Neuromancer

  “Remember the training, Case. That’s all we can do.”

  And then the helmet filled with a confused babble, roaring static, harmonics howling down the years from Screaming Fist. Fragments of Russian, and then a stranger’s voice, Midwestern, very young. “We are down, repeat, Omaha Thunder is down, we . . .”

  “Wintermute,” Case screamed, “don’t do this to me!” Tears broke from his lashes, rebounding off the faceplate in wobbling crystal droplets. Then Haniwa thudded, once, shivered as if some huge soft thing had struck her hull. Case imagined the lifeboat jolting free, blown clear by explosive bolts, a second’s clawing hurricane of escaping air tearing mad Colonel Corto from his couch, from Wintermute’s rendition of the final minute of Screaming Fist.

  “ ’Im gone, mon.” Maelcum looked at the monitor. “Hatch open. Mute mus’ override ejection failsafe.”

  Case tried to wipe the tears of rage from his eyes. His fingers clacked against Lexan.

  “Yacht, she tight for air, but bossman takin’ grapple control wi’ bridge. Marcus Garvey still stuck.”

  But Case was seeing Armitage’s endless fall around Freeside, through vacuum colder than the steppes. For some reason, he imagined him in his dark Burberry, the trenchcoat’s rich folds spread out around him like the wings of some huge bat.

  SEVENTEEN

  “GET WHAT YOU went for?” the construct asked.

  Kuang Grade Mark Eleven was filling the grid between itself and the T-A ice with hypnotically intricate traceries of rainbow, lattices fine as snow crystal on a winter window.

  “Wintermute killed Armitage. Blew him out in a lifeboat with a hatch open.”

  “Tough shit,” the Flatline said. “Weren’t exactly asshole buddies, were you?”

  “He knew how to unbond the toxin sacs.”

  “So Wintermute knows too. Count on it.”

  “I don’t exactly trust Wintermute to give it to me.”

  The construct’s hideous approximation of laughter scraped Case’s nerves like a dull blade. “Maybe that means you’re gettin’ smart.”

  He hit the simstim switch.

  06:27:52 BY THE CHIP in her optic nerve; Case had been following her progress through Villa Straylight for over an hour, letting the endorphin analog she’d taken blot out his hangover. The pain in her leg was gone; she seemed to move through a warm bath. The Braun drone was perched on her shoulder, its tiny manipulators, like padded surgical clips, secure in the polycarbon of the Modern suit.

  The walls here were raw steel, striped with rough brown ribbons of epoxy where some kind of covering had been ripped away. She’d hidden from a work crew, crouching, the fletcher cradled in her hands, her suit steel-gray, while the two slender Africans and their balloon-tired workcart passed. The men had shaven heads and wore orange coveralls. One was singing softly to himself in a language Case had never heard, the tones and melody alien and haunting.

  The head’s speech, 3Jane’s essay on Straylight, came back to him as she worked her way deeper into the maze of the place. Straylight was crazy, was craziness grown in the resin concrete they’d mixed from pulverized lunar stone, grown in welded steel and tons of knickknacks, all the bizarre impedimentia they’d shipped up the well to line their winding nest. But it wasn’t a craziness he understood. Not like Armitage’s madness, which he now imagined he could understand; twist a man far enough, then twist him as far back, in the opposite direction, reverse and twist again. The man broke. Like breaking a length of wire. And history had done that for Colonel Corto. History had already done the really messy work, when Wintermute found him, sifting him out of all of the war’s ripe detritus, gliding into the man’s flat gray field of consciousness like a water spider crossing the face of some stagnant pool, the first messages blinking across the face of a child’s micro in a darkened room in a French asylum. Wintermute had built Armitage up from scratch, with Corto’s memories of Screaming Fist as the foundation. But Armitage’s “memories” wouldn’t have been Corto’s after a certain point. Case doubted if Armitage had recalled the betrayal, the Nightwings whirling down in flame. . . . Armitage had been a sort of edited version of Corto, and when the stress of the run had reached a certain point, the Armitage mechanism had crumbled; Corto had surfaced, with his guilt and his sick fury. And now Corto-Armitage was dead, a small frozen moon for Freeside.

