Richard Kadrey
[Metrophage]
            
            
You may read these files, copy, distribute them, or print them out
and make them into little hats. You may do anything you like with
them as long as you do not change them in any way or receive
money for them.

I've put METROPHAGE and HORSE LATITUDES into free distribution
on the Net, but I retain all copyrights to the works.

If you have any problems or comments on the works or their
distribution, you can email me at: [email protected]

And remember, if you charge anyone money for these files you are
the nothing but ambulatory puke, and I hope a passing jet drops a 15
pound radar magnet on your hard drive.

Richard Kadrey
May 1995




*****************************************************
METROPHAGE: AN INTRODUCTION TO THE ONLINE EDITION

METROPHAGE was my first novel. It came out in the U.S. in 1988, and
was gone faster than bearclaws at a cop convention. Since it was first
published, METROPHAGE has been reprinted in French, German,
Italian, Spanish, Portuguese and Hebrew. Surprisingly, we're still
selling rights in various countries around the world.

The protagonist of METROPHAGE is Jonny Qabbala, a drug dealer in
his early 20s. When I wrote the book, I denied hugely that it was in
any way autobiographical. This was, of course, a stinking lie.

Aside from the fact I've never shot anyone or used cobra venom as a
recreational drug, METROPHAGE is a distillation of everything I'd
done, seen, read, heard or thought about up until the time I wrote it,
and is as purely autobiographical as anything I'm ever likely to
write. Which isn't to say you should read the book literally. Some of
what happens in METROPHAGE is straight reportage, and while some
of the events in the book happened to me, some of them happened to
friends. The things you think are the obvious truths probably aren't.
The most ridiculous and unbelievable things are quite possibly true.

Plus, the book is full of lies. It's a work of fiction. I made up a lot of
it. Yet it remains the psychological story of my life up into my mid-
twenties. This is not meant to dazzle anyone with my
accomplishments. If you read the book, you'll quickly discover an
unflattering truth: Jonny Qabbala is a jerk. He's not evil or stupid or
even a bad guy, he's just young and clueless. Jonny finds it difficult
to act decisively or take a stand, and when he does either, he's
usually wrong. Even when I was writing the book, when I was closer
to Jonny's age and temperament, I frequently wanted to crack his
skull with the collected works of Iggy Pop (which is another bit of
trivia: Iggy is in the book, but I won't tell you what character he
plays; if you've ever seen Iggy perform, you'll know).

Time passes, though, and I no longer want to slap Jonny around. I'm
not so far from Jonny that I can see him as my offspring, but I can
easily imagine him as a kid brother. As such, I can forgive him a lot
of his faults because as lame as he is, he's usually trying to do the
right thing.

The ending of METROPHAGE is deliberately open. A lot of people
have assumed that I intended to write a sequel. The truth is, I never
even considered it. However, I can't help but feel a certain
responsibility for Jonny, since I sort of left him in the middle of
downtown Nowhere. In order to settle Jonny's fate in my own mind,
I've written him into several stories and into one abandoned novel.
In the end, I took him out of all of them (and it doesn't get much
worse than ending up on the cutting room floor of a book that doesn't
even exist). Still, he tries to weasel his way into each book I write,
and I always try to find room for him. Sooner or later, he'll land in
one of them. I just hope I don't find him behind the counter of some
asteroid belt McDonald's asking,  You want fries with that?"

Richard Kadrey
San Francisco, May 1995

**********************************************************************




                                        METROPHAGE
                                     by Richard Kadrey


Now I lay me down to sleep
I hear the sirens in the street
All my dreams are made of chrome
I have no way to get back home
--Tom Waits



                                ONE:
                        The Petrified City

        A crip by the name of Easy Money ran the HoloWhores down at
a place called Carnaby's Pit. At least he had been running them the
last time Jonny Qabbala, drug dealer, ex-Committee for Public Health
bounty hunter, and self-confessed loser, had paid him a visit. Jonny
was hoping that Easy was still working the Pit. He had a present for
him from a dead friend.
        The ugly and untimely murder of Raquin, the chemist, had left
an empty spot in the pit of Jonny's stomach. Not just because Raquin
had been Jonny's connection (since it was a simple matter for Jonny
to get his dope directly from Raquin's boss, the smuggler lord
Conover) but over the year or so of their acquaintance Raquin had
become, to Jonny, something close to a friend. And  close to a friend"
was as much as Jonny generally allowed himself to become. It was
fear of loss more than any lack of feelings on his part that kept Jonny
at a distance from most of the other losers and one-percenters that
crowded Los Angeles.
        Overhead, the moon was a bone-white sickle. Jonny wondered,
idly, if the Alpha Rats were watching Los Angeles that night. What
would the extraterrestrials think, through a quarter million miles of
empty space, when they saw him put a bullet through Easy Money's
head?

        Jonny caught sight of Carnaby's Pit a few blocks away, quartz
prisms projecting captured atrocity videos from the Lunar Border
Wars. On a flat expanse of wall above the club's entrance, a New
Palestine soldier in a vacuum suit was smashing the faceplate of a
Mishima Guardsman. The Guardsman's blood bubbled from his
helmet, droplets boiling to hard black jewels as the soundtrack from
an ancient MGM musical played in the background:  I want to be
loved by you, by you, and nobody else but you...  The words
CARNABY'S PIT periodically superimposed themselves over the scene
in Kana and Roman characters.
        Jonny pushed his way through a group of Pemex-U.S. workers
negotiating for rice wine at the weekend mercado that covered the
street near Fountain Avenue. The air was thick with the scents of
animal waste, sweat, roasting meat and hashish. Chickens beat their
wings against wire cages while legless vat-grown sheep lay docilely
in the butchers' stalls, waiting for their turn on their skewers. Old
women in hipils motioned Jonny over, holding up bright bolts of
cloth, bootleg computer chips and glittering butterfly knives. Jonny
kept shaking his head.  No, gracias...Ima ja naku...Nein..."
        Handsome young Germans, six of them, all in the latest eel-skin
cowboy boots and silk overalls (marked with the logo of some
European movie studio) lugged portable holo-recorders between the
stalls, making another in their endless series of World Link
documentaries about the death of street culture. Those quickly-made
documentaries and panel discussions about the Alpha Rats (who they
were, their intentions, their burden on the economy of the West)
seemed to make up the bulk of the Link's broadcasts these days.
Jonny swore that if he heard one more learned expert coolly
discussing the logic of drug and food rationing, he was going to
personally bury fifty kilos of C-4 plastique under the local Link
station and make his own contribution to street culture by liberating
a few acres of prime urban landscape.
        At a stall near the back of the place, an old curandera was
selling her evil eye potions and a collection of malfunctioning robot
sentries: cybernetic goshawks, rottweilers and cougars, simple track
and kill devices controlled by a tabletop microwave link. The sentries
had been very popular with the nouveau riche toward the end of the
previous century, but the animals' electronics and maintenance
had proved to be remarkably unreliable. Eventually they passed, like
much of the mercado's merchandise, down from the hills, through the
rigid social strata of L.A., until they landed in the street, last stop
before the junk heap.
        There by the twitching half-growling animals, the crew set up
their lights. Jonny hung around and watched them block out shots.
The film makers infuriated him, but in their own way, Jonny knew,
they were right.
        The market was dying. When he had been a boy, Jonny
remembered it sprawling over a dozen square blocks. Now it barely
managed to occupy two. And most of the merchandise was junk.
Chromium paint flaked off the electronic components, revealing
ancient rusted works. The hydroponically grown fruits and
vegetables grew steadily smaller and more tasteless each season. All
that seemed to keep the market going was the communally owned
bank of leaking solar batteries. During the rolling brown-outs, they
alone kept the tortilla ovens hot, the fluorescents flickering, the
videos cranking.
         Isn't it time you kids were in bed?" Jonny asked, stepping on
the toes of a lanky blonde camera man.  Sprechen sie 'parasite'?"
        Huddled in the doorways of clubs and arcades, groups of
fingerprint changers, nerve tissue merchants and brain cell thieves
regarded the crowd with hollow eyes, as if assessing their worth in
cash at every moment. The gangs, too, were out in force that hot
night: the Lizard Imperials (snake-skin boots and surgically split
tongues), the Zombie Analytics (subcutaneous pixels offering up
flickering flesh-images of dead video and rock stars), the anarchist-
physician Croakers, the Yakuza Rebels and the Gypsy Titans; even the
Naginata Sisters were out, swinging blades and drinking on the
corner in front of the Iron Orchid.
        As Jonny crossed Sunset, a few of the Sisters waved to him.
When he waved back, a gust of wind pulled open his tunic, revealing
his Futukoro Automatic. The Sisters whooped and laughed at the
sight of the weapon, feigning terror. A tall Sister with Maori facial
tattoos crooked her finger and began blasting him with an imaginary
gun.
        Coming toward him from the opposite direction was a ring of
massive Otoko Niku. Meat Boys-- uniformly ugly acromegalic giants,
each easily three meters tall. In the center of the protective ring, an
old Yakuza oyabun openly stared and pointed at people. It was rare
enough for people to see a pure-blood Japanese in the street that
they stopped to stare back, until the Meat Boys cuffed them away.
Jonny thought of a word then.
        Gaijin. Foreigner. Alien.
        That's me. I'm gaijin, Jonny thought. He could find little comfort
in the familiarity of the streets. Jonny realized that by
acknowledging his desire to kill Easy Money, he had cut himself off
from everybody around him. He walked slower. Twice he almost
turned back.
        A tiny nisei girl tried to sell him a peculiar local variation on
sushi-- refried beans and raw tuna wrapped in a corn husk--
commonly known as Salmonella Roll. Jonny declined and ducked into
an alley. There, he swallowed two tabs of Desoxyn, hijacked from a
Committee warehouse.
        It was good stuff. Very soon, a tingling began in his finger-
tips and moved up his arms, filling him with a pleasantly tense,
almost sexual, energy. Beads of sweat broke out on his hands and
face, ran down his chest. He thought of Sumi.

         I might not be back tonight," he had told her before he left the
squat they shared.  Uno tareja. Got some deliveries to make," he lied.
 Routine stuff."
         Then why are you taking that blunderbuss?" Sumi asked,
pointing to the Futukoro pistol Jonny had hidden under his tunic.
        Jonny ignored her question and tried to look very interested in
the process of lacing up his steel-tipped boots. Sumi terrified him.
Sometimes, in his more callous moments, he considered her a slip-up,
his one remaining abandonment to emotional ties. Occasionally, when
he felt strong, he would admit to himself that he loved her.
         I'll be passing through the territories of a dozen gangs tonight
and then if I'm lucky I'll be landing in Carnaby's Pit. That's why the
blunderbuss,  he said. "I should be taking a Committee battalion with
me. 
         I bet they'd be thrilled if you called them."
         I bet you're right."
        Almond-eyed Sumi stroked his hair with delicate, callused
hands. He had met her at the zendo of an old Buddhist nun. The Zen
study had not stuck, but Sumi had. Her full name, Sumimasen, meant
variously,  thank you,"  I'm sorry," and  this never ends." She had
been on her own almost as long as Jonny. Along the way, she picked
up enough electronics to make her living as a Watt Snatcher; That is:
for a fee she would tap right into the government's electric lines
under the city and siphon off power for her customers.
        Jonny got up and Sumi put her arms around him, thrusting her
belly at the pistol in his belt.  Is that your gun or are you just happy
to see me?  Sumi asked. She did a whole little act, rolling her eyes
and purring in her best vamp voice. But her nervousness was
obvious.
        Jonny bent and kissed the base of her neck, held her long
enough to reassure, then longer. He felt her tense up again, under his
hands.
         I'll be back," he said.
        During the last few months, Jonny had begun to worry about
leaving Sumi alone. Officially, the government's power lines did not
exist. All the more reason the State would like to wipe the Watt
Snatchers out. All the gangs were outlaws, technically. The elements
of the equation were simple: its components were the price of
survival divided by the risks that survival demanded. And in an age
of rationing and manufactured shortages, survival meant the black
market. The gangs produced whatever the smuggler lords couldn't
bring in. And the pushers sold it on the streets.
        Jonny had chosen his own brand of survival when he walked
away from the Committee for Public Health and threw in with the
pushers. It was a simple question of karma. Now he worked the
black market, selling any drugs the smuggler lords could supply--
anti-biotics, LSD analogs, beta-endorphins, MDMA, skimming the
streets on a razor-sharp high compounded of adrenaline and
paranoia.
        In his more philosophical moments, it seemed to Jonny that
they were all engaged in nothing more than some bizarre battle of
symbols. What the smuggler lords and gangs provided-- food, power
and drugs-- had become the ultimate symbols of control in their
world. The Federales could not afford to ease up their rationing of
medical treatment, access to public utilities and food distribution.
They had learned, long ago, how it easy it was to control vast
numbers of people simply by worrying them into submission,
keeping them busy hustling to stay alive.
        Los Angeles, as such, had ceased to exist. L.A., however-- the
metaphorical heart and soul of the city-- was alive and kicking. An
L.A. of the mind, playground of trade and commerce: the City of
Night. Known in the local argot as Last Ass, Lonesome Angels, the
Laughing Adder, Los Angeles existed in the rarefied state of many
port cities, functioning mainly as a downloading point for a constant
stream of data, foreign currency, dope and weapons that flowed onto
the continent from all over the world.
        It was the worst kept secret in the street that half the State
Legislature had their fingers deep in the black market pie. Like some
fragile species of hothouse orchid, the city existed only as long as it
had the politicos backing. Without that, the Committee would be on
them like rabid dogs. For the moment, though, the balance was there.
Merchandise flowed out and cash flowed in, blood and breath of the
city.
        Jonny understood all this and accepted the tightrope existence.
He knew too, that someday the whole thing was going to crash. It
was their collective karma. Sooner or later some politico was going to
get greedy, try to undercut one of the gangs or simply sell them out
for a vote. And the Committee would move in. Jonny knew that this
knowledge should make a difference, but it did not.

        In the alley, the speed came on like an old friend, an electric
hum up and down his spine. Suddenly all things were possible. The
nervous glare of neon signs and halogen street lamps domed Sunset
in a pulsing nimbus of come-on colors. Stepping from the alley, Jonny
barely felt his boots on the pavement. Easy Money was as good as
dead.

        There were five or six lepers clustered around the entrance to
Carnaby's Pit, begging alms and exhibiting their wounds to those
willing to pay for a look. An upturned Stetson on the ground before
them held an assortment of coins, crumpled dollar and peso notes
and gaily colored pills. Ever since the lepers' numbers had grown too
large to ignore, odd rumors had sprung up around them. Many
people swore that the Committee was putting something in the
water, while others suspected the Arabs. Some blamed the Alpha
Rats, claiming they were trying to destroy the Earth with  Leprosy
Rays  from the moon. It was Jonny's opinion that most people were
idiots.
        One leper in a nylon windbreaker was reciting in a low
whiskey voice:
         The streets breathe, ebb and flow like the
        seas beneath a sodden twilight eye.
        The sky appears from a maw of rooftops-
        Dusk streets, dry fountains
        coax the cemetery stars. 
        Jonny pulled a few Dapsone and tetrahydrocanabinol capsules
from his pouch and dropped them into the battered Stetson. The
leper who had been reciting, his head and face heavily bandaged,
opened his jacket.
         Thank you, friend," the leper said through broken lips,
pointing to his freshest scars.
        Nodding politely, Jonny left the lepers and stepped down into
the Pit.

