In the meat-vernacular, I stroked out on them, he thought, almost wonderingly.
It had been coming for a long time. The flashing lights, the floating sensation. From Medical's area he got the term trans-ischemic attack and the knowledge that they had known all along, since the night they'd grabbed the hacker, and they'd just pumped some antistroke medication into the meat during the detox and called it their best try and hoped that the sockets would help him.
Poor meat. Nobody cared. Not even me.
It hadn't really been a very big stroke. If he'd still been inside the meat, he would have been up and walking around, a little more vague than usual, a little more argumentative, talking crazy shit when he talked at all, and nobody would have noticed anything out of the ordinary about that.
You were good at that. Talking crazy shit and video. What made America great.
The problem was, the meat was going to stroke out again, any time now, and when it did, that would be the big one, and as long as the wires were in the head, that meant the big one-the Big One-would charge right out of the meat, into the wires, into the system, where the little one was already waiting, and if-no, when-the two of them got together, they'd make something that couldn't be called a stroke, not anymore. Something like an unguided missile, a loose cannon rolling through the system, and when it found a receptor site, someone on-line with sockets-
Gina? Gina?
Her console was off, her pit empty, stone-home cold and dead, like she was never coming back.
Ludovic was gone, too. He turned a facet of his attention briefly to the top-down graphing of their respective worldlines. He couldn't be sure that they were together now, but it seemed more likely than not.
He flickered on Medical, but there was no one there, either. Dammit, what time was it? The middle of the night.
The kid in the penthouse.
– -
Rivera had been right about one thing, Keely thought woozily. The good stuff didn't make you as sick. Or sick at all. He looked over at the antique liquor cabinet gaping open. Booze had never been his particular preference; it was like using a shotgun to pick off a mosquito, or maybe putting yourself in a trash compactor to swat a fly on your nose, too broad-spectrum. On the other hand, there was something to be said for being broad in the spectrum. He had climbed into that old trash compactor and found that it sure did the fucking job. Maybe not too visual, but it was getting the fucking job done that counted.
And that was a big fucking job, after the message from Rivera. It was still on the screen across from where he was sitting on the couch with the bottle trapped between his thighs. I know you cracked my system. Damage nowhere near as great as you anticipated. I'll be up to look into the final disposal of your case tomorrow. You can expect the worst, if you like.
Son of a bitch must have gotten all his joints loosened to be that blatant, Keely thought, taking another swig from the bottle. Probably wouldn't do any good to try pointing out he wasn't the only hacker in the world, anyone could have been fucking around and managed to crack in and stone his crows. Could even have been his own little on-line net-pal, Visual Mark, cavorting out of his box.
The message on the screen flickered and then disintegrated. "Speak of the devil," Keely muttered as the familiar partial room appeared, the clouds rushing like a hurricane was imminent.
"Tell me you're awake!" Mark said, jacking the volume up all the way.
Keely staggered over and fell into the chair in front of the screen. "Sh. The grown-ups are all asleep." He leaned his face heavily on his hand. "Say, you been up to some dirty tricks in Manny Rivera's private computer."
"No time to talk. Listen for it: you're free."
Keely listened. Somewhere in another part of the penthouse, there was a series of small clicks. The door. He swiveled around drunkenly, expecting to see Manny Rivera marching into the room with a flat smile on his face. Decided this couldn't wait till tomorrow. Got a court order to drill your skull; go along quietly with the nice people waiting outside, and there won't be any trouble. But no one came in, nothing happened at all. He turned back to the screen.
"Did you just unlock the door?" he asked, laughing a little.
"Yes. I want you to leave here, go down to my simulation pit and yank the connections out of my head."
"Come on," Keely said, waving a hand clumsily. "You can do that yourself, I know how it works. You just think 'disconnect' or 'quit' or something."
"My meat won't do it, and I can't make it work from this side. You-"
"What side?"
"On-line. From inside the system. I'm not in the meat anymore, I told you, I got out of my box-"
"Yah, you sure did," Keely said, sloppily jovial. "I bet that was you, messing around with Rivera's shit, fucking with this and that. That son of a bitch doesn't know about you, he thinks I did it. Whatever you did. What'd you do, anyway?"
"I just looked," Mark said irritably. "What's the matter with you?"
"Not a fucking thing. I am toxed on the Upstairs Team's private label. They may be a retrograde bunch of cocksuckers, but they sure can pick 'em. Ain't plotzed once in fucking hours of straight drinking."
"You don't have to be detox for this," Mark said hurriedly. "Just get out, go to my pit-"
"And where is your pit?" Keely asked, yawning.
"On sixteen. Last one on the left at the end of the hall as you come out of the elevators. My body'll be there-"
"But your mind flies free." Keely gestured dramatically. "Isn't that right?"
"Get on the elevator, go down to the sixteenth floor. I'll unlock the pit door, all you have to do is push it open, walk in, take the connections, and yank them out of my head."
"That," Keely said, leaning forward to peer closely at the monitor, "would probably smart a whole fucking shitload. Probably stroke you out, maybe even kill you. Assuming I could get them out. Why don't you just nip in from your side and trash your console? That'll shut it off, and it'll be like the same thing, the connections'll deactivate."
The image on the screen froze, and Keely had the definite feeling his net-pal was no longer with him. But he'd left his calling card, or maybe his bookmark was more like it, so he had to be coming back. He could drink while he waited. Keely took another swig and then put his head down on the desk beside the keyboard.
After a little while he realized he was looking at a laptop that had been bolted into the desk with a bunch of add-ons. Son of a bitch-if he did want to walk right out his allegedly unlocked door, he could just rip this little piece right out of the desk and have himself info-to-go, see-you-later-data, juice-on-the-loose…
"I can't," Mark's voice said, startling him out of the half stupor he'd fallen into. Keely pushed himself upright and stared blearily at the screen.
"You can't what?"
"I can't get at my console. It was a good idea, and I should have thought of it earlier myself, but it's too late. It's there. It got out of Rivera's area, and it found the meat. Now all it has to do is wait for it to stroke out big. Hell, maybe it's going to make the meat stroke out big."
"What the fuck are you talkin' now," Keely said, trying to keep his eyes open. "Who's strokin' who?"
The voice in the speaker became one with the buzz rising in his own head as whatever Mark was trying to explain slid all over him and fell off. He must have thought it was pretty important, though; every time he opened his eyes, Mark was still there on the screen, saying, "One more time. I'll tell you one more time, and you answer me…"