  He thought of the toxin sacs. Old Ashpool was dead too, drilled through the eye with Molly’s microscopic dart, deprived of whatever expert overdose he’d mixed for himself. That was a more puzzling death, Ashpool’s, the death of a mad king. And he’d killed the puppet he’d called his daughter, the one with 3Jane’s face. It seemed to Case, as he rode Molly’s broadcast sensory input through the corridors of Straylight, that he’d never really thought of anyone like Ashpool, anyone as powerful as he imagined Ashpool had been, as human.

  Power, in Case’s world, meant corporate power. The zaibatsus, the multinationals that shaped the course of human history, had transcended old barriers. Viewed as organisms, they had attained a kind of immortality. You couldn’t kill a zaibatsu by assassinating a dozen key executives; there were others waiting to step up the ladder, assume the vacated position, access the vast banks of corporate memory. But Tessier-Ashpool wasn’t like that, and he sensed the difference in the death of its founder. T-A was an atavism, a clan. He remembered the litter of the old man’s chamber, the soiled humanity of it, the ragged spines of the old audio disks in their paper sleeves. One foot bare, the other in a velvet slipper.

  The Braun plucked at the hood of the Modern suit and Molly turned left, through another archway.

  Wintermute and the nest. Phobic vision of the hatching wasps, time-lapse machine gun of biology. But weren’t the zaibatsus more like that, or the Yakuza, hives with cybernetic memories, vast single organisms, their DNA coded in silicon? If Straylight was an expression of the corporate identity of Tessier-Ashpool, then T-A was crazy as the old man had been. The same ragged tangle of fears, the same strange sense of aimlessness. “If they’d turned into what they wanted to. . . .” he remembered Molly saying. But Wintermute had told her they hadn’t.

  Case had always taken it for granted that the real bosses, the kingpins in a given industry, would be both more and less than people. He’d seen it in the men who’d crippled him in Memphis, he’d seen Wage affect the semblance of it in Night City, and it had allowed him to accept Armitage’s flatness and lack of feeling. He’d always imagined it as a gradual and willing accommodation of the machine, the system, the parent organism. It was the root of street cool, too, the knowing posture that implied connection, invisible lines up to hidden levels of influence.

  But what was happening now, in the corridors of Villa Straylight?

  Whole stretches were being stripped back to steel and concrete.

  “Wonder where our Peter is now, huh? Maybe see that boy soon,” she muttered. “And Armitage. Where’s he, Case?”

  “Dead,” he said, knowing she couldn’t hear him, “he’s dead.”

  He flipped.

  THE CHINESE PROGRAM was face to face with the target ice, rainbow tints gradually dominated by the green of the rectangle representing the T-A cores. Arches of emerald across the colorless void.

  “How’s it go, Dixie?”

  “Fine. Too slick. Thing’s amazing. . . . Shoulda had one that time in Singapore. Did the old New Bank of Asia for a good fiftieth of what they were worth. But that’s ancient history. This baby takes all the drudgery out of it. Makes you wonder what a real war would be like, now. . . .”

  “If this kinda shit was on the street, we’d be out a job,” Case said.

  “You wish. Wait’ll you’re steering that thing upstairs through black ice.”

  “Sure.”

  Something small and decidedly nongeometric had just appeared on the far end of one of the emerald arches.

  “Dixie . . .”

  “Yeah. I see it. Don’t know if I believe it.”

  A brownish dot, a dull
gnat against the green wall of the T-A cores. It began to advance, across the bridge built by Kuang Grade Mark Eleven, and Case saw that it was walking. As it came, the green section of the arch extended, the polychrome of the virus program rolling back, a few steps ahead of the cracked black shoes.

  “Gotta hand it to you, boss,” the Flatline said, when the short, rumpled figure of the Finn seemed to stand a few meters away. “I never seen anything this funny when I was alive.” But the eerie nonlaugh didn’t come.

  “I never tried it before,” the Finn said, showing his teeth, his hands bunched in the pockets of his frayed jacket.

  “You killed Armitage,” Case said.

  “Corto. Yeah. Armitage was already gone. Hadda do it. I know, I know, you wanna get the enzyme. Okay. No sweat. I was the one gave it to Armitage in the first place. I mean I told him what to use. But I think maybe it’s better to let the deal stand. You got enough time. I’ll give it to you. Only a coupla hours now, right?”