        The skyline tilted, angled steeply downward, then up, became a
vertical blur of mirrored windows, skyscrapers leading to a hologram
star field. Jonny was in the Pit's game parlor, separated from the bar
by a dirty lotus print curtain. Around the edges of the room, antique
pinball machines beeped and rang prosaically while the air in the
center of the parlor burned with the phantom light of hologram
games. Crossing the parlor, Jonny was caught in a spray of hot blue
laser blasts from Sub-Orbital Commando, showered with fragments
of pint-sized galaxies spinning from Vishnu and Shiva's hands. Rat-
sized nudes swarmed above his head, frantically groping at each for
Fun In Zero G.
        One angry pinball player threw a glass and it shattered against
the far wall. Jonny stepped back as two members of the Pit's own
Meat Boys moved smoothly from opposite ends of the room to
intercept the shouting man.
         Goddamit, this machine just ate my last dollar!"  screamed the
pinball player.
        He was still screaming as the two beefy monsters grabbed an
arm apiece and ushered him through the front doors. They came
back alone. Jonny half expected to see them return with the guy's
arms.
         Peace! Can't we have a little peace in here?" mumbled a
sweating man lining up Jacqueline Kennedy in the sights of a
fiberglass reproduction of a Mannlicher-Carcano rifle. It was
Smokefinger, the pickpocket, fat and nervous, jacked into the Date
With Destiny game by a length of pencil-thin cable extending from
the game console to a 24-prong mini-plug implanted at the base of
his skull. Most of the players in the room were jacked into various
games by similar plugs. Jonny's stomach fluttered at the sight.
Elective surgery, he had decided years before, did not extend to
having little platinum bullets permanently jammed into his skull,
thank you. He could watch the World Link on a monitor and as for
the games, they seemed real enough without skull-plugs.
        Smokefinger tracked the ghostly hologram of the presidential
limousine as crimson numbers flickered in the metallic-blue Dallas
sky, reading out his score. Jonny leaned close to pickpocket's ear and
said,  How's it going, Smoke?" Smokefinger ignored him and
continued to move the toy rifle with steady, insect-like
concentration.  Hey Smoke," said Jonny, waving his fingers before
Smokefinger's eyes just as the fat man pulled the trigger.
        No score.  Shit," mumbled the pickpocket, still ignoring Jonny.
He had aced the chauffeur.
        This wasn't going to be any fun at all, Jonny decided. He pushed
the release button on the plug at the back of Smokefinger's
head. The wire dropped and a spring-loaded coil drew it back inside
the game console.
         What the hell--" yelled Smokefinger, grabbing for his neck. He
looked at Jonny dumbly as his eyes slowly re-focused. In a moment,
he said,  Hey Jonny, que pasa?"
         Not much," Jonny said.  I can't believe you're still playing this
game. Haven't you killed everybody in Dallas by now? 
        Smokefinger shrugged.  I pop 'em, but they keep coming back."
Sweat pooled on the pickpocket's glasses where the rims touched his
cheeks.
        Jonny smiled and looked around the room hoping there was
anyone else from whom he might get information. However, in the
pastel glare of meteor showers and laser fire, none of the faces
looked familiar.  You seen Easy Money around?" he asked
Smokefinger.  I've got to talk to him."
         Right, talk. You and everybody else." Smokefinger looked back
at the empty hologram chamber and cursed.  I almost broke my own
record, you know,  he said. He looked at Jonny accusingly. "No, I ain't
seen Easy. Random's tending bar tonight. Maybe you should go talk
to him. To tell you the truth, you're distracting me.  Smokefinger
never took his finger from the trigger of the fiberglass rifle. Jonny
pulled some yen coins from his pocket and fed them into the
machine.
         Thanks for all your help, killer," he said. But Smokefinger did
not hear him; he was already jacking in. Jonny left Smokefinger,
wishing he could find peace as easily as that, and pushed his way
into the bar.
        Jonny always found it a little disconcerting that the main room
never seemed to change. He imagined it frozen in time, like a
scratched record, repeating the same snatch of lyric over and over
again. The usual weekend crowd of small-time smugglers, B actors
and bored prostitutes stared from the blue veil of smoke around the
bar. The same tired porn played on the big screen for the benefit of
those unfortunates not equipped with skull-plugs. Even the band,
Taking Tiger Mountain were blasting the same old riffs, stopping
half-way through their own  Guernica Rising" when the crowd
shouted them down. They switched to a desultory  Brown Sugar," a
song that was out-of-date long before anybody in the club had been
born. Dancers undulated under the strobes and sub-sonic mood
enhancers as projectors threw holograms of lunar atrocities onto
their hot bodies.
        In fact, the only real difference Jonny could see in the place
was the darkness in the HoloWhores bundling booths.
        Jonny pushed his way through the tightly packed crowd and
tried the door to Easy's control room. It was locked, and the bar far
too full to force the door. He would have to wait. Feeling relief, and
guilt at that relief, Jonny made his way to the bar for a drink and
some questions.
        Random, the bartender, was drying glasses behind a bar
constructed of old automobile dashboards. Tall and thin, his skin
creased like dead leaves, Random offered Jonny the same half-smile
he offered everybody. Jonny ordered an Asahi dark and gin; he put a
twenty on the bar. Random set down the beer and slid the bill into
his pocket in one smooth motion.
        The bartender inclined his head toward the dance floor.
 Necrophiliacs," he said above the roar of the band.  They can't stand
new music. Like it's deadly to them or something. Bunch of assholes. 
Random shrugged. Then he looked away, like a blind man, eyes
unfocused.  They just nuked Kansas City. The Jordanian Re-
Unification Army, a New Palestine splinter group. They called the
local Net up link. Said Houston's next,  he reported. The bartender
shook his head.  Those boys must really hate cows." Random had a
passion for morbid news items and stayed plugged into the Net's
data lines constantly, relaying the most worthy bits to his customers.
Jonny thought it was one of his most charming qualities.
He turned back to Jonny as if anticipating his question.  Easy split.
Been gone a couple of days now. Left quick, too. Didn't touch his holo
stuff. 
         I don't suppose you have any idea where he went?" asked
Jonny.
         I'm afraid he neglected to leave a forwarding address. A
shame too, so close to Thanksgiving and all. 
        The band's volume jumped abruptly as they broke from the
song into a tense, rhythmic jam. Saint Peter, the guitarist, stood at
the edge of the stage between soaring liquid-cooled stacks of Krupp-
Verwandlungsinhalt speakers. Eyes squeezed shut, shoulders loose,
Saint Peter pumped walls of noise, his myoelectric left-hand racing
like a frantic silver spider up and down the fretboard. As he played,
a pattern of light glinted off the chrome hand, marking its progress
through the air. Then, just as the jam reached its peak, the song died;
the porn faded and the lights dimmed.  Brown-out," said Random. He
casually threw a switch under the bar and the power returned.  Tell
Sumi gracias for the watts,  he said.
        Jonny nodded.  Did you hear that Easy had another Flare Gun
Party?  he asked.
         No, who got burned?"
         Raquin."
        Random raised an eyebrow in sympathy.  Sorry, man," he said.
 Although, I must admit, I'm not entirely surprised to hear he's been
up to something.  He took a long hit from a hookah next to the cash
register.  Looking for Easy Money seems to be the hot new game in
town. Last night the crowd was so thick I had 'em line up and take
numbers. Of course, Easy's not the only one who seems to have
captured the public's imagination.  Random smiled at Jonny. "You
appear to have developed a bit of celebrity all your own. 
         Me?" Jonny asked guardedly.  Who's been asking about me?"
Random shrugged.  No one I knew." The bartender winked
conspiratorially.  Come on, boy-o. Whose ankles have you been
nipping at? 
         I am pathetically clean." Jonny said.  Tell me about them.
Anything you can remember. 
        Random stuck two nicotine yellow fingers into his shirt pocket
and pulled out a glicene envelope of white powder.  Pure as Mother
Mary and twice as nice,  he said, giving the envelope a light kiss.
 Interesting lads. They didn't try to pay off in crude cash." He
dropped the envelope back into his pocket.
         Smugglers?" asked Jonny.
         Could be, only what's a smuggler lord doing shooting for small
shit like Easy Money? Or you for that matter. 
         Who knows," Jonny said. He took a long gulp of his drink.
 Maybe he's decided he's in the wrong business."
         Hell," said the bartender,  everybody in Last Ass's in the
wrong business. 
        Random set down the glass he had been cleaning and said,
 Weather." His eyes shifted.  Junior senator on the Atmospheric
Management Committee announced they can clean-up the mess left
by the Weather Wars. Says they ought to be able to stabilize weather
patterns over most of North America in three to five years. 
         Didn't they announce that same program three to five years
ago?  asked Jonny.
         At least." And with that, Random gave Jonny the other half of
the smile and moved on to other customers.
        Swirling the dregs of his beer, Jonny turned and studied the
noisy crowd moving through the bar. He searched their heads for a
sign of goat horns grafted above a thin face, inset with darting,
suspicious eyes. Or arms thick with tattooed serpents, like the
stigmata of some junky god. Easy Money always stood out in a crowd
which, Jonny supposed, was the idea. If Easy was around, he should
not be hard to spot.
        Jonny had met Easy while they were both in the employ of the
smuggler lord Conover. This was just after Easy had made a name for
himself with his first Flare Gun Party.
        The party had become something of a legend with the pushers.
It went like this: Easy Money, a human parasite with the unerring
ability to detect the softest, most vulnerable part of his prey, had
acquired a contract to kill the leader of the Los Santos Atomicos gang.
Beginning with a philosophy that later became his trademark (like
the hourglass on the belly of a spider) Easy reasoned that gang
retribution being such a swift and ugly thing, eliminating the entire
gang would be less trouble than the removal of any single member.
        It was well known to those who, like Easy, always kept a
metaphorical ear to the ground, that the Los Santos Atomicos gang's
particular vice was free-basing cocaine. Easy located their safe-house
with information from a rival gang. He also found that the Los Santos
Atomicos liked to buy the ether they used to treat the coke, in bulk.
They kept big tanks of the stuff hidden under the floor.
        As he was fond of saying, from there it was easy money.
        Like some stoned Prometheus, Easy brought fire to the Los
Santos Atomicos in the form of a red Navy signal flare which he fired
into their lab from the roof of a Catholic mission across the street.
The explosion literally ripped the roof off the ether-filled building.
The fireball boiled down onto many of the adjoining buildings,
igniting them, too.
        Besides the Los Santos Atomicos, at least a dozen other people,
mainly junkies and prostitutes, died in the fires that engulfed the
grimy neighborhood. And Easy Money moved up a rung in the
hierarchy of the movers and shakers in their little world.
Looking back, none of it had seemed important to Jonny at the time.
When he heard of the deaths it seemed somehow normal.
Just one more senseless act in the long series of senseless acts that
made up their lives. However, Raquin's death had moved events
from the abstract into a personal affront. He knew Raquin.
And he knew Easy had killed him. Jonny would finish Easy Money
simply because nobody else would and because the little prick
deserved it.
        Jonny slowed his breathing, counted each intake of breath,
centering himself as his roshi had taught him. Visions of horned,
tattooed Easy swam before him as he hunted for that savage part of
himself he had sought before whenever he had to kill.
        But the passion was gone, seemed pointless now. The speed had
been cut with something unpleasant. It was wearing off already,
leaving him feeling numb and stupid. Jonny gulped down the rest of
his beer and tried to get into the buzz from the liquor.
        He wondered if perhaps he had figured things wrong. If the
smuggler lords really were after Easy maybe he was not needed,
after all. There was always work to do, money to be made. He had to
establish a new connection. Something bothered Jonny, though. He
could not figure out who, besides the Committee, would be looking
for him. Had he trod on someone's toes in the last few days looking
for Easy? He could not remember.
        The bar seemed to tip slightly as Jonny downed his second
Asahi and gin. When he wiped a hand across his brow it came away
cool and covered in sweat. He left the bar, pushing carelessly through
a tight knot of nervous teenagers from the Valley made up to look
like they had grafts and implants. Near the restroom, a Zombie
Analytic flashed Jonny in quick succession: Marilyn Monroe, Jim
Morrison and Aoki Vega. He ignored her.
        Inside the restroom, Jonny splashed rusty water onto his face.
The room stank of human waste, and the paper towel dispenser was
empty. On the floor he found half a copy of  Twilight of the Gods".
The toilet was full of Nietzsche. Jonny dried his hands with the few
remaining pages. The water made him feel a little better. However,
the come down from the speed had left him jumpy and nervous.
        When Jonny left the restroom, a hand clamped on his arm.
         Jonny, how's it going?" asked a short man that Jonny did not
recognize. The man's smile was wide and toothy, intended to give the
impression that he was a very dangerous character. He wore shades
whose lenses were dichromatic holograms depicting some cavern.
Where his eyes should have been were twin bottomless pits.
         That's a good way to lose some teeth or an eye," Jonny said
evenly.
        The little man's smile faded only slightly. He relaxed his grip on
Jonny's arm, but did not release him.
         Sorry Jonny," he said.  Look, could I buy you a drink or
something? 
         No."
        Jonny shook off the little man's grip and headed back to the
bar to get drunk. But again, strong fingers caught him.
         Where are you going in such a hurry?" the little man asked.
 Let's talk. I've got a deal for you."
        Jonny jammed his elbow into the little man's midsection, spun
and pressed the barrel of the Futukoro into the man's throat.
         If you ever grab me again, I will kill you. Do you understand
that?  Jonny whispered.
        The little man released Jonny's arm and stepped back, his
hands held in front of his chest, palms out.  It's cool," the little man
said giddily.  It's cool."
        Jonny pushed the man away roughly and left him chattering to
himself. He was sweating again. Jonny went back to the bar and
drank cheap fishy-tasting Japanese vodka, thinking as he drank,
about how vile it was and how he wished he could afford the good
stuff. He put the little man out of his mind. Jonny wondered if he
should call Sumi, but that seemed like a bad idea. She would ask
questions he did not want to answer. Eventually, his thoughts drifted
to Raquin. Jonny wondered what it was like to burn to death. He
remembered that someone had once told him that you would not feel
anything, that the fire would consume all the oxygen and you would
smother before you ever felt the flames. That seemed like small
comfort. How much better was it to smother than to burn?
        Jonny continued drinking straight shots of the fishy vodka until
the taste disappeared altogether. Taking six of the shot-glasses, he
constructed a little pyramid, but Random took the glasses away and
soon Jonny ran out of money. While he was fishing in his pouch for
more dope, there was a slight tug on his arm. Somehow, when he
turned, Jonny knew the little man would be standing there. His
shades were off and he held his hands up as if to ward off a blow.
         Truce, okay? I did not grab you," the little man said.  I just
tapped you on the shoulder. 
        Jonny nodded.  I could tell you were a quick study. What do
you want? 
        The man leaned forward, anxiously.  Look Jonny, I didn't want
to tell you before-- I'm working for Mister Conover. He sent me to
get you. If you don't come back with me, my ass is grass. 
         Sorry to hear that. Tell Mister Conover I'll get in touch with
him as soon as I'm through with the deal I'm working on now. 
         I can't do that. He wants you now," said the little man.
Hopefully, he added,  You know that whatever it is you're working
on, Mister Conover will make it worth your while to drop. 
        Jonny shook his head.
         No thanks; this is personal."
        The little man leaned closer.  You aren't looking for Easy
Money, are you? 
         What if I am?"
         Well, that's great," said the little man.  That's the job-- Easy
Money copped something that belongs to Mister Conover. And Mister
Conover wants you to help him get it back. 
        Jonny nodded, took a piece of ice from someone's empty glass,
and rubbed it across his forehead.  My problem, friend, is that I
know Mister Conover pretty well and I know that he is a
professional,  Jonny said. "No offense, but why would he send a hard
guy like you to get me? 
        The little man looked around, apparently to make sure that
nobody was eavesdropping.  This really isn't my job," he whispered.
Jonny smiled.  No shit?" he said.
         I'm more of a bookkeeper. It's just that Mister Conover's got
all his muscle guys out looking for Easy Money,  he said. The little
man looked at Jonny gravely.  You know how it is."
         Yeah, I know how it is," said Jonny, genuinely amused.
         He told me that you always hang out at Carnaby's Pit," the
little man continued. He made a face as if he had just smelled
something foul.  To tell you the truth, it's a little bit much for me."
        Jonny laughed.  Sometimes it's a bit much for me, too," he said.
        The little man smiled; for real, this time.  Then you'll come with
me?  he asked.
        Jonny shrugged.  That stuff about looking for Easy, you weren't
just being cute again, were you?  "No, all that was true,  he said.
         Good."
         Then you'll come?"
         I'm not sure. I hate to beat a point to death, but how do I
know you work for Mister Conover?  "Oh yeah,  said the little man
brightening. He reached into his jacket pocket.  Mister Conover said
to give you this. 
        He handed Jonny a plastic bag containing two gelatinous blue
capsules. The manufacturer's markings were Swiss, the capsules
NATO issue, banded with an orange warning stripe indicating
myotoxins. Jonny had seen the stuff on the Committee. Frosty the
Snowman. It was a necrotic, a synthetic variation on pit viper venom
that killed by breaking down collagen fibers, effectively dissolving
skin and muscle tissue. The NATO variation, he had heard, was
constructed with certain  open" segments along its DNA chain,
allowing the toxin to bind with polypeptides in the victim's collagen
and replicate itself there. Rumor had it that Frosty could break down
the skin and muscle tissue of a seventy kilo man in just under
fourteen hours. It was not the kind of drug that many people would
have access to. Jonny stuffed the bag into his pouch.
         So, I'm convinced," he said.
         Then you'll come?"
         Why not," he said.  I'm not getting anywhere here."
        The little man beamed at him. Jonny thought it might be love.
 By the way, have you got a name?" Jonny asked.
         Cyrano. Bender Cyrano, like the guy in the old book, you
know? Only I haven't got the nose.  Cyrano laughed at his own joke.
        Jonny did not know what the hell Cyrano was talking about,
but he smiled so as not to hurt the little man's feelings. When Cyrano
extended his hand, Jonny shook it.
         Nice to meet you, Cyrano. Let's get out of here," said Jonny.
When they reached the dirty curtain, Jonny turned and took a last
look at the band. They were burning through one of Saint Peter's
best tunes,  Street Prince." The crowd ignored them, utterly.
        Random was right, Jonny decided. A bunch of assholes.
Outside, the hot night had cooled somewhat. That usually meant that
the street people would haunt Sunset Boulevard until dawn, but an
uneasy silence had settled upon the street. A scrap of paper, plucked
up by the wind, did a careless pirouette before being carried away. A
quiet crowd had gathered across the street, watching the club. Jonny
took a step back. Cyrano walked on a few steps before he noticed
that Jonny was no longer there.
         What's wrong?" he asked.
        Jonny was barely six when the first of the Protein Rebellions
took place. That was when the citizens of Los Angeles, inspired by
uprisings in other cities, rose up and wrecked the Griffith Park Zoo in
search of fresh meat. The riots were finally put down, but not until
ten days of fighting left the city little more than an open wound. The
official body count was something like 10,000 civilian and military
dead.
        The authorities, however, had not been caught entirely
unprepared. Many in power had seen what was coming. Plans were
pushed forward, timetables scrapped, and those select few, wealthy
enough to buy entrance or powerful enough to demand it, began
their silent pilgrimages deep into the desert, to government-
sponsored havens like New Hope.
        The rest of the city  remained behind  with the rest of the
solution. The rest of the solution, in this case, was a paramilitary
organization known, without apparent irony, as the Committee
for Public Health. And several armed members of that organization
were waiting for Jonny when he left Carnaby's Pit.

        Spotlights hit Jonny and Cyrano from across the street.
        A adolescent, bullhorned voice called,  Do not move. You are
both under arrest. 
        Jonny dropped to the ground, pulling his gun. Cyrano
awkwardly wrestled a Mexican Barretta from his belt and got off one
shot before a Futukoro blast ripped into his chest. The little man fell
on Jonny, bleeding everywhere, looking horrified. He clutched at the
wound, as if by holding it closed, he could keep his life from slipping
out. Jonny looked up in time to see the leper in the Spacer uniform
peering at him from around the side of the bar.
        Automatic weapons fire bit into the front of the Pit as the
Committee opened up. Shattered glass and concrete showered down
on Jonny as he flattened himself on the ground. From behind, the
door of the bar burst open and a phalanx of the Pit's Meat Boys
emerged, armed to the teeth. Jonny wanted very muchto disappear.
        Across Sunset, the evening crowds were pinned down in
windows and doorways, watching the fire fight. Occasionally, one or
two kids wearing gang colors would make a break into the open and
run across Sunset, waving and shouting as they reached the other
side alive. A young, fat Gypsy Titan started across behind his faster
friend. It looked as if the fat boy would make it, when a shot spun
him around. He tore at the long scarf knotted about his throat before
collapsing between two parked cars.
        Jonny heard orders barked from somewhere in the dark and
the sound of scrambling feet. The Meat Boys were fanning out,
covering the entrance of the Pit. No escape that way. Why the hell
were the Meat Boys fighting the Committee, Jonny wondered. Must
think it's some rogue gang trying to shake them down.
        Jonny pressed close to the building for cover. Sounds like
thunder, breaking glass and splintering wood enclosed him. He tried
to crawl behind the Meat Boys, but they were moving all over the
street.
        At the side of the bar, Jonny saw the leper again, giving him
the finger with one diseased hand. At that instant, Jonny recognized
him. Even with the bandages and the uniform, he knew the leper was
Easy Money. Jonny took a shot at him, but Easy ducked behind the
building.
        Again, the door to Carnaby's Pit burst open and Smokefinger
came running out. He was screaming what sounded like
 Motherfuckers" at the top of his lungs. His right arm was a mass of
wet red flesh. Running into the street, he was cut to pieces by
Committee cross-fire.
        Jonny made a break for the alley behind the Pit. Moving
quickly to a low crouch, he crawled around the perimeter of the
building. He almost made it when he felt a terrible kick in his
shoulder. Jonny's muscles turned to water.

        Sometime later, he was not sure how long, Jonny awoke in the
alley. He had no idea how he had gotten there. He could still hear
occasional bursts of automatic weapons fire. When he tried to stand,
Jonny discovered that his whole right side was numb.
        With his left arm, Jonny grabbed the rim of an overflowing
dumpster and pulled himself to his feet. It took him a few seconds
to find his balance, but when he did, he started running to exit at the
far end of the alley.
        He almost made it, but somewhere along the way, a boot
whipped out of the darkness and sent him sprawling.
        Oh fuck, Jonny thought.
        This time he did not get up.



                                                TWO:
                        History, Payback, and an Unhappy Reunion
                         in the Belly of the Beast

        The Greater Southern California Detention Facility: an ant hill; a
graveyard; a factory where souls were processed, packaged, and
delivered to what some laughingly called justice. At least, many on
the inside (guards and prisoners, alike) had heard rumors to that
effect. Rumors of the search for justice. Memos were circulated about
it. Petitions were signed for it. Statues of Greek goddesses
brandishing scales were erected to it. Still, few had seen any sign of
it.
        The prison squatted, blank and huge, by the port in what was
left of the old warehouse district. Built on the bones of an old liquid
natural gas plant, it had originally been envisioned as the location for
the flagship lab of the Pentagon's notorious genetic warfare programs
in the late nineteen-nineties. The building had sat unused when the
government's war plans ran out of steam and money at the same
time. It was not until eighteen months later, with a few billion yen to
back it up, that the order came down to pull out the half-finished
labs and begin slicing up the old storage tanks, refitting them to form
the cell walls within the new facility.
        The majority of the prison's bulk was hidden, sunk deep into
the ancient pig iron waste pits. Lichen-streaked, great solid planes of
cracked concrete rose at severe angles to a flat roof studded with
sealed cooling ducts and dish antennae. A damp ocean breeze kept
the walls of the prison perpetually glistening, the concrete stinking
with a thousand dock smells: the ozone residue of synthetic fuels,
over-ripe fruit, rusting machinery, dead fish.
        A common joke was that the average prisoner was doing five to
ten while the guards were doing nine to five. They, like the
prisoners, were just trying to get by. They were young men mostly,
Jonny's age and a little older. Primarily recruits from the Committee
for Public Health, at twenty the boys were already considered too old
for street duty, burned-out on the Committee's steady diet of speed
and anabolic steroids.
        Two years earlier, with motives as mysterious to himself as
anybody else, Jonny had joined the Committee. Indifference and
boredom seemed to be his main reasons. A few years as a petty thief
and courier for the smugglers left him fast on his feet and quick with
a knife and pistol. Still, he remained naive enough to be surprised
when it was these same criminal qualities that helped land him a
high-paying job with the Committee.
        After his training, Jonny was assigned to what was called
 Perimeter Maintenance." The mechanics of the job were not too
different from what he had been doing all his life-- meeting with
thieves, tracking down warehouses of stolen drugs and food.
However, the Committee had little patience with prisoners; they paid
him a commission for each smuggler he killed above his quota.
Recruits were encouraged to compete. Body counts were posted at
Committee headquarters. There were bonuses and prizes to be won
at the end of each month.
        Jonny tried to make the best of it, telling himself how much
better it was to be off the streets and on the side of power for a
change. But killing for the Committee did not make any more sense
than killing for the smugglers. Sometimes, when he was helping load
bodies into transports after a raid, Jonny would see a face he
recognized: a junky from the Strip, a panhandler, a street musician.
More than once, in the hallucinatory haze of the synth-fuels fumes
and halogen lamps, he thought he saw his own face among the dead.
        And he was growing increasingly dependent on the speed. He
simply could not let go. The come down was too awful. Without the
speed he would begin to think again.
        Jonny had never known self-loathing before, but there it was.
He had sudden bouts of vertigo, mouth ulcers, cramps in his gun
hand. He found himself growing more sympathetic to the cause of the
smugglers; at least he understood their motives. In the end it simply
grew too ugly, the self-deceptions too obvious for him to continue.
The manner of his desertion, however, was more complicated. It was
generally known that he turned in his uniform, pressed and clean,
and picked up the last of his commissions. But he never turned in his
pistol. That became significant later when his immediate superior, a
one-eyed brute named Cawfly, was found shot through his good eye.
        And Jonny, barely twenty one, in his inevitable search for the
point of least resistance, drifted back to the streets. No longer
resisting the flow of events or pretending to chart a course through
them, he existed by luck. But that was before; now it seemed even
that had deserted him.

