Snow Crash

  “Offed? What colleague?” Y.T. breaks in. She didn't see what happened with Lagos.

  Hiro is mortified by this idea. “Is that why everyone was telling me not to fuck with Raven? They were afraid I was going to attack him?”

  Squeaky eyes the swords. “You got the means.”

  “Why should anyone protect Raven?”

  Squeaky smiles, as though we have just crossed the border into the realm of kidding around. “He's a Sovereign.”

  “So declare war on him.”

  “It's not a good idea to declare war on a nuclear power.”

  “Huh?”

  “Christ,” Squeaky says, shaking his head, “if I had any idea how little you knew about this shit, I never would have let you into my car. I thought you were some kind of a serious CIC wet-operations guy. Are you telling me you really didn't know about Raven?”

  “Yes, that's what I'm telling you.”

  “Okay. I'm gonna tell you this so you don't go out and cause any more trouble. Raven's packing a torpedo warhead that he boosted from an old Soviet nuke sub. It was a torpedo that was designed to take out a carrier battle group with one shot. A nuclear torpedo. You know that funny-looking sidecar that Raven has on his Harley? Well, it's a hydrogen bomb, man. Armed and ready. The trigger's hooked up to EEG trodes embedded in his skull. If Raven dies, the bomb goes off. So when Raven comes into town, we do everything in our power to make the man feel welcome.”

  Hiro's just gaping. Y.T. has to step in on his behalf. “Okay,” she says. “Speaking for my partner and myself, we'll stay away from him.”

  21

  Y.T. reckons she is going to spend all afternoon being a ramp turd. The surf is always up on the Harbor Freeway, which gets her from Downtown into Compton, but the off-ramps into that neighborhood are so rarely used that three-foot tumbleweeds grow in their potholes. And she's definitely not going to travel into Compton under her own power. She wants to poon something big and fast.

  She can't use the standard trick of ordering a pizza to her destination and then pooning the delivery boy as he roars past, because none of the pizza chains deliver to this neighborhood. So she'll have to stop at the off-ramp and wait hours and hours for a ride. A ramp turd.

  She does not want to do this delivery at all. But the franchisee wants her to do it bad. Really bad. The amount of money he has offered her is so high, it's stupid. The package must be full of some kind of intense new drug.

  But that's not as weird as what happens next. She is cruising down the Harbor Freeway, approaching the desired off-ramp, having pooned a southbound semi. A quarter-mile from the off-ramp, a bullet-pocked black Oldsmobile cruises past her, right-turn signal flashing. He's going to exit. It's too good to be true. She poons the Oldsmobile.

  As she cruises down the ramp behind this flatulent sedan, she checks out the driver in his rearview mirror. It is the franchisee himself, the one who is paying her a totally stupid amount of money to do this job.

  By this point, she's more afraid of him than she is of Compton. He must be a psycho. He must be in love with her. This is all a twisted psycho love plot.

  But it's a little late now. She stays with him, looking for a way out of this burning and rotting neighborhood.

  They are approaching a big, nasty-looking Mafia roadblock. He guns the gas pedal, headed straight for death. She can see the destination franchise ahead. At the last second, he whips the car around and squeals sideways to a halt.

  He couldn't have been more helpful. She unpoons as he's giving her this last little kick of energy and sails through the checkpoint at a safe and sane speed. The guards keep their guns pointed at the sky, swivel their heads to look at her butt as she rolls past them.

  The Compton Nova Sicilia franchise is a grisly scene. It is a jamboree of Young Mafia. These youths are even duller than the ones from the all-Mormon Deseret Burbclave. The boys are wearing tedious black suits. The girls are encrusted with pointless femininity. Girls can't even be in the Young Mafia; they have to be in the Girls' Auxiliary and serve macaroons on silver plates. “Girls” is too fine a word for these organisms, too high up the evolutionary scale. They aren't even chicks.