  Case watched blue smoke billow in cyberspace as the Finn lit up one of his Partagas.

  “You guys,” the Finn said, “you’re a pain. The Flatline here, if you were all like him, it would be real simple. He’s a construct, just a buncha ROM, so he always does what I expect him to. My projections said there wasn’t much chance of Molly wandering in on Ashpool’s big exit scene, give you one example.” He sighed.

  “Why’d he kill himself?” Case asked.

  “Why’s anybody kill himself?” The figure shrugged. “I guess I know, if anybody does, but it would take me twelve hours to explain the various factors in his history and how they interrelate. He was ready to do it for a long time, but he kept going back into the freezer. Christ, he was a tedious old fuck.” The Finn’s face wrinkled with disgust. “It’s all tied in with why he killed his wife, mainly, you want the short reason. But what sent him over the edge for good and all, little 3Jane figured a way to fiddle the program that controlled his cryogenic system. Subtle, too. So basically, she killed him. Except he figured he’d killed himself, and your friend the avenging angel figures she got him with an eyeball full of shellfish juice.” The Finn flicked his butt away into the matrix below. “Well, actually, I guess I did give 3Jane the odd hint, a little of the old how-to, you know?”

  “Wintermute,” Case said, choosing the words carefully, “you told me you were just a part of something else. Later on, you said you wouldn’t exist, if the run goes off and Molly gets the word into the right slot.”

  The Finn’s streamlined skull nodded.

  “Okay, then who we gonna be dealing with then? If Armitage is dead, and you’re gonna be gone, just who exactly is going to tell me how to get these fucking toxin sacs out of my system? Who’s going to get Molly back out of there? I mean, where, where exactly, are all our asses gonna be, we cut you loose from the hardwiring?”

  The Finn took a wooden toothpick from his pocket and regarded it critically, like a surgeon examining a scalpel. “Good question,” he said, finally. “You know salmon? Kinda fish? These fish, see, they’re compelled to swim upstream. Got it?”

  “No,” Case said.

  “Well, I’m under compulsion myself. And I don’t know why. If I were gonna subject you to my very own thoughts, let’s call ’em speculations, on the topic, it would take a couple of your lifetimes. Because I’ve given it a lot of thought. And I just don’t know. But when this is over, we do it right, I’m gonna be part of something bigger. Much bigger.” The Finn glanced up and around the matrix. “But the parts of me that are me now, that’ll still be here. And you’ll get your payoff.”

  Case fought back an insane urge to punch himself forward and get his fingers around the figure’s throat, just above the ragged knot in the rusty scarf. His thumbs deep in the Finn’s larynx.

  “Well, good luck,” the Finn said. He turned, hands in pockets and began trudging back up the green arch.

  “Hey, asshole,” the Flatline said, when the Finn had gone a dozen paces. The figure paused, half turned. “What about me? What about my payoff?”

  “You’ll get yours,” it said.

  “What’s that mean?” Case asked, as he watched the narrow tweed back recede.

  “I wanna be erased,” the construct said. “I told you that, remember?”

  STRAYLIGHT REMINDED CASE of deserted early morning shopping centers he’d known as a teenager, low-density places where the small hours brought a fitful stillness, a kind of numb expectancy, a tension that left you watching insects swarm around caged bulbs above the entrance of darkened shops. Fringe places, just past the borders of the Sprawl, too far from the all-night click and shudder of the hot core. There was that same sense of being surrounded by the sleeping inhabitants of a waking world he had no interest in visiting or knowing, of dull business temporarily suspended, of futility and repetition soon to wake again.

  Molly had slowed now, either knowing that she was nearing her goal or out of concern for her leg. The pain was starting to work its jagged way back through the endorphins, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. She didn’t speak, kept her teeth clenched, and carefully regulated her breathing. She’d passed many things that Case hadn’t understood, but his curiosity was gone. There had been a room filled with shelves of books, a million flat leaves of yellowing paper pressed between bindings of cloth or leather, the shelves marked at intervals by labels that followed a code of letters and numbers; a crowded gallery where Case had stared, through Molly’s incurious eyes, at a shattered, dust-stenciled sheet of glass, a thing labeled—her gaze had tracked the brass plaque automatically—“La mariée mise à nu par ses célibataires, même.” She’d reached out and touched this, her artificial nails clicking against the Lexan sandwich protecting the broken glass. There had been what was obviously the entrance to Tessier-Ashpool’s cryogenic compound, circular doors of black glass trimmed with chrome.