        He awoke, with a small cry, to the stink of vomit and antiseptic
in a damp, gray holding cell. As the sound of his cry died away,
Jonny rolled onto his side where he was distressed to find that the
vomit he smelled was his own. His left hand was resting in a small
pool of the stuff. His mouth burned with bile.
        He lay on a bare aluminum cot frame, his head spinning,
wondering where he was. Eventually, he was able to focus on the
wall. GAMMA LOVES RAMON and DEZ were scratched there, and THE
EXQUISITE CORPSE WILL DRINK THE NEW WINE. Much of the graffiti
was in Spanish and Japanese. He was too tired to translate, but he did
not need to. He already knew what it said.  Fuck you!" or  I didn't do
it  or just "Let me out!  The international language of the
dispossessed. He grinned; it was almost comforting. Jonny knew
where he was now.
        When he tried to sit up, he found that hisright shoulder was
wrapped in gauze and a thermoplastic carapace. For a terrible
instant, he panicked, but relaxed when he felt the reassuring bulge of
his arm, intact under the cast.
        Rubbing his injured arm, Jonny tried to figure out who had
turned him. It was clearly no coincidence that the Committee had
been waiting for him outside Carnaby's Pit. It was possible, he
thought, that it had been a routine sweep for all pushers, but that did
not seem likely.  Deep shit," he said to the empty cell.  Extremely
deep shit. 
        He was almost asleep when the polarized glass panel on his cell
door blinked to the transparent, then darkened. Jonny lay still on the
aluminum frame as the cell door scrapped open. He heard whispers--
three or four distinct voices. Annoyance and nervousness. He kept
his eyes closed. The door opened further, then closed quickly. The
voices stopped. Jonny was aware of somebody standing over him.
         Is that him?" came a low, adolescent voice.
         Yeah," I think so,  said a different voice.
         He's a skinny motherfucker. Looks like a chica," came a third,
huskier voice.
         That give you ideas, man?"
         Yeah-- I'm gonna cut him."
         Hey, don't-- "
        Jonny heard the metallic snick of a switchblade opening. He did
not move.
         Touch him and we're muy morto. He's tagged, man."
         Doesn't look special."
         I seen his files. Interrogacion especial."
         Man, I'm not going to kill him," came the husky voice.  Just
gonna get a knuckle or part of his ear. 
         No!"
         Who's gonna stop me?"
        Jonny swung one steel-tipped boot into the gut of a blonde boy
and the other onto the floor, screaming like a lunatic, letting his
momentum carry him up and toward the door. The other boys fell
back without being touched, too surprised to stop him.
He almost had the door open before they came to their senses and
grabbed him. But he kept moving, biting fingers, kicking shins, not
letting them get a good grip. Finally, a boy with some sort of scarring
on his hands and neck caught him with a smooth uppercut to the jaw.
Jonny went down on his face. The scarred boy rolled him over and
dropped onto his chest, bringing the switchblade up level with
Jonny's throat. The other boys crowded in behind him, grumbling
and shaking their injured hands and legs. Jonny realized that the
hands of the boy holding the knife were covered with sores, similar
to leprosy lesions.
         You funny, man?" the boy with the knife demanded.  What's
your story? 
         Fuck you, la chinga," said Jonny.
        The boy sliced Jonny's cheek.  You're dead, man. I don't care
who you are,  he said.
         You haven't got the cojones."
         You got to stick him, now. He'll tell," said the blonde boy.
        Jonny twisted around and kicked the blonde boy, again. The
boy on his chest punched his throat.
         What are you doing?" came a new voice.
        The boys drew back abruptly, staring guiltily at the door. The
boy with the knife stood up and glanced at his nervous accomplices,
then back at the door. All Jonny could see from the floor was a pair
of highly polished boots and a sleeve with lieutenant's stripes.
         I asked what you were doing," said the lieutenant.
        The boy with the lesions pointed to Jonny.  He was trying to
escape. We stopped him. 
        The lieutenant nodded.  What were you doing in this cell?"
The boy glanced at his friends for support. They would not look at
him.  I told you, man. He was trying to escape," he said.
         Don't lie to me."
        The boys in the back of the cell, the blonde and a tall, Mestizo
with bad teeth, stared at the floor. Jonny guessed that they were
about sixteen. The boy with the knife looked to be a year or two
older. The insignia on his Committee uniform indicated that he was a
corporal. That explained it, then. It had all been good, clean fun. An
older boy out to show his young friends a good time.
        The lieutenant made a curt gesture with his hand.  Get him up,"
he said.
        The two younger boys moved quickly. Slipping their arms
under Jonny, they lifted him easily, their steroid thickened muscles
hardly straining. Then they set him gentlyon the cot frame and
stood against the wall, trying desperately to blend with the peeling
paint.
        The older boy still held the knife, moving it uncertainly from
hand to infected hand. The lieutenant faced him.  You're all on
report,  he said. "Return to your duties. 
         I'm telling you, this man tried to escape," the older boy
insisted.
         I understand," said the lieutenant, a flat-nosed young black
who, Jonny could now see, was not much older than the boy with the
jaw implant. That's how it was in the Committee. They worked
mainly with teenage boys. Give them the right stimulants and guns
and they would go anywhere, risk everything. Higher ranking boys
kept them in line, while desk-bound old men ran the rest of the
show. It was cheap and efficient. The Committee never had to pay
much in the way of retirement benefits.
         Get out of here," the lieutenant said.
         But-- "
         One more word and you can explain it to the Colonel."
        That shut the boy up. Reluctantly, he closed the switchblade,
tucking it into the top of his boot. While adjusting his uniform, he
gave Jonny a quick, accusing glance, and followed his friends out of
the cell.
         So long, guys," called Jonny.  Keep in touch." He laughed and
nodded to the lieutenant. The young man's identity tag read
TAUSSIG.  Thanks for your help. I thought I was dog food for sure-- "
         On your feet, pusher," said Lieutenant Taussig.
        Jonny took a deep breath and leaned against the wall.  You
mind if I catch my breath first?  he asked.
        Taussig reached down to examine Jonny's face, turning it this
way and that in the light. He did not look pleased.
         If anybody asks, tell them the anesthetic hadn't quite worn off
and you fell on the stairs,  the lieutenant said.
         Why? What do you care about those clowns?" asked Jonny.
         Just do it."
        Jonny smiled.  Oh, I get it. Afraid someone'll find out you can't
handle your troops? 
        Taussig pulled Jonny up by his good arm.  Let's go," he said.
        The lieutenant led Jonny out onto a rusted loading gantry,
through a maze of small-bore piping and frozen transfer valves to
the floor the old processing plant cum prison. Vague breezes and
convection currents kicked up scraps of paper, fluttering them
around the pylons of fifty foot cryogenic tanks.
        The floor sloped; the air cooled. They entered a battered hydro-
plunge service lift whose burnished walls reflected the harsh
industrial lighting in jagged bolts and loops. As they descended,
Jonny noticed that Taussig had punched a button in the Yellow
Sector. Jonny was impressed. He had never received clearance to
enter any of the restricted areas.
        When the elevator doors opened, Taussig pushed Jonny to a
jerry-rigged desk (a horizontal slab of tank cladding bolted athwart
two enormous shock-coils) and handed a sheaf of documents to a
pale boy whose eyes seemed to have no pupils at all. The red-faced
boy motioned for a couple of pre-pubescent guards to follow them,
and walked Jonny and the lieutenant down a short corridor. At the
end, he unlocked a scuffed yellow door for them.
        Inside, it was another world.
        The light came from incandescent bulbs, a muted non-
industrial glow. They stood in a small anteroom whose walls Jonny
was sure were real wood, not plasti-form. Between two locked doors
at the far end of the room was a low table, in the Kamakura style. On
the table was a small bowl holding a single bonsai. Jonny coughed
into his fist a couple of times. The sound was flat, swallowed up by
the walls like water on sand. Sound-proofed, he thought.
        Taussig walked to door on the right of the table and leaned
over the eyepiece of a portable Haag-Streit retinal scanner. A
moment later, a buzzer sounded. Gripping the ornamental brass
handle, the lieutenant pushed the door open and motioned Jonny
inside. Taussig did not enter. When Jonny turned to look at him, the
lieutenant closed the door in his face.
         What the hell happened to you?" came a familiar, avuncular
voice.
        Jonny faced the room, seeing only a computer terminal on the
far side of a mahogany table with four matching chairs drawn up to
it. Dragons inset in some lighter wood coiled in battle or play on the
table's surface. In the dim light, Jonny could not see the face of the
man sitting on the opposite side of the table. But that voice. It made
Jonny feel a little sick.
         I thought they cleaned you up in the infirmary," the man said.
Jonny could just make out the silhouette. It gestured for Jonny to
take a seat.
         I tripped on the stairs," Jonny said.  The-- uh-- anesthetic." He
sat in the chair as he was told.
        Jonny could see the face now. It smiled at him. The short
cropped hair was whiter than he remembered.
         What's the matter, Gordon? Not even a 'hello' for your old
C.O.?  The officer, Colonel Brigidio Zamora, set a small pile of
crumpled currency next to a collection of pills and Jonny's tagged
Futukoro.
         Captain Zamora--" Jonny began.
         Colonel."
         Congratulations," Jonny said. He rubbed his wounded shoulder,
reflexively.  Look Colonel, you're too late. I know this room and the
ride down here were supposed to mind-fuck me, but you blew it.
Three of your puppies broke into my cell just now and tried to slice
me up. I'm exhausted and my shoulder hurts like hell.  Jonny leaned
his good elbow on the table.  So tell me, Colonel, what kind of deal
are you prepared to offer me? 
        For a moment, Zamora did nothing and Jonny found himself
wondering if he had chosen the wrong tactic. The Colonel, he
remembered, liked to have a good time. In a moment, though,
Zamora relaxed, exhaling little bursts of air from his throat. His
version of laughter.
         I tell you, Gordon, you kill me," said the Colonel, with good
humor.  You beg for it; that's what you do. You beg people to smash
you up. No wonder your life's such a mess. 
         What's wrong with my life?" asked Jonny.
         Well for starters, look where you are."
        Jonny could not argue with that one.
        The Colonel, Jonny noticed, had put on some weight. The jacket
of his uniform now fit tight across his belly. The creases around his
mouth and eyes had taken on the exaggerated depth of cheap
statuary. Colonel Zamora did not seem to be aging so much as
fossilizing. In his presence, Jonny was always reminded of reptiles,
slow, solid beasts of ancient bloodlines, all muscles and teeth.
         Is that why I'm here?" Jonny asked.  You're a social worker
now? Gonna fix my life? 
        Zamora shook his head.  No, Gordon; you're going to fix mine."
         What does that mean?"
         You really have no concept, do you?" Zamora asked. He spoke
slowly, as if addressing someone of less than average intelligence.
 See if you can grasp this: you killed Captain Cawfly-- one of my
officers, and then just waltzed away. Do you know how that makes
me look? And then you turn up with these smugglers. Selling their
drugs; giving them Committee secrets. Working for terrorists, Gordon.
I mean, just how much abuse am I supposed to take? 
        Jonny started to say something, then met Zamora's tired gray
eyes. Thin ice.
         The way I figure it, you owe me," said the Colonel.
         I don't owe you anything," Jonny replied quickly.
        That seemed to amuse Zamora.  See, you're doing it again."
Jonny looked around the room impatiently.  Look, Colonel, I had
enough of this crap when I was in the Committee. That's why I took a
walk. 
         Oh, is that the reason?" asked the Colonel. He raised an
eyebrow.  Just a case of restless youth, was it? No gestures were
implied? Giving the finger to me, to the Committee? 
         I didn't even think about it."
         Well, you should have," said Zamora.
         Fuck you and your disgrace," blurted Jonny.  If you want to
deal, fine. If not, charge me with something and let me call my
lawyer. 
        For the second time, Jonny made the Colonel laugh.  You think
I'm going to bother with the courts? I'm not subtle like you, Gordon.
You play this my way or you're dead. That's my gesture to you. 
         Bueno," said Jonny. He did not even know any lawyers, but at
least he knew where he stood. His throat was dry and raw.  Can I get
some water? 
         Later," said the Colonel.  First, you're going to help me out with
some information. 
         What could I tell you that your agents don't already know?
Raquin was my connection and he's dead. 
         I know all about Raquin. He worked for the Committee."
        Jonny stared at the Colonel. He's baiting me, he thought. It
worked, though.  That's bullshit," Jonny said.
        Zamora grinned.  It's a buyers market, Gordon."
         You offer him a deal like mine? Play or die?"
         No," said the Colonel with great satisfaction.  He came to us."
         Balls."
         Grow up, Gordon. This city is full of troglodytes who'd peddle
your ass to some organ broker as soon as look at you. That's what
you walked back to. 
         I don't believe you," Jonny told the Colonel.
        Zamora shrugged.  You can believe anything you want. It
doesn't change our situation one bit. What I want from you is
information about the smuggler lord Conover,  said Zamora. He typed
something on the computer terminal and activated the room's
recording unit.  I want you tell me about Conover and his connection
to the Alpha Rats. 
        For a moment, relief washed through Jonny like a cleansing
wave. Pointing to the pile of pills, he said,  Your fingers in the cookie
jar, Colonel? Been taking home samples? 
        Zamora gave Jonny a look of absolute disgust.  What are you,
an animal? I'm giving you a chance to stay alive. 
         How am I supposed to take a question like that seriously?"
asked Jonny.  I don't know anything about Conover and I sure don't
keep tabs on space pirates. 
         You're a liar, Gordon," said the Colonel.  Remember? Your
friend Raquin worked for me. I have videos of you with all kinds of
nasty people, including Conover. 
        Jonny looked away from the Colonel, wondering how long he
had been inside the prison. Sumi would be worried by now. All she
would hear is that he'd been shot and taken away by the Committee.
Sumi, he was afraid, would not survive long on her own. She did not
protect herself enough; she left herself too open, was too willing to
trust and be wounded. It was that inner calm that had originally
attracted Jonny to her. At the moment, though, it merely chilled him.
         All right, so I know Conover," said Jonny.  I move merchandise
for him. I help get his trucks though Committee checkpoints, but you
know all that, right? As for this Alpha Rat thing, though, that is
completely out-to-lunch. 
         Is it? I don't think so."
         I can't give you what I don't have."
         No, but you can get it for me."
         What do you want?"
         Conover," Zamora said.
         Oh man," said Jonny,  why don't you just ask me to bring to
Alpha Rats down here, too? I've got as much chance. 
 You can't just waltz away from this one, Gordon," said the Colonel.
 This hook-up between Conover and the Alpha Rats makes it too big."
Jonny slammed his hand down on the table top.  Will you lay-off that
'Gordon' stuff. Nobody calls me that, anymore. 
 Don't tell me what to do, boy. I own you."
Jonny leaned back in his chair.  Just what is it between you and
these spacemen? 
Colonel Zamora tilted his head back slightly, scrutinizing Jonny.
Jonny's fingers lightly traced the pattern of the dragons on the table
top. In truth, he wished he had something to give Zamora. Some
innocuous bit of information or rumor that might satisfy him. Jonny's
head was light. He could not even think of a good lie.
Finally, the Colonel nodded. He keyed something on the computer
and turned the recorder off.  All right, maybe you are that ignorant,"
Zamora said.  Let's try something else. Tell me anything you know
about the Alpha Rats. 
Jonny took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His mind was still
sluggish from the drugs they had given him in the infirmary. He
found it difficult to concentrate on anything but his anger, which he
was eager to show, and his fear, which he was not. Jonny realized
then that he was afraid of Colonel Zamora, had always been so. That
his fear of Zamora had been another reason he had deserted the
Committee. And that this confrontation had been, in a sense, pre-
ordained. He had cheated Zamora of something when he ran away. Of
what, Jonny was not sure, but he understood that whatever it was,
the Colonel had come to claim it.
         Well?" said Colonel Zamora.
         The Alpha Rats," he said,  Yeah, I saw the news rags. Big ships
from deep space, right? They landed on the moon and smashed up all
the bases, ours and New Palestine's. Flattened everything. Burned all
the techs. 
         And do you have any idea what was going on up there at the
time? 
        Jonny tried to remember. It had been at long time ago.  Some
engineering. Mostly mining and genetic work, right?  The Colonel
seemed impressed.  Right, but there was something else going on,
too; something more important,  he said. "A war. An economic war
between the New Palestine Federation and the Tokyo Alliance. The
Arabs have always had the oil, the minerals, the heavy machinery.
They've been mining the asteroid belt for decades in those big
hydrogen scoop ships.
         But think-- what does the Tokyo Alliance have? We have
software and hardware, sure, but it's the really delicate items:
protein-based data storage, genetics, micro-electronics. That's where
our strength lies, Gordon. And we lost a big piece of it.
         You can thank the Alpha Rats that you're in business. A lot of
the drugs you people sell illegally were produced on the moon or in
those circumlunar labs. You need that environment, sterile conditions
you can't get on earth and, above all, weightlessness-- or something
close to it-- to produce some of those items.
         The Arabs control over half the earth's land mass. Africa alone
will keep them supplied with raw materials for centuries. Do you see
what I'm getting at? 
         Sure, The Tokyo Alliance lost its economic balls when the
Alphas moved in on the moon. But I don't see what any of this has to
do with me.  Jonny opened his eyes wide. "Honest officer, I was
nowhere near the moon that day. 
        Zamora ignored him and typed something on the computer
keyboard. A rectangle of glass set into the top of the table glowed.
Rising from the projection plate, a three-dimensional chaos of fractal
points and ice-blue connecting lines flared like a crystalline vascular
system. The angles of the hologram filled in with colors, primary,
then secondary. Jonny thought he recognized a desert.  Look at this,"
Zamora said.
        Jonny leaned forward, staring hard at the miniature landscape.
         What is this?" he asked.  Looks like a burned up spring roll."
 It's a shuttle," said Zamora.  The moon bases used them to send
samples back to the corporate labs on Earth. We picked that one up
in the desert near Anza Borego. Up until a couple of months ago, all
the Alpha Rats were doing was broadcasting a steady stream of
signals to deep space. Some French tech at Tokyo U thinks to the
constellation Pegasus. There's a binary system there called
'Alpheratz'. That's how they got the name. 
        Jonny nodded.  I'm thrilled," he said.
         Anyway, a few months ago, the signals changed. The Alphas
started broadcasting to Earth. No shit. To the desert southwest of
here. And you know what?  asked Zamora, with more than a touch of
glee.  Somebody broadcast back. Is that rich? Now, we've got some of
the best data decryption software available. We've only been to
decipher bits and pieces, but what we got, Gordon, it's tasty. Really
tasty. 
        Jonny said:  All right, so I'm hooked. What was it?"
        Zamora looked delighted.  A deal," he said.  A deal. Between
your pal Conover and the Alpha Rats. But don't stop listening yet,
because it gets better. It seems that you're involved. 
         Christ," said Jonny.  You're too much." He got up and walked to
the back of the room. Zamora did not seemed very concerned; he just
kept smiling. The door, Jonny saw, had a magnetic lock, a device the
Committee was very fond of. You could blow the whole wall away
and still not get one of those locks to move, he thought. He remained
there, though, taking comfort in the small distance he could put
between himself and the Colonel.
         Calm down, Gordon. I said you were involved. I didn't say you
were a participant. 
         What's the difference?"
         Willingness," said Zamora.  I tell you, boy, if I was working on
a deal of this magnitude I might let you sharpen pencils; hell, I might
even use you as a courier, but I sure wouldn't let you near anything
important. Therefore, I'm willing to accept that you are not a
conscious participant in all this. 
         Thanks."
         But you've got something I want: access to Conover. If he does
have a connection to the Alpha Rats, no matter what the nature of
their deal, it can only end up benefiting the Arabs. 
        Jonny leaned against the wall, mindlessly working his
fingernails between two strips of paneling.  Funny, I never pegged
you for a flagwaver, Colonel. 
         I'm not. This is simple economics. What they've got, we want.
By the time we found that shuttle, its cargo section had been
emptied,  Zamora said. "Whatever the deal is, it's already in motion. 
        Jonny smiled at him.  You know, I don't believe a word of this."
Colonel Zamora glanced at his watch.  Well, believe this: As of right
now, you have forty eight hours to deliver Conover to me. If you do
that, you and I are square. Bullshit me and maybe I'll give you back
to those children upstairs. Some of them very vivid imaginations. I
imagine they'd start on your eyes. 
        Jonny walked back to the table, working the kinks from his
legs. His hands were shaking, so he shoved them into his pockets.  If
I go along, how soon can I get out of here?  he asked.
         Right now," said Zamora.  Do you accept my terms?"
        Jonny smiled.  Colonel, I'm a happy child of the New Rising Sun.
No camel jockey's gonna push me around. 
        Zamora narrowed his eyes at Jonny.  You should take this more
seriously,  he said.
         If I took this anymore seriously, I'd drop dead."
         Good, consider that your new koan, Gordon." Zamora said. He
rose, picked up a leather satchel and pulled Jonny with him to the
door.  Meditate on it. At least for the next forty eight hours."
        Colonel Zamora took a flat metallic octagon from his pocket and
placed it against the magnetic lock. The door clicked open and Jonny
followed him outside.