  She's going way too fast, so she kicks the board around sideways, plants pads, leans into it, skids to a halt, roiling up a wave of dust and grit that dulls the glossy shoes of several Young Mafia who are milling out front, nibbling dinky Italo-treats and playing grown-up. It condenses on the white lace stockings of the Young Mafia proto-chicks. She falls off the board, appearing to catch her balance at the last moment. She stomps on the edge of the plank with one foot, and it bounces four feet into the air, spinning rapidly around its long axis, up into her armpit, where she clamps it tight under one arm. The spokes of the smartwheels all retract so that the wheels are barely larger than their hubs. She slaps the Magna-Poon into a handy socket on the bottom of the plank so that her gear is all in one handy package.

  “Y.T.,” she says. “Young, fast, and female. Where the fuck's Enzo?”

  The boys decide to get all “mature” on Y.T. Males of this age are preoccupied with snapping each other's underwear and drinking until they are in a coma. But around a female, they do the “mature” thing. It is hilarious. One of them steps forward slightly, interposing himself between Y.T. and the nearest proto-chick. “Welcome to Nova Sicilia,” he says. “Can I assist you in some way?”

  Y.T. sighs deeply. She is a fully independent businessperson, and these people are trying to do a peer thing on her.

  “Delivery for one Enzo? Y'know, I can't wait to get out of this neighborhood.”

  “It's a good neighborhood, now,” the YoMa says. “You should stick around for a few minutes. Maybe you could learn some manners.”

  “You should try surfing the Ventura at rush hour. Maybe you could learn your limitations.”

  The YoMa laughs like, okay, if that's how you want it. He gestures toward the door. “The man you want to talk to is in there. Whether he wants to talk to you or not, I'm not sure.”

  “He fucking asked for me,” Y.T. says.

  “He came across the country to be with us,” the guy says, “and he seems pretty happy with us.”

  All the other YoMas mumble and nod supportively.

  “Then why are you standing outside?” Y.T. asks, going inside.

  Inside the franchise, things are startlingly relaxed. Uncle Enzo is in there, looking just like he does in the pictures, except bigger than Y.T. expected. He is sitting at a desk playing cards with some other guys in funeral garb. He is smoking a cigar and nursing an espresso. Can't get too much stimulation, apparently.

  There's a whole Uncle Enzo portable support system in here. A traveling espresso machine has been set up on another desk. A cabinet sits next to it, doors open to reveal a big foil bag of Italian Roast Water-Process Decaf and a box of Havana cigars. There's also a gargoyle in one corner, patched into a bigger-than-normal laptop, mumbling to himself.

  Y.T. lifts her arm, allows the plank to fall into her hand. She slaps it down on top of an empty desk and approaches Uncle Enzo, unslinging the delivery from her shoulder.

  “Gino, please,” Uncle Enzo says, nodding at the delivery. Gino steps forward to take it from her.

  “Need your signature on that,” Y.T. says. For some reason she does not refer to him as “pal” or “bub.”

  She's momentarily distracted by Gino. Suddenly, Uncle Enzo has come rather close to her, caught her right hand in his left hand. Her Kourier gloves have an opening on the back of the hand just big enough for his lips. He plants a kiss on Y.T.'s hand. It's warm and wet. Not slobbery and gross, not antiseptic and dry either. Interesting. The guy has confidence going for him. Christ, he's slick. Nice lips. Sort of firm muscular lips, not gelatinous and blubbery like fifteen-year-old lips can be. Uncle Enzo has a very faint citrus-and-aged-tobacco smell to him. Fully smelling it would involve standing pretty close to him. He is towering over her, standing at a respectable distance now, glinting at her through crink
ly old-guy eyes.

  Seems pretty nice.

  “I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to meeting you, Y.T.,” he says.

  “Hi,” she says. Her voice sounds chirpier than she likes it to be. So she adds, “What's in that bag that's so fucking valuable, anyway?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Uncle Enzo says. His smile is not exactly smug. More embarrassed, like what an awkward way to meet someone. “It all has to do with imageering,” he says, spreading one hand dismissively. “There are not many ways for a man like me to meet with a young girl that do not generate incorrect images in the media. It's stupid. But we pay attention to these things.”

  “So, what did you want to meet with me about? Got a delivery for me to make?”

  All the guys in the room laugh.

  The sound startles Y.T. a little, reminds her that she is performing in front of a crowd. Her eyes flick away from Uncle Enzo for a moment.