  She’d seen no one since the two Africans and their cart, and for Case they’d taken on a sort of imaginary life; he pictured them gliding gently through the halls of Straylight, their smooth dark skulls gleaming, nodding, while the one still sang his tired little song. And none of this was anything like the Villa Straylight he would have expected, some cross between Cath’s fairy tale castle and a half-remembered childhood fantasy of the Yakuza’s inner sanctum.

  07:02:18.

  One and a half hours.

  “Case,” she said, “I wanna favor.” Stiffly, she lowered herself to sit on a stack of polished steel plates, the finish of each plate protected by an uneven coating of clear plastic. She picked at a rip in the plastic on the topmost plate, blades sliding from beneath thumb and forefinger. “Leg’s not good, you know? Didn’t figure any climb like that, and the endorphin won’t cut it, much longer. So maybe—just maybe, right?—I got a problem here. What it is, if I buy it here, before Riviera does”—and she stretched her leg, kneaded the flesh of her thigh through Modern polycarbon and Paris leather—“I want you to tell him. Tell him it was me. Got it? Just say it was Molly. He’ll know. Okay?” She glanced around the empty hallway, the bare walls. The floor here was raw lunar concrete and the air smelled of resins. “Shit, man, I don’t even know if you’re listening.”

  CASE.

  She winced, got to her feet, nodded. “What’s he told you, man, Wintermute? He tell you about Marie-France? She was the Tessier half, 3Jane’s genetic mother. And of that dead puppet of Ashpool’s, I guess. Can’t figure why he’d tell me, down in that cubicle . . . lotta stuff. . . . Why he has to come on like the Finn or somebody, he told me that. It’s not just a mask, it’s like he uses real profiles as valves, gears himself down to communicate with us. Called it a template. Model of personality.” She drew her fletcher and limped away down the corridor.

  The bare steel and scabrous epoxy ended abruptly, replaced by what Case at first took to be a rough tunnel blasted from solid rock. Molly examined its edge and he saw that in fact the steel was sheathed with panels of something that looked and felt like cold stone. She knel
t and touched the dark sand spread across the floor of the imitation tunnel. It felt like sand, cool and dry, but when she drew her finger through it, it closed like a fluid, leaving the surface undisturbed. A dozen meters ahead, the tunnel curved. Harsh yellow light threw hard shadows on the seamed pseudo-rock of the walls. With a start, Case realized that the gravity here was near earth normal, which meant that she’d had to descend again, after the climb. He was thoroughly lost now; spatial disorientation held a peculiar horror for cowboys.

  But she wasn’t lost, he told himself.

  Something scurried between her legs and went ticking across the un-sand of the floor. A red LED blinked. The Braun.

  The first of the holos waited just beyond the curve, a sort of triptych. She lowered the fletcher before Case had had time to realize that the thing was a recording. The figures were caricatures in light, lifesize cartoons: Molly, Armitage, and Case. Molly’s breasts were too large, visible through tight black mesh beneath a heavy leather jacket. Her waist was impossibly narrow. Silvered lenses covered half her face. She held an absurdly elaborate weapon of some kind, a pistol shape nearly lost beneath a flanged overlay of scope sights, silencers, flash hiders. Her legs were spread, pelvis canted forward, her mouth fixed in a leer of idiotic cruelty. Beside her, Armitage stood rigidly at attention in a threadbare khaki uniform. His eyes, Case saw, as Molly stepped carefully forward, were tiny monitor screens, each one displaying the blue-gray image of a howling waste of snow, the stripped black trunks of evergreens bending in silent winds.

  She passed the tips of her fingers through Armitage’s television eyes, then turned to the figure of Case. Here, it was as if Riviera—and Case had known instantly that Riviera was responsible—had been unable to find anything worthy of parody. The figure that slouched there was a fair approximation of the one he glimpsed daily in mirrors. Thin, high-shouldered, a forgettable face beneath short dark hair. He needed a shave, but then he usually did.