        Jonny and Colonel Zamora waited in the lobby of the Yellow
Sector for an elevator. Across the plant floor, a recruit with polarized
cornea implants was jacked into a construction masterboard,
directing a bank of plasma torches. Whacked-out on alkaloid
stimulants, he still managed to move a dozen torch-bearing waldoes
in a smooth tidal dance, like a clock-work anemone, simultaneously
slicing four sides of a gutted fission furnace.
         That's a neat trick," said Jonny.
        Zamora nodded.  We have to clear away some of this old
equipment. We'll be needing the space for new cells soon. 
         Come on, Colonel, no one's recording us now," said Jonny.  That
stuff you were saying before, you really don't buy all that space
pirate crap, do you? 
        Colonel Zamora sighed.  Seeing you has depressed me, Gordon.
You remind me too much of the sad state of the world. Paranoia. Self-
centeredness. All the symptoms of information overload. The World
Link's the real enemy. Thirty years ago we didn't have the Link,
plugs in our heads. We had to rely solely on videos and the news
rags. The Arabs were the enemy and we still had a chance to kick
Japan and Mexico in their industrial balls. Now we've got the moon.
The Alpha Rats hanging like Damocles' sword over our heads. The Net
should never have broken that story. I'm telling you, this city, this
country would be a different place if they had kept all that under
wraps. It's too strange to assimilate. Too alienating. That kind of
information invites paranoia and destroys trust. 
         It's hard to trust, Colonel," said Jonny,  when you've got
something like the Committee breathing down your neck. 
         Bullshit. In a sane world, our presence wouldn't cause a ripple.
As a nation, we've allowed ourselves to behave like animals in a trap,
gnawing off our own legs to get out. 
         You wouldn't be trying to win me over by telling me this is
some kind of crusade, would you? 
         Of course not," said Zamora.  That would be expecting too
much of you.  The Colonel pushed the elevator button again. The boy
directing the waldoes aimed them at the base of the furnace, cutting
at the support structure with long, smooth strokes that reminded
Jonny of kendo strikes.  We're at a crossroads," said Zamora.  Do you
know that? The next few years will tell the story. Whether we're
going to end up another post-colonial back alley like Britain or
France or whether we're going to take back the dominance we gave
up too easily. To do that, we have to get rid of the Alpha Rats. Until
they're gone we can't even start on the Arabs.  The Colonel smiled.
 It all comes down to economics. It always does."
        A few meters away, a bell rang and elevator doors slid open.
Nimble Virtue, a slunk merchant and one of the least trustworthy
lords in the city, stepped out. She was leaning heavily on the arm of
one of her handsome young  nephews." When she spotted Jonny, she
gave him a tiny bow, indicating that she had no time to talk. Then
she and her young man walked down the corridor, awash in the
echoes of insect clicks from the exoskeleton Nimble Virtue wore
beneath her kimono. At the end of the corridor, a door hissed open
for them and they were gone.
        A moment later, Jonny found himself being pushed into the
elevator car Nimble Virtue had just vacated. He and Zamora rode up
in silence. Jonny felt a nasty satisfaction at having caught the Colonel
with his snitches down. The look on Nimble Virtue's face had said it
all. She had sold Jonny out.
         Now that I can believe," said Jonny.  The Great White Whale
would sell her mother for sausage if she thought she could hide the
wrinkles. 
         Don't let her concern you."
        Jonny sniffed the air distastefully.  Sorta stank up the joint,
didn't she? 
        Zamora backhanded him across his injured shoulder. Something
blue and hot exploded in Jonny's eyes, fragments trailing away down
some bottomless cavern. He slid down the wall to the floor.
         Don't even think about going after Nimble Virtue. You haven't
got the time,  said Zamora.
        The elevator shuddered to a halt and the doors slid open.
Taussig was waiting, a small grin spreading across his face when he
saw Jonny on his knees.
         Help him up," ordered Zamora.
        The lieutenant pulled Jonny to his feet and walked him from
the car. When they caught up with Zamora, the Colonel turned to
Taussig and said,  Later, you and I are going to talk about what went
on in this man's cell.   Jonny had the satisfaction of seeing the blood
drain from the young lieutenant's face.
        Zamora lead Jonny out a side exit and left him weak-kneed,
standing in an oily puddle. The Colonel removed a Futukoro from his
satchel and tossed it behind Jonny.
         Take that with you. Wouldn't want you getting mugged, now
that you're back on duty. I'll be available to you for the next forty-
eight hours, Gordon. After that, the deal's off. I'll be seeing you,  said
the Colonel.
        The door swung in quietly, hissing as it sealed itself shut.
Jonny was alone in the alley. He drew himself up and taking a few
drunken steps forward, kicked savagely at the door's heavy riveted
face; he pounded it with his good hand.
         Like hell, you bastard!" he screamed.  You can't do this to me!"
For a vertiginous second he was insane, turning in frustrated circles,
splashing more filth onto his ruined jeans.
        Finally, panting and lightheaded, Jonny stepped away from the
unyielding door, feeling angry for such a stupid waste of energy. He
should be on his way out of town.
        Jonny's gaze slid down the damp walls to the thin fog at the
alley's mouth. He stooped awkwardly, protecting his throbbing
shoulder, and scooped up the Futukoro. He walked to the infra-red
scanner that monitored the alley, took aim and blew it off its
mounting. Somewhere, an alarm went off. Jonny hurried away from
the place.




                                                THREE:
                                The Flight of a non-Euclidean Fly

         Shit," Jonny mumbled as he stepped on something soft and
clinging in the doorway of the abandoned hotel. Then,  Shit" again as
he recognized the accuracy of his curse. He was somewhere near
Exposition Boulevard, out of breath, a few blocks from the old
Lockheed rocket bunkers. Ancient booster engines and decaying nose
cones displayed their brittle bones behind fences topped with razor
wire.
        Gingerly, Jonny scraped his soiled boot on a cracked stone step
and peered from the alcove. Whoever Zamora had following him was
being very cagey. Jonny still had not caught sight of the tail, but he
knew the man was out there. Zamora would never let him just walk
out like that.
        He had exhausted himself, running for cover and for the sheer
joy of running, for the momentary sense of freedom it gave him. Still,
he had not been able to spot the tail and that bothered him. Even
now, as he watched from the alcove, nothing on the street moved.
Except for the doorway-bums shifting restlessly with their chemical
dreams.
        The hot night had remained hot, was giving way to another hot
day. Jonny's tunic clung to him like a second skin. He relaxed against
the hotel and tried to regain his bearings. His shoulder had begun to
throb within a few minutes of leaving the prison. He desperately
wanted a drink, a snort, a smoke, anything that would transport him
from the pain, the Colonel's obsessions and the old neighborhood in
which he was hiding. Writers had been at work on the old buildings
with their compressed-air canisters of sulfuric acid, burning their
messages, like grim oracles, into the very bodies of the structures.
Over the years, the fronts of the abandoned hotels and shops had
taken on the texture and feel of old candle wax. In the alcove, Jonny
ran his fingers over crumbling letters. DUCK AND COVER. And, ALPHA
RATS ARE SCARED OF CATS.
        On an impulse, Jonny pushed on the hotel door. It scraped
across a warped wooden floor and stuck, revealing a bleak interior.
Jonny took a tentative step inside.
        It looked to him as if a bomb had gone off in the lobby. The
plaster meat and wooden bones of the place were visible where
sections of the wall had caved in or been torn away. An old-
fashioned wrought iron elevator lay scattered among blistered
Lockheed tail fins and useless landing gear.
        But, as depressing as the old hotel was to look at, it was the
smell of the place that got to Jonny. The deadly stink (ammonia, old
cheese, mildew) brought tears to his eyes. But he held his breath and
pushed the lobby door closed. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust
to the darkness, then, tired and leadfooted, his shoulders bumping
into walls that appeared from nowhere, he started up the stairs for
the roof. From there everything would be visible, and he reasoned
that by leaping from rooftop to rooftop, he could lose whoever was
following him.
        He had not counted on the smell, though. At the first landing,
        Jonny's eyes were watering; by the second, he was having
trouble breathing. Then, on the third floor he abruptly ran out of
stairs. There was a door, labeled ROOF, but it was immovable--
crusted shut with age and grime. Jonny put his boot to it, but that
only brought a pitiful rain of dust from the sagging ceiling.
        Outside, he thought, and up the fire escape. Jonny entered one
of the guest rooms that opened off the corridor and headed for a
window.
        Inside, the room was large and, empty of furnishings, faintly
echoed his steps. A dim rectangle of street light outlined the smashed
innards of an old telephone-comsat uplink. The place must have been
nice once, he thought, if they could afford to put those in the rooms.
In the middle of the floor was an upturned hubcap someone had
been using to cook in.
        Jonny had taken, perhaps, a dozen steps into the room before
the smell got to him. It was a physical presence, twisting in his lungs
like a tormented animal. His nose ran; he coughed. Holding his arm
across his face, he breathed through his mouth. If the Committee had
this stuff, they could wipe out the whole city, he thought.
        When Jonny reached the window, he found it swollen in place
from the damp ocean air. Knowing that Zamora's tail would hear it if
he broke the glass, he started back into the hotel to look for a pipe or
board. Something that would help him pry the window open.
        A rustle of fabric from the far corner of the room. The flicker of
something small and metallic.
        Jonny took a step forward-- and was in the air, falling, his legs
knocked out from under him. He curled up as best he could and came
down flat, protecting his shoulder.
         Goddamit," he yelled as shapes closed in from the gray edges
of the room.
         Get his clothes," came a voice dry and thin as wind.
         Get his shoes," came another voice.
         Get him."
        A stooped figure in rags lumbered up to Jonny and began
grabbing at his tunic. Jonny cried out at the sudden pressure on his
bleeding shoulder, lashing out with his free arm. Pain exploded in his
wrist as something sharp and wet dug into it.
        Jonny kicked out blindly into the dark, noting with satisfaction
a groan as his boot connected. Rolling into a crouch, he propelled
himself up into the stomach of the tunic puller. The figure staggered
back, wheezing horrid breath.
        Jonny leaned forward, letting his weight propel him toward the
window. But he was knocked back as someone else jumped him.
 He's going to get out...He'll rat..."
         Little monster..."
         Watch his boots..."
        At the window, he was dragged back by a swarm of dry,
reptilian fingers. He screamed. Things like vises and knives, pincers
and broken glass cut into his back and arms.
        Christ, they're biting me, he thought.
        Jonny managed to loop his leg behind the leg of one of his
attackers. Then, pushing forward with all his strength, he heard a
window crack and shatter. Suddenly, he and one or two others were
on the fire escape. The sudden release of hands and rush of air left
him light-headed, but some animal part of his brain moved his arms
and legs, pushing him up and away. No one followed.
        Two flights up the fire escape, Jonny stopped to look at his
attackers. They huddled below, cooing and mewing over their
injured. Though it was cooler outside, the heat still broiled the
streets, baking the old tenements; the whole neighborhood rippled
behind waves of desert heat. Yet, the mob were clothed in layer upon
layer of cast-off coats, moldering lab smocks and vacuum suits. A fat
man in tattered test pilot gear crawled onto the landing and gazed
down at the street. His clothes hung from his arms in strips, little
more than patches all crudely sewn or wired together. The mass of
rags on his thick frame gave him an awkward bear-like appearance,
but his eyes burned with a savage clarity.
        Jonny was already backing up the stairs when the fat man
caught sight of him. A scream welled up from the fat man's throat; he
bared his yellow teeth. But not real teeth, Jonny knew, just plasti-
steel implants, sharpened with care to needle points. In the thin
unreal light of the street lamps, the fat man's teeth glowed like a
trap.
        Pirhanas, Jonny thought. A whole gang of them. It had been a
stupid mistake, entering the old hotel. It reminded Jonny just how
tired he was.
        The abandoned hotels and apartments that fronted the
warehouse district were useless to most gangs, lying just beyond the
lights of Committee headquarters. That is why the Pirhanas,
septuagenarians mostly, for there were no Pirhanas under sixty, held
them. Used for target practice by the younger gangs, lied to and
finally abandoned by the government, the old discards and
defectives banded together to hold some piece of ground for
themselves. Using the few weapons they could find, principally
government issued teeth-- filed and set firmly in angry, withered
jaws-- they were tolerated because they consumed nothing but the
leavings of others. Besides, even in Los Angeles, slaughtering old
people in the streets would have been frowned on.
        As Jonny watched, more Pirhanas began to crawl from the
hotel. The fat man started up the fire escape. He carried a sharpened
pipe in his hand. Jonny started climbing, too.
        He vaulted the low wall onto the roof clumsily, and sprawled
on his stomach. Gravel dented his cheeks. As Jonny pushed himself
up, he saw a thin, but steady stream of blood running from under his
chest. The fat man was a few yards away. Jonny started running
again.
        Behind the fat man, more Pirhanas appeared, running like a
ragged army of the dead. They waved their pipes and broken bottles
wearily, more, it seemed, to remind themselves of the connection
they still had to the flesh they inhabited, than to menace Jonny.
        When he reached the other side of the roof, Jonny looked
frantically for a way down. What he found puzzled him more.
        An entire network of home-made bridges and catwalks, like
some outrageous model of the neural pathways of the Pirhana's
brains, criss-crossed the roofs, connecting all the buildings within a
dozen blocks. Ribbed conduits, old antennae, the rusted drive shafts
of decades-dead jet turbines were hammered into the surfaces of the
roofs. Secured to these were lengths of rotting rope, pilfered from the
docks. Flattened cans of krill, backs of discarded computer terminals
and insulation tiles from L5 shuttles filled the gaps between rough
planks to form walkways over the street, a hundred feet below.
        The bridges did not look all that secure, but the Pirhanas were
closing in. Jonny stepped onto the closest walkway and hurried
across. The support ropes stretched and tightened as things cracked
and shifted under his feet.
        He leaped off onto the adjoining roof. The bridge strained
behind him, weighed down by the gang. The fat man was still in
front, holding the pipe before him. Jonny moved in circles around the
roof, frantic for something to throw. He knew that if he used his gun,
Zamora's man would find him and all this would have been for
nothing. In the end, he decided that the situation did not cry out for
subtlety. Fumbling in the folds of his tunic, he pulled out the sweat-
soaked Futukoro and waved it in the face of the fat man, who pulled
up short at the sight of the gun. The Pirhanas bunched up behind
him, growing silent.
         That's it!" Jonny shouted.  No more games. The first one who
moves is meat for the others. 
        It was rubbish and he knew it, but it sometimes worked, as it
seemed to be working now. The Pirhanas, including the fat man,
remained where they were. They stared at Jonny with empty, feral
eyes.
        Sentiment had always been Jonny's undoing. At heart, all cops
are romantic slobs and ex-cops are worse. A terrible wave of sorrow
overcame his fear as he backed away from the pathetic group. They
were defectives, not unlike the losers and one-percenters that he
knew, that he was a part of. Jonny scanned the faces of the crowd,
wondering if whatever errant gene that had sent them out here to
the wilds was present in his blood. He regarded them with a certain
awe.
        From behind, a brick fell and shattered hollowly. Jonny turned
quickly, keeping the gun on the fat man. Dozens of Pirhanas
had crowded onto the other roofs, pipes and heavy connecting rods
in their hands. Many grinned, showing sharp, stained teeth. Jonny
was surrounded.
        He shuffled to the edge of the roof, turning in slow circles,
trying to cover himself in all directions. When Jonny reached the fire
escape, the bridges were packed with Pirhanas. When he stepped
onto the ladder, a few were moving toward him across the roof.
When he was straddling the wall, the fat man threw his pipe and
screamed, charging him.
        Jonny managed to duck the pipe and dropped over the edge of
the wall, landing hard on the fire escape platform. He rolled onto his
back and pointed his Futukoro. Too late. The Pirhanas were over him,
pelting him with pipes and stones. But even under that hail of debris,
Jonny could not bring himself to kill any of them. He settled for
spraying three sides of the sky with bullets.
        The Pirhanas fell back, unaware of Jonny's good intentions.
With his gun straight up, Jonny squeezed off a few more rounds and
clattered down the steps.
        When he hit the ground, he hung in the shadows, pressing
himself tight against the building, waiting for the sounds of pursuit.
But there were none. Jonny breathed through his mouth, swallowing
great gobs of hot, wet air.
        He was in a blind alley; at the far end lay a vacant lot dotted
with discarded dressing dummies and barbed wire rolls. Jonny
remained against the building, feeling it solid against his back. He
checked the rounds left in his gun and carefully slid down the wall
toward the alley's mouth.
        He did not stand a chance.
        A gleeful cry echoed from above. Jonny looked up just in time
to see the junk raining down on him: pipes, bottles, jet canopies and
electronic components, all the technological refuse of the city. He
leaped and rolled, groaning at a sharp pain in his shoulder.
        The first wave of junk crashed behind him. The second wave
caught him in the open with nowhere to hide. Compassion vanished.
Hunkering down behind a dressing dummy, he opened fire at the
roof, his bullets chewing the head off a sexless stone cherub. Its
companions made no comment and the Pirhanas, who knew better
than to stand close to the edge, just laughed at him. Jonny remained
low in the dirt, cursing himself for not having blown a few of them
away when he had the chance.
         DO NOT MOVE. STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE," commanded a
bland, amplified voice.
        The Committee hovercar roared by suddenly, like an angry
metal wasp-- all sleek and deadly-- its belly lights casting angry
fingers of brilliance over the empty buildings. Shadows moved like a
year of nightmares across deserted storefronts. Dust and grit
billowed from the roof into the alley, filling it with smoky phantoms.
Jonny coughed, trying to clear his throat. The clamor on the roof
picked up as the Pirhanas turned their anger toward the hovercar,
pelting it with junk. Jonny took the opportunity to move into the
street. His shadow circled him like a nervous cat, then appeared in a
dozen places at once-- thin and diffuse.
        Crouching by a gutted lamp post, Jonny found a sewer grating
and gave it a tug. By rocking it back and forth, he worked the grating
loose and pulled it free. Peering down to see if the way was clear, a
sudden attack of vertigo tilted the street toward the dark hole. Jonny
grabbed the lamp post, fighting to keep his balance, and turned back
toward the hotel.
        Overhead, the hovercar was hanging in the air like a patient
predator, waiting for an opening. Abruptly, a mechanical whine filled
the air. Jonny squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears as the
pacifiers kicked in.
        The fighting on the roof died away as, much too late, the
Pirhanas realized what was happening. They stood as one, staring at
the whirling pattern of lights, paralyzed and helpless.
        Jonny decided that it was time to find the Croakers. He slid
quietly into the sewer and pulled the grating closed.

