laney said.
Six months could be a very long time, at Slitscan.
He used most of his first months salary to lease a micro-batchelor in a retrofitted parking structure on Broadway Avenue, Santa Monica. He bought shirts he thought were more like the ones people wore at Slitscan, and kept his Malaysian button-downs to sleep in. He bought an expensive pair of sunglasses and made sure he never displayed as much as a single felt-pen in his shirt pocket.
Life at Slitscan had a certain focused quality. Laneys colleagues limited themselves to a particular bandwidth of emotion. A certain kind of humor, as Kathy had said, was highly valued, but there was remarkably little laughter. The expected response was eye contact, a nod, the edge of a smile. Lives were destroyed here, and sometimes re-created, careers crushed or made anew in guises surreal and unexpected. Because Slitscans business was the ritual letting of blood, and the blood it let was an alchemical fluid: celebrity in its rawest, purest form.
Laneys ability to locate key data in apparently random wastes of incidental information earned him the envy and grudging admiration of more experienced researchers. He became Kathys favorite, and was almost pleased when he discovered that a rumor had spread that they were having an affair.
They werentexcept for that one time at her place in Sherman Oaks, and that hadnt been a good idea. Nothing either of them wanted to repeat.
But Laney was still narrowing down, getting focused, pushing the envelope of whatever it was that manifested as this talent, his touch. And Kathy liked that. With his eyephones on and Slitscans dedicated landline feeding him the bleak reaches of DatAmerica, he felt increasingly at home. He went where Kathy suggested he go. He found the nodal points.
Sometimes, falling asleep in Santa Monica, he wondered vaguely if there might be a larger system, a field of greater perspective. Perhaps the whole of DatAmerica possessed its own nodal points, info-faults that might be followed down to some other kind of truth, another mode of knowing, deep within gray shoals of information. But only if there were someone there to pose the right question. He had no idea at all what that question might be, if indeed there were one, but he somehow doubted it would ever be posed from an SBU at Slitscan.
Slitscan was descended from reality programming and the network tabloids of the late twentieth century, but it resembled them no more than some large, swift, bipedal carnivore resembled its sluggish, shallow-dwelling ancestors. Slitscan was the mature form, supporting fully global franchises. Slitscans revenues had paid for entire satellites and built the building he worked in in Burbank.
Slitscan was a show so popular that it had evolved into something akin to the old idea of a network. It was flanked and buffered by spinoffs and peripherals, each designed to shunt the viewer back to the crucial core, the familiar and reliably bloody altar that one of Laneys Mexican co-workers called Smoking Mirror.
It was impossible to work at Slitscan without a sense of participating in history, or else in what Kathy Torrance would argue had replacedhistory. Slitscan itself, Laney suspected, might be one of those larger nodal points he sometimes found himself trying to imagine, an informational peculiarity opening into some unthinkably deeper structure.
In his quest for lesser nodal points, the sort that Kathy sent him into DatAmerica to locate, Laney had already affected the courses of municipal elections, the market in patent gene futures, abortion laws in the State of New Jersey, and the spin on an ecstatic pro-euthanasia movement (or suicide cult, depending) called Cease Upon The Midnight, not to mention the lives and careers of several dozen celebrities of various kinds.
Not always for the worst, either, in terms of what the shows subjects might have wished for themselves. Kathys segment on the Dukes of Nuke Em, exposing the bands exclusive predilection for Iraqi fetal tissue, had sent their subsequent release instant platinum (and had resulted in show-trials and public hangings in Baghdad, but he supposed life was hard there to begin with).
Laney had never been a Slitscan viewer, himself, and he suspected that this had counted in his favor when hed applied as a researcher. He had no strong opinion of the show either way. He accepted it, to the extent that hed thought of it at all, as a fact of life. Slitscan was how a certain kind of news was done. Slitscan was where he worked.
Slitscan allowed him to do the one thing he possessed a genuine talent for, so hed managed to avoid thinking in terms of cause and effect. Even now, attempting to explain himself to the attentive Mr.Yamazaki, he found it difficult to feel any clear linkage of responsibility. The rich and the famous, Kathy had once said, were seldom that way by accident. It was possible to be one or the other, but very seldom, accidentally, to be both.