  Uncle Enzo notices this. His smile gets infinitesimally narrower, and he hesitates for a moment. In that moment, all the other guys in the room stand up and head for the exit.

  “You may not believe me,” he says, “but I simply wanted to thank you for delivering that pizza a few weeks ago.”

  “Why shouldn't I believe you?” she asks. She is amazed to hear nice, sweet things coming out of her mouth.

  So is Uncle Enzo. “I'm sure you of all people can come up with a reason.”

  “So,” she says, “you having a nice day with all the Young Mafia?”

  Uncle Enzo gives her a look that says, watch it, child. A second after she gets scared, she starts laughing, because it's a put-on, he's just giving her a hard time. He smiles, indicating that it's okay for her to laugh.

  Y.T. can't remember when she's been so involved in a conversation. Why can't all people be like Uncle Enzo?

  “Let me see,” Uncle Enzo says, looking at the ceiling, scanning his memory banks. “I know a few things about you. That you are fifteen years old, you live in a Burbclave in the Valley with your mother.”

  “I know a few things about you, too,” Y.T. hazards.

  Uncle Enzo laughs. “Not nearly as much as you think, I promise. Tell me, what does your mother think of your career?”

  Nice of him to use the word “career.” “She's not totally aware of it—or doesn't want to know.”

  “You're probably wrong,” Uncle Enzo says. He says it cheerfully enough, not trying to cut her down or anything. “You might be shocked at how well-informed she is. This is my experience, anyway. What does your mother do for a living?”

  “She works for the Feds.”

  Uncle Enzo finds that richly amusing. “And her daughter is delivering pizzas for Nova Sicilia. What does she do for the Feds?”

  “Some kind of thing where she can't really tell me in case I blab it. She has to take a lot of polygraph tests.”

  Uncle Enzo seems to understand this very well. “Yes, a lot of Fed jobs are that way.”

  There is an opportune silence.

  “It kind of freaks me out,” Y.T. says.

  “The fact that she works for the Feds?”

  “The polygraph tests. They put a thing around her arm—to measure the blood pressure.”

  “A sphygmomanometer,” Uncle Enzo says crisply.

  “It leaves a bruise around her arm. For some reason, that kind of bothers me.”

  “It should bother you.”

  “And the house is bugged. So when I'm home—no matter what I'm doing—someone else is probably listening.”

  “Well, I can certainly relate to that,” Uncle Enzo says.

  They both laugh.

  “I'm going to ask you a question that I've always wanted to ask a Kourier,” Uncle Enzo says. “I always watch you people through the windows of my limousine. In fact, when a Kourier poons me, I always tell Peter, my driver, not to give them a hard time. My question is, you are covered from head to toe in protective padding. So why don't you wear a helmet?”

  “The suit's got a cervical airbag that blows up when you fall off the board, so you can bounce on your head. Besides, helmets feel weird. They say it doesn't affect your hearing, but it does.”

  “You use your hearing quite a bit in your line of work?”

  “Definitely, yeah.”

  Uncle Enzo is nodding. “That's what I suspected. We felt the same way, the boys in my unit in Vietnam.”

  “I heard you went to Vietnam, but—” She stops, sensing danger.

  “You thought it was hype. No, I went there. Could have stayed out, if I'd wanted. But I volunteered.”

  “You volunteered to go to Vietnam?”

  Uncle Enzo laughs. “Yes, I did. The only boy in my family to do so.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought it would be safer than Brooklyn.”

  Y.T. laughs.

  “A bad joke,” he says. “I volunteered because my father didn't want me to. And I wanted to piss him off.”

  “Really?”

  “Definitely. I spent years and years finding ways to piss him off. Dated black girls. Grew my hair long. Smoked marijuana. But the capstone, my ultimate achievement—even better than having my ear pierced—was volunteering for service in Vietnam. But I had to take extreme measures even then.”

  Y.T.'s eyes dart back and forth between Uncle Enzo's creased and leathery earlobes. In the left one she just barely sees a tiny diamond stud.

  “What do you mean, extreme measures?”