        The sewers were the lichen-slicked relics of another time, a
means of concealment as old as revolution itself. The Croakers took to
them soon after the shoot-on-sight orders became official policy with
the Committee. The Croakers were outlaws, anarchists and physicians
mainly, treating diseases that officially did not exist or could not be
diagnosed without authority of the local medical boards. Their roots
extended back to the early days of the century when the first doctors
went underground, destroying the records of patients with AIDS and
certain new strains of hepatitis, treating these patients (the new
 untouchable" caste) in the black clinics hastily thrown together with
whatever those original rebels could carry with them.
        Other doctors, mostly young ones back from the Lunar Border
Wars, frustrated by the impenetrable bureaucracy and government
seizures of their patient records, joined them. It took only a few
years for the medical community to split into two distinct camps:
those doctors who remained above ground, working with the powers
that be, and those who walked away from all that, joining the other
gangs of Los Angeles in constructing their own micro-society beyond
the boundaries of conventional law.
        Jonny had been a supplier and occasional courier to the
Croakers and he liked them, despite their revolutionary prosel-
ytizing. He cringed when one of them called him  brother," but he felt
a silly pride at being associated with them. That was also why he
remained suspicious of them. To be otherwise would demand a
response that he was not prepared to give, was still not sure of. It
implied certain ties, a common heritage, and that made him nervous.

        The sewers, laced within the body of the city, were the
corroded veins of a sick addict, shut down from age and abuse. The
only things that moved in them were alien, looking for a way out.
Jonny stood at the bottom of a ladder of steel rungs embedded in a
stone wall. Knee deep in black water, the floor sucked at his legs.
        The air was thick with stagnancy; corrupt, buzzing with
mosquitoes. They tickled his face, covering his eyes and hands. They
stung him until he swung out blindly at the curtain of pests, fighting
back an overpowering sense of his own death. But death was not it,
not exactly. It was more a formless sense of great anxiety, a feeling
that he had done something terribly wrong and that if he could just
remember what it was and fix it, everything would be all right.
Jonny knew a little about the layout of the sewers, but he did not
know the location of the Croakers' secret tunnels. Since all directions
were the same in the dark, he started moving straight ahead, into a
faint, sticky breeze. Very soon, Jonny realized that he was no longer
moving through absolute darkness.
        He could see the mosquitoes. They seemed to be crawling over
a flat two-dimensional background; a trick of the strange light that
seemed to fill the tunnel. The lichen on the walls were glowing a
weak green. When he ran his fingers over the damp stones of the
wall, he left a black trail where the lichen peeled off. His fingers
glowed with the little plants. Jonny walked on, his legs sluggish in
the oozing mess of the floors.
        But he was still moving without direction. Light-headed, he lost
track of the hours in the endless branches and sub-branches of the
tunnels. The water rarely moved above mid-thigh, but a few times
he had to turn back from tunnels when the water reached his chest
and threatened to go higher.
        Along the way, Jonny scratched messages on the walls. Crude
serpents, ready to strike; he wrote his name in big block letters and
some obscenities concerning the relationship of Committee boys and
their mothers. He drew the outline of his hands and eyes with wings.
        He stumbled more as exhaustion crept into his muscles,
loosening them at the joints. For a time, he walked with his eyes
closed, mechanically trailing his fingers along the wall to keep his
direction. Was it for hours or minutes? When Jonny opened his eyes
again, he staggered back, nearly fell.  Jesus Christ," he said.
        Slogans, names, and drawings were scrawled over every inch of
the walls and arched ceiling of the tunnel. They screamed down at
Jonny from all directions, black shimmering lightly above green. It
looked like the last record of some tribe or group mind which had
blasted itself, intact, onto the walls. The words seemed to hang in
space around him.
LIFE WITHOUT DEAD TIMES
SOCIETY IS A CARNIVOROUS FLOWER
I AM HERE BY THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE AND
WILL NOT LEAVE UNTIL I GET MY RAINCOAT BACK
BEAUTY MUST BE CONVULSIVE OR IT WILL NOT BE AT ALL
SKID THE KID WAS HERE!
SURREALISM AU SERVICE DE LA REVOLUTION
        Humpbacked shadows skittered along the pipes near the
ceiling. Rats, huge and dangerous. Jonny pulled his gun and fired at
them. Rats had caused him enough trouble for one night. He watched
as a couple of them skittered to a wall a few meters ahead, and
squeezed into a small opening near the floor. As each rat
disappeared, its coat was illuminated for a second by a flash of white
light.
        Jonny went to the wall, knelt, and pressed his face to the crack.
A steady stream of cooler air. Running his hand around the edge of
the hole, he realizedthat the wall was false, not stone at all, but some
sort of cast polymeric resin. Digging in his heels, Jonny pulled at the
opening. And the wall slid out a few centimeters, stuck, then opened
wider, trailing scabrous fingers of adhesive. Light exploded into the
sewer.
        White and agonizingly bright, the light burned Jonny's eyes.
But he did not care. It was beautiful. He squinted into it, trying to
locate its source, but he had to turn away, finally, when he thought
he would go blind. It was several minutes before he could look into
the luminous cavern without flinching. But when he did, Jonny knew
he was safe.
        Still, it was a strange sight in the squalor of the sewer. The
transparent plastic bubble-- clean, and brightly lit--glowed like a
dream, filling the tunnel before him. Through a haze of condensation,
        Jonny could just make out the hydroponic racks that lined the
walls along both sides of the tunnel. Yage vines trailed onto the floor;
aloe vera, psilicybe mexicana, and other medicinals grew there in
abundance. By pressing his face up to the thick plastic membrane,
Jonny could see the other end of the tunnel where the plastic was
tucked neatly around a weathered access hatch.
        Jonny stamped his right foot down sharply, at an angle, so that
the heel of his boot snapped off with a click. Balancing against the
bubble wall, afraid somehow of moving too far away, he felt along
the bottom of his boot until he found the hilt of the hidden knife.
Then tugging at the blade, which slid bright and clean from his
hollow sole, he rammed it into the bubble. Sliding the blade down, he
made a single, neat incision in the membrane wall. Then he pushed
through the tight aperture, into a warm, musky chamber which
pulsed with the regular beating of a pump.
        He replaced the knife and snapped the heel back on his boot.
There was a smell of life and order in the tunnel that revived him.
When Jonny reached the access hatch, he gripped the big metal
handle and turning it, was rewarded with a reassuring rumbling
inside the walls as bolts drew back. After that, the door swung open
effortlessly.
        Jonny stepped into the darkened room and felt along the walls
for a door. He went blind in the apex of multiple cones of light,
ghostly afterimages tracking his retinas. Someone grabbed his sleeve
and pulled him forward. Jonny could just discern the outlines of
Futukoros and crossbows pointed at him from beyond the light. He
started to say something, but the air, which had seemed so pleasant a
moment before, suddenly went bad. The room tilted back and forth,
wobbling, as his vertigo returned. Then he was on his face on the
floor.  Here we go again," he said.
        Something moved in front of Jonny's nose. A Burnett crossbow
pistol lowered and a woman-- small, but well muscled, the planes of
her face smooth, as if carved from cool black marble-- took a step
toward him. The woman's name was Ice. She knelt in front of Jonny
and squinted at him. In a moment, her scowl softened to an
expression of embarrassed recognition. She reached out and touched
his filthy face.
         Jonny? Oh, my god," she said quietly.  We heard you'd been
shot. 
        He smiled then, too, partly with affection and partly with
surprise. He kissed her cool hand.  Not to worry, he said. "The pain
stopped soon after I died. 


        The next few hours existed only in fragments. Physical
sensations. Later, Jonny remembered lying on the floor, wondering
distantly if he was going to be sick. He remembered hands moving
over him. Objects had taken on a fragile, crystalline quality. Things
dripped into his arms through haloed tubes. Ice moved into view
occasionally and tried to speak to him. But Jonny was off floating
where there was no pain and no need to run. Then there was only
the dark.

        Jonny awoke on a futon, naked, his arms wrapped in clean
bandages. He moved his hands, but only after a considerable effort of
will. They slid from under cool sheets as if being manipulated from
far away. He felt numb and dizzy, but somehow peaceful. He was in a
little room stacked high with milky injection-molded cases and
styrofoam packing modules. It did not look at all like part of a
hospital.
         It's not. I'm just borrowing it," said Ice, as she slid a dark arm
around Jonny's chest, pulling him closer. Jonny remembered Ice's
unnerving talent for verbalizing his thoughts.
         Ice," he said, rolling to face her.
         For an ex-cop you've got big feet. You set off every alarm in
the place. 
        Ice, Jonny, and Sumi: the three of them had formed a solid
union for a time in the disintegrating city. Then suddenly, Ice had
disappeared, leaving only a short, lame note. Jonny recalled the first
terrible days after she had gone. He and Sumi walked on razor
blades. Each was aware that neither had been to blame for Ice's
disappearance, yet each secretly sensed that they were the one
responsible. It was days before Jonny could bear to let Sumi out of
his sight. The terror of being alone overwhelmed him. Sumi had been
no different. They trailed each other from room to room like absurd
puppies, only dimly aware of what they were doing.
        Seeing Ice now, lying next to her, Jonny ran his hands over the
contours of her body. She had changed in subtle ways. There was a
new, pleasant firmness to her hips and legs. And her arms were
thicker, more muscular, which Jonny was sure pleased her. Her grin
still possessed the openness which contradicted her usual detached
expression. His fingers traced the old post-operative scar where she
had received a black market liver.
         I didn't recognize when you when you came crashing into the
storeroom tonight. Then, when I heard your voice I couldn't believe
it was you,  she said.
        Jonny's throat was dry when he tried to speak.  I didn't know
that you'd be here. That you were a Croaker,  he said.
        Ice nodded.  I've been here a few months now." She shrugged.
 Sometimes, I'm not even sure why. Groucho recruited me. Do you
know him? He's great. He plans a lot of the raids and holds the group
together. I'll introduce you tomorrow. He helps keeps the ghosts
away. 
        The ghosts had been with Ice for as long as Jonny had known
her. They were an image she toyed with, but he knew that to her the
ghosts of memory were real.
        Ice had been working as a prostitute at the Zone Deluxe when
Sumi introduced them. Before that, Ice had farmed-out her body to
the Boys of Tangier gang, allowing herself to be infected with specific
viruses. The gang would then purchase her infected blood, which
they used to produce various immunotoxins. These they sold on the
street or to the smuggler lords.
        While infected with a mutant strain of hepatitis, Ice's liver
gave out. The Boys of Tangier gave her a new one, but when they
demanded payment, Ice revealed that she was broke. The Boys sold
her to the owners of the Zone Deluxe, a pair of identical albino twins
who called themselves the Tundra Brothers.
        Jonny called in some favors with a smuggler who specialized in
stolen corporate data and brought out the Brothers' interest in Ice
with the access codes for the Tokyo Stock Exchange. It was sweet
deal all the way around. Jonny knew the Tundra Brothers were not
particularly smart.
        Using the codes, the Brothers made themselves rich in a week.
They descended into a kind of madness then, like a tape player stuck
on fast forward, spiraling on a terminal party high, manipulating
stock prices. By the end of the second week, the Brother's bank
accounts rivaled the big corporate fortunes of the oldest families of
Tokyo. It took another week for the Yakuza to find them. After that,
the Tundra Brothers and the Zone Deluxe were relegated to that
specialized branch of urban mythology embracing everything from
the merely foolish to the truly insane. But Ice was out by then.
         Why did you go?" asked Jonny.
         I don't know," Ice answered quickly, as if she had anticipated
the question. She closed her eyes.  I really don't."
         Too many ghosts," said Jonny.
        Ice lay down on the futon and rested her head on Jonny's chest.
She opened her eyes, but would not look at him.
         I'm better here," she said.  I know who I am. There's a
structure to reality.  She tugged at her short, curly hair. "Things tend
to stay in focus. 
         Yeah, I understand," Jonny said.
        He looked around the room, gnawing the inside of his cheek
nervously. Among the packing material, clothes and books had been
tossed at random. Ice and Jonny had been the slobs in their menage-
a-trois. Sumi was the only one who cared for a clean house. He was
glad to see that, at least, that had not changed.
         We could all use a little structure," he said.
        He looked back at Ice and watched her rubbing her eyes
sleepily. It was at times like this when Jonny was reminded of just
how small she was. Of how much strength it took for her just to push
back the void each day.  I'll leave, if you want. I can sleep in the
ward,  he said.
         No," said Ice, looking troubled.  Please stay. How's Sumi?"
         I don't know. That's part of why I'm here. I have to get out of
Los Angeles. Zamora's after me. We have to get Sumi before he finds
the house in Silver Lake. 
         We will," Ice said,  but not now. Tomorrow, when Groucho gets
back. 
        Jonny nodded wearily and lay his head down on the pillow. Ice
leaned over and kissed him. Opening her lips, she invited his tongue
into the warmth of her mouth. His hands roamed her body, found the
tail of her shirt, and slid up to cup her small breasts. They moved
together for some time until, suddenly exhausted, Jonny's head
began to spin. But they kept their arms around each other, as if one
of them might be swept away at any moment.
         You shouldn't have run off like that," Jonny said.
         I know," Ice whispered.  Now go to sleep."
        He turned to her, groggily.
         We have to get Sumi."
         We will, don't worry."
        Jonny rolled onto his side. He felt her arm encircle him.
 Too many ghosts," he said.
        He felt her nod.
         Too many goddam ghosts."



                                                FOUR:
                                Premonition of Civil War

        During the last few hours of night, Jonny was caught in a series
of violent, fevered dreams in which he was being pursued by things
he could not see. The end of each dream was the same: he would
stumble or feel his legs lock like rusting machinery, leaving him
stranded and helpless. Then something would grab him and he would
be jolted awake by a phosphorous dream-flash that snapped his eyes
open. He would lie in the dark room staring at the ceiling as vague
pains stirred just behind his eyes. In a few minutes he would drift
back to sleep. For a time he would float peacefully on a sea of
nothingness, but then the dreams would start again.
        There was a woman, all in white, running down Hollywood
Boulevard, her hair and dress in flames. Long rows of chrome beetles
moving over damp brickwork. A man in the back of a pedicab.
Mirror shades, cheap plastic poncho. From the cab, he points a gun at
Jonny. It is all deliriously slow. There is no sound, only the muzzle
flash and the heat of impact.
         Jonny, wake up, goddamit!" called Ice.  You're gonna pull your
stitches out. 
        Jonny awoke at the sound of her voice. Her face was right
above his, thin lines of tension spreading out radially from the
corners of her eyes.  Jesus, what a ride," he said, his voice hoarse
with sleep.  How long have I been out?"
         Almost twenty hours," said Ice. She settled down next to him
on the futon. She was wearing baggy fatigue pants and a tank top
with the faded picture of some Japanese pop singer.  I was starting
to get worried. You barely twitched in all that time, then all of a
sudden you're moaning and rolling around like you're trying to
hogtie a Meat Boy. 
         Did it look like I made it?"
        Ice smiled.  You were massacred."
         Typical," replied Jonny.
        The room they were in was small. Seeing that brought back
images of the previous night. He remembered the Piranhas, his trek
through the sewers, Zamora's threats. His arms were still bandaged,
his right shoulder itched fiercely in a clear plastic induction cast,
healing in its weak electrical field. Looking around, Jonny saw rough
walls, gray limestone papered with yellowing layers of ancient
subway schedules and anti-Arab propaganda. Hexagonal panels of
radio-luminescent plastic lit cases of medical supplies and electronic
gear stacked ceiling-high against two walls.
         No windows," Jonny said.  We're still underground."
         Give that man a cigar," said Ice. She picked up a styrofoam
tray from a crate littered with drug ampoules. The smell of frijoles
and rice assaulted Jonny.  Breakfast, babe. Quieres?"
        He groaned and pulled the sheets up over his face.  Take it
away. I'll never eat again. 
         Come on, you've got to get your strength back."
         Forget it. You're going to have to feed me with needles. I think
something slept in my mouth. 
        Ice set the tray down, ad Jonny reached out and took her arm,
pulling her on top of him. Careful to avoid his bandages, she slid her
arms under his shoulders, grinding her crotch into his. The scent of
her body transported him; they were home, in their own bed in
Hollywood. He could sense Sumi's presence nearby. Then a second
later, the hallucination was gone. Still kissing, Jonny experienced a
terrific urge to bite Ice's tongue.
         You know I'm still pissed at you," he said.
         I know," said Ice.
         And I don't buy that 'I don't know why I left' crap, either."
         But I don't know why. It's all twisted around in my head." Ice
sat up, pushing a few beaded corn-rows of hair from her face.  I just
knew I had to move. Get away. 
         From what?"
         From everything. From my life. And that meant you and
Sumi. 
         That's comforting."
         Part of it was living in this city. Nothing's real here. It was
getting to me. Was getting to you, too. 
        Jonny put a hand on Ice's cheek and turned her head, forcing
her to look at him.  What do you mean?"
         We were dying," she said quietly, almost whispering.  I
watched you staring out the window night after night like you were
working on some puzzle, trying to put it together in your mind. Sumi
fiddling with her circuit boards. We were all together, but we might
as well have been on different continents. 
Jonny shrugged.  Let's face it, we have to keep a little detached in
our work to stay sane. Sometimes that spills over. But we can fix
that. 
 But there's more than that," said Ice.  Have you ever heard of the
Spectacle? 
 No."
 It's a political theory. Groucho talks about it. He's kind of our leader
around here. Says the Spectacle is the way the government keeps
control. It sets up these mysterious and complex systems like
restrictions on medical service, the Committee, it makes the Arabs
and the Alpha Rats into icons of evil. That way, it keeps us isolated
and makes us feel like we don't have any control over our own lives. 
 And you think the three of us got eaten up by the Spectacle?"
 Yeah," said Ice.  Do you understand what I'm saying? "
        As Jonny he sat up, Ice rolled off his lap and lay down beside
him.  I understand it's all very easy to argue in the abstract," he said.
 Talking politics is a good way to avoid what really hurts."
        Ice looked at her hands, lines of tension deepening around her
eyes.  I was sick," she said.  I didn't love you. I didn't love Sumi. I
was hollow and dead and there was nothing inside me but dust and
dry bones. I don't think you want to understand. 
         That's not true." Jonny reached under her shirt and rubbed the
small of her back.  We're back together; that's what counts. We'll get
Sumi and work the rest of it out. 
         For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Ice said.
         So am I. I wish I'd seen you needed help back at the old
place.  Ice smiling guardedly, and rested her hand on his stomach.
Under her fingers, Jonny became aware of the steady rhythm of his
own breathing. He groped for something to say to ease the tension,
but nothing came to him.  We kept your stupid Samba tapes," he
offered finally. That made her laugh. Jonny broke up, too, and they
lay on the futon giggling like idiots until she pulled him to her.
        He bent to her breasts, pulling her shirt off over her head,
finding her penny-colored nipples with his tongue. Ice arched her
back, tugging off her pants and tossing them away, cupping his
testicles on the return motion. She pushed Jonny onto his back,
rubbing herself along the shaft of his erect penis. When she lowered
herself upon him, he held her for a moment, struck again by a cold
deja vu, needing to confirm for himself the reality of her presence,
the flesh that held him. She gave a little grunt as he entered her; her
face eased of tension for the first time since he had woken.
        They moved slowly at first, drawing out each thrust (damp
friction), the motion resolving itself at the moment of greatest
tension, and beginning again. He came quickly, unexpectedly, and
she, a moment later.
        They lay there, clinging to each other damply, unwilling and
unable to do anything else. Jonny traced the outline of her shoulder
blades with his fingers. She closed her eyes, her feathery breath
coming cool across his chest.
        Later he asked,  So what do we do about getting Sumi?"
        Ice sat up, wiping sweat from her eyes.  We talk to Groucho
and see if he has any ideas. 
         You called him 'your leader'? I didn't think anarquistas had
leaders. 
         Every group has leaders," Ice said evenly.  What the Croakers
shun are rulers. 
         Shun. Jesus, you really are one of them, aren't you?"
         I really am," she said somewhat wickedly.
         What would your poor mother think?"
         My mama was a Hollywood whore and so was yours." Ice
rolled off the bed onto her feet and clapped her hands.  Come on, you
have to move around or you're going to get stiff. 
        When Jonny stood up, he caught his reflection in the aluminum
housing of a portable CT scanner.  I look like a goddam mummy," he
said.
         You look fine. Let's see how you walk."
        Standing, Jonny found his balance shot by the combination of
long sleep and drugs. With his arm around Ice's shoulder, he made it
around the room a few times, his legs feeling stronger with each
circuit. However, he was aware of not yet thinking straight. There
was something he had to do. Twenty hours sleep was a long time.
How long had he wandered in the sewers?   What time is it?" he
asked.
         About four in the afternoon." said Ice, glancing at her watch.
         What day?"
         Wednesday."
        Jonny concentrated, trying to force the fog from his brain. He
counted backwards; the numbers stumbled by. Eventually, the
answer seemed right, or at least close enough.  Six hours," he said.
         Six hours what?"
         In six hours Colonel Zamora declares open season on me."
        Ice handed him a set of green nylon overalls with the Pemex
logo stenciled on the back. Under the breast pocket was a small hole
surrounded by a suggestive rust-colored stain.
         Welcome to the club," she said.

