Despite such a diffuse network and the impossibility of figuring out a strict hierarchy, there were some sets that had more status than others.
Those generalists, the Vat Rats, were one of the posses at the pinnacle.
The V– Rats lived in the labyrinth of abandoned pipes that had once fed sewerage into the formerly toxic harbor. When the whole city was retrofitted with D compoz silicrobe sanitation units, there had been no need for the antique system. Every once in a while someone still raised the topic of digging it all out, but the payback wasn't bottom-line enough, and the metro would just drop the matter.
Cold water dripped down my neck. It felt like a zombie's caress. I stood in a pool of sludge up to the ankles of my boots. Hamster was shivering, but it wasn't from the cold.
We were surrounded by Rats, illuminated by my lantern. They all shared the dental moddies that gave them their
name. Other than that, they were as motley a lot as your average set.
"Lookin' for some Rat poison, slimjim?"
"No thanks. Let me see Zuma Puma."
"The Puma's a busy slagger. He don't see just anyone."
"He knows me."
The Rat looked dubious. "What's the log-on, then?"
I told him.
"Wait here."
I waited. The Rats watched. One was gnawing what looked like a human femur. Hamster kept shivering.
"Calm down. No one's going to hurt you while I'm around."
"I cannot help it, sir. These are not nice folks."
The Rats tittered.
The spokes-Rat returned. "Puma'll see you."
"Like I said."
We exited the maze of pipes into a big dry bubble-room littered with personal effects: the Rats' nest. A door led to the Puma's private quarters. Hamster and I went through alone.
The Zuma Puma reclined on a pile of cushions. He wore flexible piezoplastic armor, its effectors slaved to his own electrochemical biosystem. From out the neck, wrists and ankles of the armor protruded tawny fur. His face was bare. A playpet I recognized as a Green Canary model sat beside him, stroking his fur. When we entered, she let out a brief trill of song.
"Haven't seen you in a while, slagger," said the Puma.
"Not since I saved your tail from the Marrow Mothers."
The Puma laughed. "That's one version of the story."
"Commonly called 'the truth.' For which I figure you owe me a favor."
"Depends on the magnitude."
"You had a client this morning." I described von Bulow. "What did he want?"
"Sorry, slagger, can't tell you that. You know all our transactions are eyes only. Who'd come to us if they thought we'd, ah, rat on them?"
"You know it won't get any further than this room."
The Puma was feeling mean. "Sorry. Anything else?"
I pulled my shocker off my hip. The Puma laughed.
"What are you gonna do with that toy, knock me out? When I come to, you still won't know anything."
I aimed at his chest and pulled the trigger. The dart embedded its microhooks into his armor.
"Bad shot, slagger. You didn't even connect with the flesh."
"I know." I sent current down the wire. The Puma stiffened boardlike out on his couch, just like a window shutter.
"The fuel cell in this is rated for a month of constant output. When I leave by your bolthole with your Canary, your Rats will try breaking in. I don't imagine they'll succeed, given your security. I understand dying of thirst is particularly nasty."
"I'll sue the cartel that sold me this piece of shit armor!"
"Only if you tell me what I want to know."
The Puma gave an exaggerated sigh. "Okay. The guy wouldn't let us unravel his blood. That made us curious, and
we were gonna try for a sample anyway. But he was launch-on-warning and pulled a flashlight on us. Put a quick end to any fiddle and diddle, and we desisted. He proceeded to describe his prob. Sounded like he needed a high-powered math coprocessor and some grafix wetware. We laid them in, and it seemed to satisfy him.''
"He say what he intended to do with 'em?"
"Hey, it's getting hard to breathe in this suit-"
"It'll only get harder. C'mon. Where was he going?"
"Well, our fee pretty much wiped him out. He wanted to know where he could get a big stake to gamble with. I told him the casinos' in this town were too conservative to loan him anything. It's true, you know, Boston 's as far out of things as the Oort Cloud. I sent him to Atlantic City."
"Right." I reeled the dart back in. The Puma relaxed.
"You make it hard to act friendly," he said.
"Not my biggest worry. See you around, Zee Pee."
Back on the streets, I joined a line at a Bank of Boston machine. Flipper's tip had paid off, and I was going to credit the church's account before I headed for Atlantic City.
The guy in front of me took back his card from the machine. He went to pocket it, then something made him halt. He looked at his card, swore, then drew his gun and fired into the bank machine.
The machine let out an electronic squeal. It shot out of its wall-alcove on four wheels and tried to race off. It knocked down a salesman. The salesman's sample case hit the ground and broke open. Shards of music filled the air. A woman
screamed. The guy with the gun fired again. This time he brought the machine down.
A crowd was collecting around the shattered and smoking bank machine. The smell of frying circuits hung thick in the air. The angry customer bulled through the bystanders. He reached into the machine's guts and retrieved his original card. "Fucking mimics," he said. "Last time my card was stolen, I lost fifteen thousand NU-dollars."
"It's a hard world," said someone in the crowd, with incomplete sincerity.
"Bet on it," said the guy, and patted his holstered gun.
The Seraphim trip from Boston to Atlantic City was a good ninety minutes plus. Von Bulow was a few hours ahead of me, and there was no way I was going to catch up with him any faster than this. I was just as glad. It gave me a little time to think.
Hamster sat asleep in the seat beside me. I couldn't say why I was bringing the splice along. It would have been just as happy sitting at home, watching the special transgenic thrid-vid channels, and Papa Legba knows it was absolutely no help on a case. Maybe I needed the company. Maybe I felt Hamster was my good-luck talisman. Maybe my dendrites were tangled. What the hell, though. The little trans rode for half-fare.
I scratched behind Hamster's ears while I considered the case.
Von Bulow must be a certifiable monomaniac. Here he was, carrying some codes in his blood Which, if they worked, he could sell to any of a dozen companies for practically a month's GNP from APEC. Instead, he was going to use them to get a few jolts from the casino games. I couldn't decrypt if. Maybe someone had wired his boards this way. For all I knew, he could be creaming in his jox every time the dealer called "vingt-une." I had run into kinkier stim-rep loops.
After half an hour, I gave up pondering the matter. I couldn't be bothered trying to figure out why people acted the crazy way they did. If I had any talents in that area, I would have been able to tell you why I came home one day to find my apartment packed solid with self-replicating Krazy Foam, and my wife gone. All I can handle is what people actually do, not whatever wordless impulses they might be working from. I had my assignment, and that was that. Geneva Hippenstiel-Imhausen wanted back what was hers, and I was being paid to get it for her.