  “Everyone knew who I was. Word gets around, you know. If I had volunteered for the regular Army, I would have ended up stateside, filling out forms—maybe even at Fort Hamilton, right there in Bensonhurst. To prevent that, I volunteered for Special Forces, did everything I could to get into a front-line unit.” He laughs. “And it worked. Anyway, I'm rambling like an old man. I was trying to make a point about helmets.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Our job was to go through the jungle making trouble for some slippery gentlemen carrying guns bigger than they were. Stealthy guys. And we depended on our hearing, too—just like you do. And you know what? We never wore helmets.”

  “Same reason.”

  “Exactly. Even though they didn't cover the ears, really, they did something to your sense of hearing. I still think I owe my life to going bareheaded.”

  “That's really cool. That's really interesting.”

  “You'd think they would have solved the problem by now.”

  “Yeah,” Y.T. volunteers, “some things never change, I guess.”

  Uncle Enzo throws back his head and belly laughs. Usually, Y.T. finds this kind of thing pretty annoying, but Uncle Enzo just seems like he's having a good time, not putting her down.

  Y.T. wants to ask him how he went from the ultimate rebellion to running the family beeswax. She doesn't. But Uncle Enzo senses that it is the next, natural subject of the conversation.

  “Sometimes I wonder who'll come after me,” he says. “Oh, we have plenty of excellent people in the next generation. But after that—well, I don't know. I guess all old people feel like the world is coming to an end.”

  “You got millions of those Young Mafia types,” Y.T. says.

  “All destined to wear blazers and shuffle papers in suburbia. You don't respect those people very much, Y.T., because you're young and arrogant. But I don't respect them much either, because I'm old and wise.”

  This is a fairly shocking thing for Uncle Enzo to be saying, but Y.T. doesn't feel shocked. It just seems like a reasonable statement coming from her reasonable pal, Uncle Enzo.

  “None of them would ever volunteer to go get his legs shot off in the jungle, just to piss off his old man. They lack a certain fiber. They are lifeless and beaten down.”

  “That's sad,” Y.T. says. It feels better to say this than to trash them, which was her first inclination.

  “Well,” says Uncle Enzo. It is the “well” that begins the end of a conversation. “I was going to send you some roses, but you wouldn't re
ally be interested in that, would you?”

  “Oh, I wouldn't mind,” she says, sounding pathetically weak to herself.

  “Here's something better, since we are comrades in arms,” he says. He loosens his tie and collar, reaches down into his shirt, pulls out an amazingly cheap steel chain with a couple of stamped silver tags dangling from it. “These are my old dog tags,” he says. “Been carrying them around for years, just for the hell of it. I would be amused if you would wear them.”

  Trying to keep her knees steady, she puts the dog tags on. They dangle down onto her coverall.

  “Better put them inside,” Uncle Enzo says.

  She drops them down into the secret place between her breasts. They are still warm from Uncle Enzo.

  “Thanks.”

  “It's just for fun,” he says, “but if you ever get into trouble, and you show those dog tags to whoever it is that's giving you a bad time, then things will probably change very quickly.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Enzo.”

  “Take care of yourself. Be good to your mother. She loves you.”

  22

  As she steps out of the Nova Sicilia franchulate, a guy is waiting for her. He smiles, not without irony, and makes just a hint of a bow, sort of to get her attention. It's pretty ridiculous, but after being with Uncle Enzo for a while, she's definitely into it. So she doesn't laugh in his face or anything, just looks the other way and blows him off.

  “Y.T. Got a job for ya,” he says.

  “I'm busy,” she says, “got other deliveries to make.”

  “You lie like a mattress,” he says appreciatively. “Y'know that gargoyle in there? He's patched in to the RadiKS computer even as we speak. So we all know for a fact you don't got no jobs to do.”

  “Well, I can't take jobs from a customer,” Y.T. says. “We're centrally dispatched. You have to go through the 1-800 number.”

  “Jeez, what kind of a fucking dickhead do you think I am?” the guy says.

  Y.T. stops walking, turns, finally looks at the guy. He's tall, lean. Black suit, black hair. And he's got a gnarly-looking glass eye.