        Ice lead him through three levels of absolute darkness, through
crawl spaces damp with leakage from underground pipes, up frozen
escalators and an elevator shaft where they stood on a section of
heavy wire mesh barely a half-meter square and were lifted slowly
by a retrofit electric dumb waiter. At the top of the shaft Jonny was
engulfed in stars. A three hundred and sixty degree panorama of
open space swung slowly around him, illuminating the tile walls with
solar flares and star fire. It was like nothing he had ever seen sober.
        He said,  I'm seeing this, right? This isn't just brain damage or
something? 
         Don't worry," said Ice.  Some lunatic dragged a Zeiss projector
from the planetarium and reassembled it down here. We got it
hooked to a satellite dish top-side. Pulls down signals from some old
NASA probe. You know, Jonny...  Ice took his hand and lead him to
the edge of a subway platform, then down onto the tracks.  ...things
get a little strange here sometimes. I mean, we're all dedicated
anarquistas, but we're also artists. Some of us more than others. 
         You an artist, too?" asked Jonny.
        Ice shrugged. Only where stars marked her face could Jonny
see her, her dark features blending evenly with the black of space.
 I'm not a painter or a sculptor, if that's what you mean. Art here
means more than that. It's a way of looking at the world;a state of
mind. I just don't want you to make any quick judgments about
these people. 
         You afraid I might not like your revolution?"
         You work very hard at being cynical, I know that. But what
we're doing down here means something. It's not just revolution
we're after. It's political alchemy. 
         What does that mean?"
         We're out to change the world."
        Jonny scratched at his injured shoulder.  Sounds great," he said.
 Just hope I have the shoes to go with it."
        As they moved beyond the star fields, they were plunged back
into darkness. Ice pulled Jonny to one side of the tracks and said,
 Don't step on any wires. Some of 'em are dummies. Cables hooked up
to vacuum alarms.  Jonny was impressed with the sureness of Ice's
moves in the dark tunnels. Whatever she had been doing with the
Croakers for the last year had revitalized her. Jonny thought back on
the last months he and Ice and Sumi had lived together. It was just
as Ice described it. Stasis. The long, slow surrender of emotions to
habit. Things could be different now, he thought. He reached for her
shoulder in the darkness, and felt her hand close around his. Up
ahead, there was light on the tracks.
         This is it," said Ice evenly. But Jonny could see she was trying
to contain her excitement.  Your gonna love this. We're right on the
edge of the clinic. 
        Voices echoed around the edges of the tunnel, blending to
become a single voice whispering in a language Jonny could not
understand. As they approached the light, the sound deepened, was
joined by the astringent smell of disinfectants. Jonny followed Ice up
a short flight of particle board stairs to the flat expanse of a subway
platform. A group of Croakers, techs, by the look of them, were
lounging, smoking and talking, on a stack of brushed aluminum
packing cases. A couple of the women waved to Ice from their perch.
         Recognize the place? It's the old financial district metro line,"
Ice said.
         I've seen photos. But I thought the Committee dynamited
these tunnels during the Protein Rebellion. 
         They closed off the ends and a lot of the service tunnels, but
squatters were living down here for years. 
        Jonny followed Ice through a maze of maintenance shops
sectioned off with ruined vending machines and lozenges of graffiti-
covered fiberglass. Croaker techs bent over fiber optic bundles and
circuit boards in a jumble of disassembled diagnostic devices (Haag-
Streit electron microscopes, magnetic resonance imagers, a video
micrographer) nodding and shouting polyglot advice. Further on, Ice
lead him through a workshop where rusting M-16's and AK-47's
were retooled and fit with computer-aided sighting mechanisms.
There was a surgery, cool lights glinting off delicate instruments.
Silent children stood to the side of one table, studying a man's open
abdomen through an enormous Fresnel lens. A legless woman
surgeon, suspended in a harness from a webwork of runners
attached to the ceiling, described the tying off of an artery in rapid-
fire Spanish. Older children translated into English and Japanese for
the younger ones.  We're also a teaching hospital," said Ice. She
nodded gravely toward the children.  If things don't work out, they'll
be the next generation of Croakers. 
        Jonny leaned against a wall covered in stylized biomorphic
landscapes of L.A., done in watery browns and grays.  This is really--
impressive,  he said. Someone had painted the Capital Records
building to resemble the bleached skeleton of some prehistoric
whale. The HOLLYWOOD sign, all driftwood and jellyfish. He shook his
head numbly.
         The place is quiet now," said Ice.  Rumor has it that the
Committee's gearing up for a big push. We've been getting almost
double our usual patient-load. 
         How do you get them down here?"
         Same way you got here: through the sewers. Most people
make a less spectacular entrance, though. 
 I sure hope so," said Jonny. He rubbed his sore shoulder, wondering
if he could score some endorphins.  Tell me, you getting many
leprosy cases down here? I'm moving Dapsone and Rifampin like
cotton candy at the circus. 
        Ice crooked a finger at Jonny and lead him through a poured
concrete arch studded with vacuum tubes and plastic children's toys.
At the end of a short service corridor they entered a lab. Inside, Ice
keyed in a number sequence on a Zijin Chinese PC hooked to a bank
of video monitors. Three screens lit up with multi-colored snow,
which gradually dissipated when Ice punched the monitor housing
with the side of her fist. On one screen, a couple of Croakers in
moonsuits were taking blood from a woman's arm. Fingering the PC's
joystick, Jonny moved the picture in tighter on the woman's face.
There were marks there. Seamless and discolored lepromatous
lesions. Another screen showed the same room from a different
angle. There were about a dozen other people, smoking and reading
on cots. All had lesions similar to the first woman.
        Jonny let out a long breath.  What's with the quarantine?" he
asked.
        Ice entered another code on the Zijin and more monitors lit up.
 It seemed like a good idea. Most of the lepers we've seen have been
carrying a weird new strain of the disease. It seems to be viral. 
        Jonny squinted slightly at the monitors. On one screen, a
Croaker was moving from cot to cot, using a scalpel to scrape tissue
samples from each leper's arm, while a second Croaker took the
samples and sealed them in a plastic case marked with an orange
biohazard trefoil.  Viral leprosy? Never heard of it," Jonny said.
         Neither had we," said Ice. She pointed to a monitor where
amber alphanumerics scrolled up a line at a time.  We cross-checked
all our exam data with the Merck software and came up empty. The
symptoms match all the known strains of leprosy-- skin macules,
epidermal tumors, lesions of the peripheral nerves, loss of feeling in
the limbs-- but the little bugger that causes it is some kind of
mutant-voodoo-patch job. It's also killing people. 
         How?" asked Jonny.
         Secondary infection. In the latter stages, patients tend to
develop high fevers and brain lesions. The pathology could be
meningitis. There it is,  said Ice. She nodded to a screen at the upper
right.
        Jonny looked up. The monitor displayed a time-lapse video
micrograph of the leprosy virus, surrounded by numbers and biodata
graphs. As he watched, the virus inserted its genetic material into
the nucleus of a cell. Within seconds, the virus was cloning itself,
filling the cell with ghostly larvae until the walls burst, scattering
parasites into the blood stream. The virus's shape, the polyhedral
head, cylindrical sheath and jointed fibers that attached it to the cell
wall, reminded Jonny of pictures he had seen of twentieth century
lunar landing modules. But the proportions of this module were all
wrong.
         Jesus, the head on that thing's huge," he said.  But it's just a
bacteriophage. Nothing weird about that. 
         That's what everybody says," replied a different voice. Jonny
turned and saw a boy wearing the body portion of a moon suit. In
one hand, the boy carried the suit's head covering; in the other, a
small case marked with a biohazard sticker.  Ice, you teasing the
guests, again?  he asked. The boy's face was luminously white, his
head, hairless and smooth. Jonny recognized the look. He was a
Zombie Analytic.
        As the Zombie shed the rest of his protective gear, depositing it
in a gray metal hamper, Ice went to him and kissed him lightly on
the lips. She looked back and said,  Jonny, meet Skid the Kid."
        The Kid held out one thin, white hand to Jonny and they shook.
Closer now, Jonny could see that the boy was no more than sixteen,
and thin to the point of anorexia. He wore a tight see-through shirt
and black drawstring pants. The archetypal Zombie, Jonny thought.
However, there were dark patches on the boy's scalp and hands
where the subcutaneous pixels had burned out or been destroyed. He
obviously had not had any serious maintenance in months.
         Actually, we've met already," Skid said.  I was in the stomping
party that found you in the greenhouse. 
         Yeah? Those must be your footprints on the back of my skull."
Skid laughed.  Wouldn't be at all surprised." Over his features, he
flashed a boxer's face, sweaty and bruised.  Croakers rule, okay! Eat
the dead! Totally badass.  A second later, his own face was back.
 'Course, I also helped carry you up to the clinic, so maybe it all
balances out, right? 
        Jonny smiled.  Sure. Someday if I have to beat on you, I'll drive
you to the farmacia. No problem.  He was put-off by the Kid. It was
almost a cellular thing. Most Zombie Analytics Jonny had known had
worked too hard at being ingratiating, going straight for the hard-
sell. No doubt it was some habit left over from their early days in the
flesh trade. And it was not helped by the fact it cost each Zombie a
small fortune to maintain their electronics. Still, knowing the time
and expense they took to have their skin dermatoned off and
underlayed with pixel strips, Jonny found it difficult to work up
much sympathy.
        But Skid the Kid kept on smiling.  Ice tells me you used to be a
cop. 
         No," said Jonny.  I was in the Committee for Public Health.
Completely different organization. 
         What's the difference?"
         The Committee knows what they're doing. And cops can't call
in an air strike. 
        Skid the Kid laughed again, and clapped his hands in delight.
         What's a Zombie doing working with the Croakers? You
moonlighting or something?  asked Jonny.
         There's lots of Zombies down here," Ice cut-in.  We've got
Naginata Sisters on security and the Bosozukos help with vehicle
maintenance. The Funky Gurus pretty much run the armory on their
own. We're a mongrel group. Everybody's welcome. 
        Jonny nodded curtly. He sensed a set-up.  Sounds like a great
set-up. Think I'll pass, though. 
         We weren't trying to recruit you," said Ice quickly. But she
frowned so fiercely, Jonny could tell she was lying. And probably
disappointed.
        Hoping to steer things back to neutral ground, he said,  So tell
me more about this virus. 
        Ice sighed.  Not much more to tell. We don't know what the hell
it is or where it came from. It looks like a phage, but it only attacks
cells, like a virus. If we catch the infection early, we can slow it down
with interferon or interlukin IV. But the virus mutates in a few days,
and we're back where we started. 
        She opened and closer her hands in frustration.  We're just a
clinic, you know? We patch people up and send 'em home. We're not
set-up to do goddam research. 
        Skid leaned back against the computer console, fingers busy in
his breast pocket. He pulled out a crumpled pack of Beedees, broke
off the filter and lit one up. The burning rope-smell of cheap Indian
tobacco filled the room.  We've got scouts out, keeping tabs on how
the military handles things. Also, we're watching traffic in and out of
New Hope. Figure those assholes'll have access to any new vaccines
before they hit the street. 
         Sounds reasonable," said Jonny. He watched the monitors over
Skid's shoulder. They were cycling through a programmed
surveillance routine, displaying a series of grainy views of the
Croakers' underground lair. The greenhouse, with its newly patched
bubble. Machine shops. A young Mestizo girl leading a group of
patients to the surface. The surgery. The children.  Listen, I'm sorry
if I'm a little of jumpy,  Jonny said. "Truth is, I'm hurting and
nervous and probably still a little punch drunk. You guys-- this set-
up-- it's a lot to take in at once, you know? 
         You have a talent for pissing people off," said Ice. But it was a
small reprove, pouting and indulgent.  You'll be all right though,
officer. 
         Definitely all right. I sense star quality here," Skid said. He
puffed at the Beedee and smiled broadly.  You gonna want to see
Groucho? 
         Yeah, is he back yet?" asked Ice.
         About an hour ago."
         Aces," Ice replied. She draped an arm across Jonny's shoulders.
 Looks like you get an audience with the most wanted man in
California. 
         Sounds like fun," said Jonny.
         He is."
        Skid the Kid raised his eyebrows.  Yeah, like the riddle of the
Sphinx. 

        Jonny followed Ice and Skid past empty and subterranean shop
fronts. Each deserted glass facade presented him with a different and
more bizarre tableau. He remembered that Ice had said they were all
artists down here. He supposed that had something to do with the
strange windows. Behind one, an animated hologram, something like
a Mandala or a printed circuit, showed men and women experiencing
all fifty-eight versions of the Tantric afterlife. Another seemed to
hold a shooting gallery. A vacuumed-suited mannequin was mounted
on a revolving wheel of fortune, animal and machine fetishes
dangling from its arms and neck. Jonny's legs shook with the sub-
sonic rumbling of traffic overhead. He thought of ghost trains moving
through the metro tunnels on endless runs, the passengers turning to
dust as they held onto the overhead straps. His reflection in a
window startled him, and he hurried to catch up with the others.
         Nice architecture you got down here," Jonny said.  I dig the
style. Early Nervous Breakdown, right? 
        They walked through an empty lobby, behind a semi-circular
wall of frosted glass, into the old metro line security complex. Ice
knocked on a door of cheap oak veneer and ushered Jonny through.
The smell of sandalwood incense was strong. The room (Actually two
rooms; Jonny could see where the sheet rock had been cut away,
leaving a ragged white fringe.), was large and mostly empty. It
contained an electronic wall map of the metro system, a small
lacquered shrine to Shakyamuni, some cheap reproductions of
surrealist artwork and a slight, dark-skinned man with the smooth,
functional musculature of a dancer.
        A blur of gray metal sliced the air above man's head. When he
opened his hand, the chain end of a kusairagama flew, curling itself,
snake-like, around a bare wall beam. Then, fluid and savage, he
started forward, twisting, kicking and feinting, until he ripped the
sickle portion of the weapon across the beam at eye level. He stepped
back and exhaled once. Then he turned and grinned, acknowledging
Jonny and the others for the first time.
         I see our guest has returned from the dead," he said,
unwrapping the chain from the scarred beam. Jonny noticed that the
other beams bore similar scars.  You look good in Croaker banderas,
Jonny. Course, you better not let la Migra see you dressed like that.
They'll have your ass over the border and chained to some Tijuana
work-gang faster than you can say 'green card.'  
        Tossing the kusairagama aside, he crossed the room with the
same liquid grace he had displayed while on the attack. His eyes
were small and dark, but quick, missing nothing. He wore his hair
slicked back, chollo-style, and had cross-hatched tattoos extending
from his shoulders to his wrists, the mark of a particular Iban
warrior-priest class. A gold earring, a Caduceus, dangled from his left
lobe. As he shook Jonny's hand, he said,  The name's Groucho, by the
way. Please come in. 
        The anarchist went to a foam rubber mattress set in a corner of
the room, and pulled on a black mesh t-shirt. On a cheap plastic
folding table lay a crumbling volume of Rimbaud. Near it was an old
fashioned metronome with a photo of an eye clipped to the
pendulum. Jonny wondered if it was some kind of joke.
         Do you like our set-up?" asked Groucho.  I'm sure these two
have been keeping you busy. That's good. Boredom and lack of
purpose are the chief problems of our age. Don't you agree, Jonny? 
        Jonny, who was still trying to figure out the metronome joke,
was caught off guard.  What? Oh yeah, sure. Boredom and getting
shot in the head. 
        Groucho brought over a couple of canvas chairs, and sat down,
smiling in a manner that Jonny found unsettling. The anarchist
possessed a certain relaxed grace, an unaffected air, that was
riveting. It was impossible to take your eyes off him.
         But violence is the choice we've made, isn't it?" Groucho said.
 We accept the uncertainties, our lives revolve around them. As
Croakers, we don't kill because we want to. As a Buddhist, it goes
against all my principles. But the act of ridding ourselves of the
Committee brings death with it. That's why we run these clinics. It's
partly revolution, but, frankly, it's part penance, too. When you take
life, you are also obligated to try and save it.  He shrugged. "And
speaking of payback, please accept my thanks, for blowing away that
pig, Lieutenant Cawfly.  This last bit, Groucho spoke with more
venom than the first.
         Did somebody buy a billboard about that or something?" Jonny
asked. He shook his head.  I was a lot younger then. I don't even
know if I'd do it now. But I can tell you it wasn't for anybody's
liberation but my own. 
         Independent thought and action are essential for a good
anarchist,  said Groucho.
        Jonny slammed his fist onto the table.  Don't call me that! I'm
no anarquista and I wouldn't have come here if I thought I was going
to get campaign speeches. 
        Jonny looked at Ice hoping for support, but she was reading
Rimbaud over Skid's shoulder. Abandoning me to the lions, Jonny
thought.
        Groucho leaned forward, pointing his finger at Jonny.  No
monkeys are soldiers, all monkeys are mischievous, i.e. Some
mischievous creatures are not soldiers,  he said. "Jonny, you're a
dealer-- You help to undermine a corrupt system. You subvert it and
that is a basic function of a revolutionary. 
        The anarchist grinned wider and held up his hands to indicate
that he knew he was moving too fast. Lightly, he rose from his chair
and went to a battered desk, where he pulled a bottle of red wine
from a file drawer. The sight of the liquor made Jonny groan. His
thought was that he would like to have the whole thing for himself,
to leave these people and their strange art, their talk of politics and
death, and get lost in the sweet oblivion of ethanol madness. On the
other hand, his stomach turned to acid mush at the mere thought of
alcohol. While he tried to sort out which impulse was stronger, his
psychic desires or his physical needs, he gazed at the art
reproductions above his head.
        When Groucho returned, (Ice and Skid, trailing behind) he said:
 Do you like the surrealists? They were a remarkable twentieth
century art movement. The first artists to genuinely comprehend the
modern age. They applied principles of both psychology and physics
to their work, attempting to unite the conscious and unconscious in a
single gesture. But more than that, they were the ultimate
revolutionaries, questioning everything that was known or
knowable. 
        To Jonny, the Ernsts and the Dalis could have been snapshots
from an only slightly depraved tour book of Los Angeles. The empty
architecture that Groucho identified as Chirico's standard made him
think of crumbling freeway overpasses and stretches of Hollywood in
those few hours after sunset, before the gangs took possession of
them for the night. The Tanguy reproductions reminded him of the
mural of Los Angeles on the train platform. Someone had copied his
style very accurately.
        Groucho passed around fluted black champagne glasses, then
opening the bottle, poured wine for all. The anarchist raised his glass
as in a toast, but he did not drink. Instead, he went back to his chair,
his eyes distant. Jonny felt relief when Ice sat beside him on the thin
foam mattress.
         Forgive me if I seem to be pushing things," said Groucho.  I
know about your run-in with Zamora. In fact, I may know more
about old Pere Ubu's motives than you. How did you escape? 
         I didn't. Zamora let me go," Jonny replied, sniffing the tart
wine. His stomach won the battle over his brain. He set the down
glass down beside his foot.
         Yes, that makes sense in light of everything else." Groucho
nodded, off somewhere.
         In light of what?"
        The anarchist frowned, rolling the crystal glass between his
palms.  Things are afoot, Jonny. I don't know the specifics yet. There
are layers that are still hidden to me. Did you know that we've been
trying to contact you, but couldn't because there was a tail on you for
the last few weeks? 
         I had no idea."
         I thought not. Then old Ubu catches you and releases you a
few hours later. Nimble Virtue turned you, by the way. 
         I know. I saw her at detention center."
        Ice chuckled.  I hope you shook that old bitch up. She's playing
finger for Zamora, sucking up to old bastard. Got Easy Money working
for her now, too. 
         The slime leading the slime," said Jonny.
         Exactly," said Groucho. Over the anarchist's shoulder, Skid
flashed Nimble Virtue's ravaged face. He stuck a finger up his nose,
making a great production out of examining what he found there. He
pulled his ears, rolled his eyes back in his sockets. A very un-Zombie
thing to do. Jonny laughed in spite of himself.
         I understand that Easy Money's sticky fingers have gotten him
in deep shit with Conover,  Groucho said. "Did you hear that the
Colonel is getting political heat from Sacramento about the smuggler
lords? I believe he's getting set for a big move against them. There's
talk that the Army's trying to get it together and take the moon back
from the Alpha Rats. And somewhere in the middle of all this, you fit
in, Jonny. Your name is all over town. Someone even mentioned
Arabs. 
        Jonny rubbed at his sore shoulder. To Groucho, he said,  Look, if
this is some simple trick to get me to join your army, you can forget
it. The Colonel picked me up because he's trying to queer some deal
of Conover's. 
        Groucho sipped his wine. He stared at the floor.  I doubt that. If
anything, Zamora's trying to angle himself in for a piece of the action.
That's why his move against the lords is so important. Not only will it
satisfy the politicians, but if it succeeds, it will force the lords to deal
with him directly. And that's what we're waiting for-- when Zamora
makes his move so do we. An all out attack on the Committee. 
        Jonny nodded. Something prickled along his spine as he
realized that the anarchist was completely sincere. Jonny smiled and
shivered at the same time. He thought of war.
         Why exactly did you come here?" asked Groucho.
         I need to get out town," Jonny said.  You've just said I'm being
watched. That means I can't use any of my normal contacts. I heard
that the Croakers have some smuggling routes that'll get me out onto
the desert. 
        Groucho smiled and opened his hands.  I'd love to help you,
Jonny. You're center stage in fat Ubu's carnival. Whatever we can do
to trip him up if fine by me. 
         There's one more thing," Jonny said.  I have to get Sumi, the
woman I live with. I won't leave the city without her. 
         That might be more difficult," said Groucho. He ran a finger
around the rim of his glass, producing a clear, high ringing tone.  The
Committee must know where you live by now. 
         I don't think so. If they did, why would they pay Nimble
Virtue to tip them that I was at the Pit? Wouldn't it be better to
surprise me at home? 
         Not necessarily," said Ice.  They probably assumed we'd
booby-trapped the apartment, so you'd be easier to pick off in the
street. 
        Jonny looked at Groucho.  Your mind is made up?" asked the
anarchist.
         I won't go without her."
         You're loyalty's commendable. Ice, what do you think?"
         Sumi means a lot to me, too, Groucho," Ice said.  I don't like
the idea of leaving her out there alone. She's not equipped to deal
with that kind of craziness. 
        Ice sat with her legs bent. Jonny looped an arm around one of
her knees. It was just like old times. The two of them taking care of
Sumi. That was assuming, he reminded himself. that Sumi was all
right. That no one had gotten to her yet.  What's your answer?"
Jonny asked.
        Groucho leaned back in his plastic folding chair, pointed to the
wall over Jonny's head.  You see those photos, Jonny?" he asked
quietly.  The one on the right is from the uprising in Paris, nineteen
sixty eight. The other is the Spanish war against the fascists, in thirty
seven. Yet here we are, over a hundred years later, in a mad city in a
sick century fighting exactly the same battles they fought. Isolated,
alienated, bored and drugged beyond caring. We're the trained dogs
of the Spectacle. Zamora whistles, and we jump through his hoops.
The Committee is the Spectacle's ultimate tool. It's devoured our
lives, all art, our dignity. But existence is not predicated on the whim
of politicians.  The anarchist took a sip of wine. "A hundred and fifty
years ago the surrealists proclaimed themselves the revolt of the
spirit. The spark in the wind, seeking the powder keg.  The anarchist
nodded in satisfaction.  So, we'll get your friend and we'll get you out
of town and, with any luck at all, we'll humiliate fat King Ubu in the
process. How does that sound? 
        Jonny smiled  at the anarchist, he just could not resist.  Yeah,
but what if you get caught? 
        Ice began to recite, and Skid joined in:
         Well, then, rent me a tomb,
        whitewashed and outlined in cement-
        Far, far underground. 
        Jonny frowned and fingered the musty volume of poetry.
         Rimbaud, right? Terrific. By the way, where'd that wine go?"




                                                FIVE:
                                The Rescue of Sumimasen

        An acid rain, the sins of the fathers, blew down hard and cold,
etching obscure messages into the faces of the graceless old
buildings. A few blocks to the south, beyond the fifty-story torus
housing Lockheed's business offices, carbon arcs burned a pure white
nimbus of light into the fat, menacing clouds. Pemex-U.S. was out
there somewhere, Jonny knew. Exxon; Krupp International. And
Sony-- a flat black silicon sphere, almost invisible at night, like a hole
punched in the sky. Wilshire Boulevard.
        Hushed evening crowds hurried by. Business men, anonymous
in their Gucci snake skin goggles and respirators. Groups of giggling
teenage girls in matching state school ponchos. A stoned young boy,
shirtless chest aglow with bio-luminescent tattoos, kicked up wings
of water on a skateboard. When Ice reached Jonny's side, the boy
circled once in the street, gave them the finger, and took off. Ice
laughed once.  Don't say it," said Jonny. She laughed again.
         I don't have to, doll. It's plain as day. That's your lean and
hungry youth just skated by. 
        Jonny shook his head.  I was never that skinny," he said. A
great knot of tension was uncoiling in his chest. He kicked at some
weeds sprouting through a crack in the pavement. Outside again, in
the street, a cold wind blowing stinking sulfur rain. There was a siren
fading somewhere, far off. He was home. It felt great.
         Where to?" he asked.
Ice nodded up the street, started that way and Jonny followed. He
could see Groucho and Skid a few meters ahead.
        They had left the old subway terminal perhaps twenty minutes
before. Jonny had been surprised at how easily they reached the
surface, cutting through sewers and abandoned underground
shopping malls full of rotting acoustical tiles and dismembered
mannequins. They had emerged in the back of a heavy equipment
warehouse surrounded by the smell of rust and slow leaking
canisters of toluene. Jonny had been the first one out the door. The
first one into the rain. Ice had given him a belted Army raincoat
before they left the clinic. Now, walking with her, he used one hand
to hold the collar of the coat closed; he kept the other hand in his
pocket, around the textured plastic grip of his Futukoro. Three extra
clips clicked against each other in his pocket.
        Across from a storage yard full of PVC piping, Groucho and Skid
were in animated conversation with an albino. Jonny followed Ice
through the flooded street, over to where the men were talking. The
albino was seated sideways in the cab of an armored Mercedes van, a
squat double-axled monstrosity with thick wire mesh bolted over the
windows and grubby scales of titanium alloy welded to the body.
Jonny thought the vehicle looked something like the chimeric
offspring of a half-track and a rhinoceros. He was admiring its
extraordinary and single-minded ugliness when Groucho called him
over.
         Jonny, I want you to meet our driver, Man Ray. He runs with
the Funky Gurus,  said the anarchist.
        Man Ray, the albino, gave Jonny a slight nod and Jonny
responded in kind. Then added a quick upward movement with two
fingers of his right hand, drawing the fingers across his lips
horizontally, running through a rapid series of similar gestures-- a
terse street distillation of Amerslan and gang recognition codes.
Obviously surprised, Man Ray gave him the answering gesture. Jonny
knew the Gurus well. They were all insane, he had decided years
before, but pleasantly so. They called themselves combat artists,
insisted on fighting with weapons of their own devising. Their
greatest pleasure came in staging absurd and bloody raids on rival
gangs. There was always a theme; sometimes it was eating utensils,
sometimes patterns of light and color. For the Gurus, style always
counted more than the damage done, but the damage was usually
considerable.
        Man Ray wore what appeared to be home-made polypyrrole
body armor, cut kendo-style, and red high-top sneakers. A gold obi
around his waist was studded with throwing darts, shurikens and
other small glittering things Jonny did not recognize. Like many of
the Gurus, Man Ray was not a true albino; his features were negroid,
but his face was burned the palest of pinks, shading to yellow behind
his ears. Traditionally, the Gurus were recruited from workers at the
Daimyo Corporation's hellish zero G foundries orbiting the moon.
Constant exposure to low-level radiation often burned out the
melanin-producing cells in the worker's skin.
         Thanks for the wheels," Jonny said.  I owe you."
        Man Ray smiled. He had no teeth, just stained porcelain
implants running along his upper and lower jaws, like twins walls.
 You don't owe me nothin'. Blood's my muse. Flesh is my canvas,"
Man Ray said.  I wouldn't miss a run." He looked at Jonny, grinning
slyly.  Groucho here's been telling me how you're a great appreciator
of art, a true fan of beauty. Here--,  he said, plucking something from
his sash.  This is new."
        Jonny accepted the object, turning it over in his hands. It was a
perfect silver rose, about half the size of a natural one, its edges
rimmed with hot gold from the sodium street lights. Man Ray pointed
to the storage yard.  Over the top," he said.
        Jonny looked at him once, glanced at Ice. He shrugged and
threw the rose over the collapsing hurricane fence that surrounded
the pipes.
        There was silence, then a rush of air; the street was lit by an
explosion of white flame that leapt ten meters into the air. In
seconds, the blaze became a shaft of churning light, burning down to
a sizzling white mass of flame and molten piping. Jonny turned to
Man Ray who said,  Le fleurs du mal."
         Fuck that," said Jonny.  That was a phosphorous grenade."
         Everybody's a critic," Man Ray told Groucho. The Croaker
stepped into the passenger side of the van, Skid behind him. Jonny
got into the back, hunkering down next to Ice. Man Ray gunned the
van's big methanol engine and turned north onto La Cienega toward
Hollywood.

        The Funky Guru thumbed on a short wave scanner, tuned to
the Committee's frequencies, and plugged in a sound chip. The
metallic voice of Committee dispatchers was overlaid with music--
Taking Tiger Mountain doing an up-tempo version of  Saint James
Infirmary,  Saint Peter taking the lead vocals.

         As I passed Saint James Infirmary
        I saw my sweetheart there,
        All stretched out on a table,
        So pale, so cold, so fair
        As I passed Saint James Infirmary-- 
        As the van rumbled crossed Beverly Boulevard, Jonny was
suddenly aware of being very cold. He shivered against the jellied
glycerin padding the walls of the van, clenching his teeth to keep
them from chattering. His right shoulder was almost numb; before
leaving the clinic, Ice had placed a xylocaine transdermal patch
under the induction cast. The Committee's last wave of raids had left
endorphins in short supply, she had explained. Now she was staring
out one of the van's armored windows, frowning to herself.
         Your optimism's contagious," Jonny told her.
        Ice gave him a weak smile and asked,  What're you going to do
when we get Sumi? 
         I thought you understood that," he said.  Gonna get the hell of
here. Groucho said he'd check his contacts in the south. Maybe head
down to Mexico. Why? 
        Ice wiped away a small island of fog her breath had left on the
window. They passed a truck unloading a cargo of black market
meat. Boneless pig heads hung limply from the back, like masks from
some awful theater.  What if Sumi doesn't want to leave?" she asked.
         That's her decision," Jonny said.  She can do what she wants."
His voice was harder than he had intended. The possibility that Sumi
might choose to stay behind had not occurred to him. He did not
want to battle with Ice for Sumi's loyalty. He had, after all, stayed
with her when Ice took off. But Ice and Sumi had been lovers on and
off before Jonny had known either of them. No comfort there.
         You won't stay?" Ice asked.
         I can't."
         Why not?"
         Because the Colonel wants to use my balls for an ashtray,"
Jonny replied.  Because Easy Money knows I'm looking for him and
that means he's looking for me. And because I don't believe any of
this anarquista wetdream bullshit. Nothing changes-- it never does.
One bunch loses power, another comes in. So what? There's new faces
to hate, new guns to run from. But nothing real ever changes. 
         Maybe we can help that," she said.
         We're talking about the Committee here," Jonny said.  They'll
eat your faces off. When we get Sumi, I'm gone. 
         I wish you wouldn't."
         What do you want from me?"
        Ice fixed Jonny with a look that he could not quite read. Anger,
frustration, fear, they were all there.  What?" he said.
         You never make it easy, do you?" she asked.  Maybe I just
want us all to be together again. The three of us. 
        Why does she have to bring this up now, Jonny wondered. He
had been thinking along similar lines all along, the three of them
together again. But with Zamora and Easy Money gunning for him, it
seemed impossible. Ice, he knew, would not see it that way. Her love
came in broader strokes, great passions, grand gestures. That's why
she's a good Croaker, he thought. That's why she ran away.  I want
the same thing you do,  he whispered. "But not here. 
         I can't leave," said Ice.
         I can't stay." They were on Sunset now, rolling past crowds
hanging around the bars and theaters. A restaurant shaped like
Kukulcan's pyramid at Chichen Itza, outlined in bright neon. Jonny's
face grew hot.  Don't ask me to prove myself, okay? I'm not the one
who took the big walk,  he said.
        Almost without sound, Ice moved to the front of the van. She
sat on the floor behind Groucho. Jonny tried to look out the window,
but found himself watching Ice's reflection as she rocked with the
gentle motion of the van. He felt alone, hardly human-- he could
have been an insect observing the Croakers and the lone Guru from
the ceiling. Jonny was about to speak when Ice pointed at something
and said,  Pull over there."
        Man Ray turned up a side street near the World Link
substation, shielding the van from Sunset behind a stand of towering
date palms. The Guru killed the engine, reached up and flicked on an
overhead light.
        Groucho turned to Jonny, his face soft and ghostly in the dim
light.  Let's make this fast," he said.
        Jonny nodded.  We're going in the back way," he said.
        Man Ray duck-walked past Jonny to the rear of the van and
removed one of the side panels, jellied glycerin rolling in sluggish
waves. From a storage area, he removed a Medusa, something like an
electrified cat o' nine tails, and some smaller gear, pistols and bolos,
which he handed to the Croakers. Over the Guru's shoulder, Jonny
could see a whole rack of colorful and oddly outfitted weapons.  See
anything you like?  Man Ray asked.
         I'm fine," said Jonny.
        Man Ray looked disappointed  You got this bad prosaic streak,
you know? 
        The rain had given way to wind-driven mist. Ice moved ahead
of them in a loping trot, Skid doggedly at her side. Jonny did not try
to catch up, preferring to let her cope with the ghosts in her own
way.
        Twisted winds whipped the mist into tiny vortices in the lee of
an enormous tent-like structure. One hundred meters high and
covering almost sixty square blocks, a perverse relic, it was the
single still-standing structure from the Los Angeles-Tokyo
Exposition, held to celebratethe one hundredth anniversary of the
transistor.
        It was a series of tents, really, two hundred and eighty of them,
each half an acre of Teflon-coated fiberglass, all mildewed and
leaking badly. Beneath the tents were three life-size thermoplast and
concrete reconstructions that had comprised the Golden Age of
Hollywood Pavilion: Robin Hood's castle, sporting a peeling metallic
caricature that might once have resembled Errol Flynn; the Emerald
City from  The Wizard of Oz," and the Babylonian temple from D.W.
Griffith's  Intolerance." Jonny lived in the last of these
reconstructions, as did two thousand other people.
        At a service port near the bottom of a support pylon, Jonny
pried a ten key pad away from its housing. Sumi had set the pad
there loosely, with a gummy brown adhesive, after instructing him
how to short out the locking mechanism. With a thunk, the port slid
open and the five of them entered, climbing quickly up a spiral
staircase to a slimy platform at the top. Jonny shorted out a second
pad and a moment later, they were out onto the translucent surface
of the tent itself.
        Jonny motioned for them to spread out, to keep the tent fabric
from sagging under their weight. Above their heads, suspended in
slings and plastic bubbles were the lost tribes of Los Angeles.
        Any permanent or semi-permanent structure in the city was
an invitation to squatters. In the years since its construction, the
Hollywood Pavilion had served as home to thousands of local down-
and-outers, illegals from Mexico and Jamaica, indentured workers
from Thailand and the Ukraine. A few of those one-percenters, the
ones who had found the life below too confining or too desperate,
had moved to the open spaces above the tents themselves,
wandering like nomads across the billowing fiberglass dunes. Years
later, tribes hunted, whole societies had sprung up with their own
customs and languages. Jonny watched Man Ray and Skid taking it all
in, eyeing the delicate habitats with a combination of fascination and
nervousness. Groucho waved happily to the fleeting figures
shadowing them along the cables. On the dripping wires were hung
tribal banners, crude Catholic shrines, prayer flags marked with
curious symbols resembling Mayan, Nepalese and parts of schematic
diagrams, cabalistic cries for help directed at any god or gods who
might be listening.
        Jonny felt in control here. He was gripped by a strange
combination of tension and elation. His mind raced. He found himself
staring at the moon as it appeared from behind a cloud bank. He
thought of the Alpha Rats. Again, he wondered if somewhere on that
airless surface they were watching all this, noting it for some future
inquiry. He had the sudden urge to meet them, to somehow explain
things to them. At that same moment, he thought of Sumi down
below, unaware of his and Ice's presence. His senses expanded
outward until they encompassed the whole of the saddle-backed
landscape. This is right, he thought; it was good to be moving again.
He felt as if he had regained some lost part of himself.
        He broke ranks and scrambled to the crest of a corner dune. Its
peak was a circular anchorage, open to the structure below. Quickly,
he uncoiled lengths of nylon rope attached to the cement anchor and
let them drop. Ice caught up with him, releasing other lines. She still
would not look at him, but Jonny knew she was feeling a high similar
to his. Climbing clumsily in his cast, he made it over the rim and
dropped with Ice to a ledge beside a Babylonian elephant deity, its
chicken wire frame visible through the cracked concrete. The others
dropped down a moment later. A tangle of echoing voices from below
made it impossible to hear; Jonny signed for them to follow him
inside.
        They moved through a series of packed gray rooms, dusty
storage areas for the concession stands that had filled the pavilion
during the expo. They entered a clearing; around them, half-empty
crates trailed shreds of Taiwanese gun catalogs (improvised packing
material) to rows of ceiling-high shelves crowded with miniature
cowboy and samurai figures, still new in their plastic wrappers. Skid
picked up souvenirs as he walked along: Hollywood Boulevard sealed
in a water filled-lucite bubble; when he shook it, plastic snow settled
over the buildings; paper jackets emblazoned with the Rising Sun;
candy in the shape of silicon chips. Except for a layer of dust, most of
the merchandise seemed to have changed very little over the years.
Wall-sized holograms of Uncle Sam and Disney characters, dreams
figures of an extinct culture, were carefully sealed in bubble pack
and duct tape, waiting for their owners to return from other errands.
        They came to a flight of stairs. Jonny lead them down a couple
of levels, then up one, careful to keep to the deserted areas of the
structure. They saw yellow signs in a dozen languages warning them
not to smoke, pointing out fire exits and giving long and detailed
explanations of local hygiene laws.
        From below drifted the smell of bodies pressed close together,
cooking fires, mildew and something else, the almost metallic scent of
nervous action. Strange insect odors of commerce, shady deals,
strictly off-the-record meetings. They came upon a young girl
kneeling in the corridor, bathed in the blue light of an ancient
portable television, tying off with a hachimaka. When she saw them,
the girl gathered up her works and took off. She left the television,
which was slowly rolling a dead channel of snow. At the junction of
four corridors, Ice signed for Jonny to take the rear entrance of the
apartment, while she took Skid and Groucho to check out the front.
Jonny gave her the acknowledging sign and with Man Ray, started
down the corridor to his right. Half-way down, they entered a room
of immense asbestos-wrapped standing pipes.
         Help me get this up," whispered Jonny, indicating a textured
metal plate in the floor.  We're right above the apartment."
        The two of them stooped, worked their fingers under the plate
and lifted it free. Jonny went feet-first into the hole, kicking out the
plastic louvers of a false ventilating duct, and  dropped to the floor of
the apartment. A moment later, he heard Man Ray hit the floor
behind him.
        The room was dark, the air dead and hot; it clung to Jonny,
bitter with the fumes of charred synthetics.
        A mass of broken furniture lay scattered across the floor,
blistered seat backs and pressboard chair legs forming the ribs of
some skinned animal. Small appliances seemed to have been thrown
into a pile and methodically smashed. Jonny had trouble identifying
individual objects, he could make out a coffee grinder and a small
microwave oven; the rest of it was unrecognizable, beaten beyond
recognition. Someone had placed duct tape over the room's only
window. To hide what they were doing, he thought. The tape was
peeling off now, the pavilion's floods cutting the far wall into neat
diagonal segments, alternating bands of light and dark. Pills and
diskettes crunched beneath their feet, giving off a sour reek of
spoiled hormonal extracts; an Indian throw rug was gummy with
half-dissolved capsules of vasopressin and prolactin. There did not
seem to be much in the room that was not burned or broken.
        They followed a trail of books and Sumi's gutted electronic gear
(fused circuits glowing like raw opals) down the hall to the bedroom.
In the small chamber, the arson-smell was stronger. Man Ray
thumbed on a small squeeze light attached to his obi. The bed had
been torched. Shredded clothes were scattered over the floor, and
Freon slurred the wall from a refrigeration unit, now slag, that Jonny
had hidden to store perishable drugs, and the occasional blackmarket
kidney or lung for a client.
        A scraping. From the living room.
        Both men had their weapons up and out, Jonny leaning into the
hall, anxious for something to shoot. In the far room, Ice and the
others were silently surveying the wreckage on the floor.
         Back here," Jonny called.
        They came back, huddling dumbly in the doorway. Ice
performed a slow motion sleepwalk through the bedroom, stopping
occasionally to finger a piece of clothing, a crushed circuit board,
vials of pills. Man Ray's light fixed her in a wedge of sudden color.
She turned to Jonny.  Her tool belt is gone," Ice said.
         That's good," said Groucho hopefully.  Then there's a chance
Sumi got away. 
        Jonny leaned against the wall, sliding down into a crouch.  And
maybe they just took it with them for evidence. Prove she's a Watt
Snatcher. 
        From the corner of his eye, Jonny saw Skid, shifting his weight
nervously from foot to foot.  Maybe we shouldn't stay here," said the
Kid quietly.
        Ice stood up, holding a small prayer wheel; its half-melted
copper cap squeaked as she spun it.  Either way, Sumi's long gone,"
she said.  Turn off that damned light."
        Man Ray put the squeeze light back on his sash. Jonny
remained on his haunches; Ice kicked her way through the clothes
and half-melted lumps of cheap plastic furniture, and nudged him
with her boot.  Looks like it's just you and me for now, cowboy," she
said.
        Jonny looked up at her.  I'm going to kill someone for this, you
know. 
        Ice nodded, smiled.  Well, don't forget to leave something for
me,  she said.
         This is payback from Zamora," said Jonny.
        Groucho cleared his throat.  I think Skid was right a moment
ago,  he said. "Perhaps we ought to leave. If Pere Ubu's involved, he
may have left sentries behind. 
        Jonny pulled himself from the floor, looking the room over one
more time, pressing the image in his brain for later. When he might
need the anger.  Okay," he said,  we came in the back, we go out the
front. Good crowds for cover. 
        They left the apartment. Skid abandoned his coat and walked
point in his Zombie gear: an innocent hustler in search of the night's
mark. They saw no Committee boys on the way out.

        The main courtyard of the Babylonian temple was stifling in
the overheated illumination coming from tiered ranks of klieg lamps.
Dozens of made-up, costumed extras milled around, Valley kids
mostly, speaking in hushed cathedral tones. The movie set reminded
Jonny of something-- an immense surgery, the light giving people
and objects a look of startling precision and sterility.
         Okay kids, Ms. Vega's going to make her walk in a minute,"
came a man's flat nasal voice from a P.A.  What we need here is lots
of clapping and cheering. But no whistling. You want to whistle, go
see kick-boxing. 
        This brought shrill waves of high-pitched whistling from the
temple's squatters who were massed just behind a police line around
the set. The extras were costumed in cleaned-up Hollywood versions
of squatter gear, much too clean and well-fed, thought Jonny.
         Very funny. Get to your positions, kids."
        Jonny and the others joined the general flow of the crowd,
threading their way through the back of the set, following a line of
dancers in sequined parodies of Lunar Commando vacuum-suits.
Jonny was not particularly surprised by the presence of the film
crew; it was not the first time he and the other squatters had been
forced from their digs by a some local production company. Aoki
Vega was one of the Link's most popular musical-porn stars. The
irony of the situation, Jonny thought, was that the Link was going to
turn around and sell the broadcast of Vega's performance to the
same squatters they had displaced, presenting them with an
expensive ad glittering souvenir of their powerlessness.
        The dancers Jonny and the others were following seemed to be
headed to a partitioned area at the far end of the pavilion near a
semicircle of honeywagons and generator trucks. Skid was walking
on his toes, trying to see over the line of extras waiting to cheer the
star. A bank of stadium-sized video projectors displayed views of the
set from several different angles.
        As he pushed his way through the extras, Jonny became aware
of a certain unnerving sameness about them, as if they had all been
weaned from the same shallow gene pool. Caucasian faces were
blandly orientalized; nisei kids snapping their fingers to unheard pop
tunes, their hair bleached and skin darkened with biologics to some
bizarre ideal of southern California chic. They could have been from
anywhere, nowhere. A gag postcard about sex appeal and beaches.
         I know you. You're the producer, right?" said someone nearby.
        Jonny turned to her. She wore a loose jacket of woven
aluminum filament, plated gold. Her face held the same assembly
line features as the others. Only her eyes were memorable. She wore
diffraction grating contacts; her eyes were spiraling rainbows.
         We met at Marty's party in Laurel Canyon," she said brightly.
 You're Mister Radoslav, right?"
        It was obvious to Jonny that the woman was stoned. She might
as easily have thought he was the Pope. Jonny, still moving, glanced
over at the police line, then fixed her with the most radiant smile he
could muster.  Please keep your voice down," he said.  No one's
supposed to know I'm here.  He put his arm around Skid. "This is my
associate, Mister Kidd. 
         My pleasure," the woman said, extending a bronzed hand. She
and Skid shook, the Kid mumbled an incoherent pleasantry.
         Tell me, is there somewhere we can go and talk, Ms.--?" Jonny
began.
         Viebecke," she said.  But everybody calls me Becky."
         Becky, of course. Is there anywhere we can speak privately,
Becky? Perhaps discuss an audition? 
         Sure," she said.  The extra's trailer is probably empty now."
The look she gave Jonny was infused with such hunger and lust that,
for a moment, he considered cutting right then and there and taking
his chances with the police.
        Something glided by. Jonny looked up. A long articulated arm
supporting a German video-cam was hovering a few meters
overhead; a half-dozen lenses rotated, pulling to focus on them. His
face and Skid's were splashed across the dozen enormous video
screens.  The trailer sounds fine," he said.
        Ice and the others were waiting beside a two-story boom crane
that reminded him of an orange praying mantis. He introduced the
others to Becky who clung to his arm, looking disappointed when she
saw Ice. Then she smiled, the Hollywood optimism bubbling forth.
 Oh wow, are you guys actors, too?" she crooned.
         How'd you guess?" asked Ice, flashing her teeth.
         We're casting a new feature right now," said Jonny.  Looking
for fresh, interesting faces. 
        Becky giggled and led them to a group of trailers behind the
honeywagon. The chemical smells of processed fish and beef analogs
permeated the place. Becky went inside before them, holding up a
hand to indicate that they should wait there. The sound of raised
voices came from beyond the door. Jonny looked at Ice. She shook
her head slowly.
        A moment later, a young woman came storming out of the
trailer. She resembled Becky so strongly, that for an instant, Jonny
thought it was the actress in a new set of clothes. But the new
woman just glared at them and stalked off.  You can come in now,"
Becky called from the doorway. They went inside.
        The trailer was long and narrow, smelling faintly of perfume
and sweat, with rows of lighted mirrors on one side, benches and
hooks heavy with clothes on the other. Sun lamps and video monitors
were crowded at opposite ends of the room. Jonny and the others
went immediately to the clothes, and started pawing through them.
Becky perched on a table by the mirrors, holding her head rigid,
favoring them with her best side.
         What are you guys doing?" she asked at last.
         Costumes," said Jonny.  Gotta know what young people are
wearing these days. 
        Becky lit a joint, puffed, and rose from her perch, trying to
keep up a merry front. Man Ray found a hound's tooth overcoat that
fit over his body armor; Ice put on a white toreador jacket, trimmed
with gold beads. When Becky lay a hand on Jonny's arm she was
radiating nervousness, but her face remained a smiling mask.
Looking at her, Jonny felt an obscure sorrow. He wondered if she had
any other facial expressions buried somewhere under all that
bargain basement surgery.
         Is there anything youwant to ask me?" she purred.  Yeah,
there much security down at this end of the set? 
        Becky looked at him blankly, like a deranged puppy. She
screamed:  Hey! You aren't the producer!"
         We're criminals," said Jonny.  Desperate, armed criminals."
Becky fell back drunkenly and cowered in a far corner of the trailer,
whimpering and mumbling  Oh wow," like a mantra.
        They had their new clothes on in a few seconds, (Groucho in a
Mexican Air Force jacket studded with medals, Skid in a black
leather jumpsuit and Chinese revivalist Mao cap) and started out the
door. Jonny went to Becky to attempt a quick apology. She was still
in the corner, struck dumb with drugs and fear, and when she thrust
a chair at him, he could not tell if she wanted to give it to him or hit
him with it. He just backed away slowly saying,  I'm sorry, Becky.
But it's our asses. 
        Outside, the P.A. was blaring,  Okay kids, let's really hear it."
        They moved to the very back of the set, smiling at the techs,
just another group of extras waiting for their call, and started out
between two grinding generator rigs. Behind them they heard the
trailer door burst open and a shrill, hysterical voice.  He's not the
producer! He's just a goddam thief! 
        Security moved in quickly on the screaming actress. By the
Babylon set, music started, drowning out Becky's voice. Someone
called out for them to stop. But Jonny and the rest were running
then, out of the pavilion and across the wet street.
        Near the van, Jonny sneaked a look over his shoulder, and saw
a couple of overweight film company rent-a-cops in pursuit. He
almost laughed. Spinning on the balls of his feet, he brought his
Futukoro up level with the rent-a-cops' heaving chests. The nearest
one saw him, momentarily misplaced his center of gravity, and went
down in a puddle like an overstuffed sack. His partner did a little tap
dance, hands thrust over his head, and started back toward the
bright lights of the pavilion.
        Jonny ran on to the van, arriving there just in time to see Skid
hit the street under the hulked black back of a uniform. Ice went
down on top of them. The bright flicker of her knife blade, and she
and Skid were up. Groucho caught another uniform, whipping his
bolo like a garrote, pinning the uniform's upraised arm to his throat,
before dispatching him with a kick to the solar plexus. Very weird
for rent-a-cops, thought Jonny. A couple of Futukoro rounds
slammed into the scarred armor on the side of the van. Very fucking
weird.
        One of the uniforms scrambled by, illuminated by the flickering
green florescence of a street lamp.  Oh shit," Jonny said.
        He ducked and ran, hoping the Committee boys had not spotted
him. Man Ray was already behind the wheel of the van, gunning the
engine. Ice and Groucho had their guns out, and were giving Jonny
covering fire. The three jumped in the back. Skid, however, remained
outside, in maniacal pursuit of the Committee boy who had attacked
him.
        Man Ray ground the van into gear, accelerating past the Kid.
Jonny held onto one of Groucho's arms as he leaned out the back. The
anarchist snared the Kid and they dragged him by his sleeves for a
block or so before Ice got hold of his collar and pulled him inside.
        A hovercar skimmed down low over the van, burning lights,
manic shadows; hot fists of turbine wash forced them back from the
door. Man Ray jammed through the gears. He took two corners,
nearly overturning the van on one, but the hovercar just hung there.
Then it veered suddenly off to the left.
        It seemed for a moment that they had lost it, but it dropped
down a few feet in front of them, barely skimming over the puddles.
        Man Ray stood on the brakes, sending the van wiggling down
the street like a speared fish. When he regained control, the Guru ran
them through a parking lot off Vine and out onto Melrose.
        Gripping the doorframe, Jonny and the others shot at the
turbine vanes on the underside of the hovercar with Man Ray's
custom ammo. Pink and silver spheres impacted the polycarbonate
surface; blue firework dragons pawed at the landing gear, before
being sucked up through the intake ports. Skid pushed past them,
and threw some of Man Ray's roses, knife-fashion, at the low flying
car. They exploded behind the van, blistering asphalt and palm trees.
         Let there be light!" yelled Man Ray. He cranked up the short
wave scanner, making adjustments to his own broadcasting unit.
         Listen'a that dumb fuck," he said.  Thinks he's calling us in. I
got that boy jammed so hard, surprised he knows which end holds
the mike. 
        The hovercar let loose then with a burst of automatic weapons
fire that hammered down on the roof of the van like a phospho-
rescent avalanche, blue sparks dancing around the edges of the door.
Jonny and the others fell back. Man Ray steered them onto Wilshire
Boulevard, dodging slow-moving low riders and pedicabs.
        Jonny leaned up to the driver seat.  How far are we from the
underground?  he yelled.
         Almost there," Man Ray said. He had slipped on a high-domed
crash helmet.
         Can we take more of that fire?"
        The Guru grinned through high-impact plastic.  Don't insult
me. 
        The glass donut of Lockheed's office tower was glowing just a
few blocks ahead. The Guru steered the van onto a side street, trying
to lose their tail before heading for the clinic. The hovercar hung
implacably above them.
         We're really eating it," Man Ray said.  There's no major turn-
offs and the underground's just ahead. Any suggestions? 
         I got one," said Ice. She pulled one of the Croakers'
Kalashnikov rifles, retrofit with an M-79 grenade launcher, from the
weapons bin. The van was running fast down a side street between
long rows of grimed and decaying old geodesic greenhouses, some
forgotten experiment in urban self-sufficiency.
        Wind tearing at her corn-rows, Ice sighted in on the hovercar,
tracking the subtle, massive glide of the machine as it positioned
itself for another attack. When she did not fire, Jonny was tempted to
pull her away from the door. Then, just as he was reaching for her,
she pulled the trigger, sending the burning M-79 bolt at the aft
section of the car. The explosion, when the shell hit, blew out
windows in one old greenhouse dome, peppering the van with dead
vegetation and fragments of glass.
        Black smoke and guttering light above them. The hovercar
tried to rise, but its remaining engine clipped a transformer tower,
flipping the car onto its back. It hung there for a moment, as if
undecided what to do. Finally, in what looked like an attempt to right
itself, it slammed through a greenhouse roof, emerging from the far
side in flames.
         Brace yourselves!" screamed Man Ray. He wrenched the
steering wheel left, sending the van broadside into the hovercar just
as it skidded to the ground in front of them.

        The first thing Jonny was aware of was the constant blaring of
a horn; then came shadows, flickering over his eyelids in frozen
micro-second silhouettes; then a thick wetness on his face, across his
chest and arms. He opened his eyes. Glycerin. It was everywhere,
thick puddles massing on the floor and slopping out the back,
ruptured padding going limp on the walls. He crawled to the open
door and dropped a couple of unexpected feet to the pavement. The
vehicle was resting at a severe angle, its three left wheels spinning in
the air.
        He walked on some stranger's legs; they refused to work
together.
        Around the side of the van he found the mangled hovercar, a
skeletal mass of crumpled alloys and scorched plastic, two feeble red
lights rotating out of synch; the fuselage had twisted itself
thoroughly into the undercarriage of the van, merging with it.
Symbiotic junk.
        A sleeve grazed his face, electric jolt sending Jonny down to his
knees. Man Ray danced past him, his Medusa out and swinging over
his head. Charged lashes flowered sparks as they touched, gilding the
air above the Guru's head with spinning galaxies, ghostly landscapes
of exploding stars, playing cards, cometary butterflies. He was easily
holding three Committee boys at bay. There was an enormous
stained-porcelain smile plastered across his face. Even groggy, Jonny
could read it: Total fulfillment. Man Ray was in his element, writing
sonnets with his weapons; the image of the artist at work.
        The Guru froze and held out his arms, crystal geckos skittering
from his sleeves. Light-footed, quick-tongued, they leaped to the
ground at the Committee boys' feet, exploding into billowing,
lavender clouds of CS gas. Jonny fell back on the van, coughing, eyes
filling with tears, and saw Man Ray emerge from the cloud a moment
later. Somewhere along the way, the Guru had slipped a respirator on
under his kendo helmet. A Committee boy grabbed him and was
jolted off by the electrical charge of the polypyrrole armor.
        Then someone was pulling Jonny away, around to the back of
the ruined van. It was Skid, blood ruining the white perfection of his
teeth, rimming his lips. The hand he used to hold Jonny was glowing,
pixels throbbing nervously, but offering no image. He was shouting
something.
         We're fucked! They've blown it! We're on our own, man!"
        The Kid started to pull again, but Jonny shifted his weight and
held him in place.  What are you talking about? Where's Ice?"
        The Kid pointed with his gun.  Pinned down with Groucho. It's
the Committee, man. They've blown the clinic! 
        Jonny pushed the Kid aside and ran between the rows of
greenhouses. A block away, he could see a dozen of the Committee's
meat wagons forming an armored barrier around the warehouse he
and the others had left earlier that evening. Force men were leading
a few cuffed Croakers to the wagons. There were bodies, Committee
boys and anarchists, lying in the flood-lit parking lot. Ice and
Groucho were there, pinned-down in an alley off to the right, meters
apart, unable to reach the cover of the greenhouses.
         See? We're fucked!" Skid shrilled.  They found the clinic!"
        Jonny watched as Ice and Groucho tried to make a run for it,
shooting into the air to cover each other. The Committee boys
laughed at them from the roof, cat and mousing them, letting them
get a few meters out, then forcing them back against the warehouse
under a curtain of bullets.
         If we lay down some fire on that roof, they could make it,"
Jonny told Skid.  Watch them. I need a weapon." He crawled away,
then sprinted to the van.
        Weapons and ammunition were scattered on the ground behind
the van's open door. Some of Man Ray's clockwork constructions had
been activated; they crawled absently off into the shadows where
they popped and flared. The Guru was nowhere in sight. Jonny
grabbed a Futukoro and, as he fished for a clip in the glycerin
flooded bin, paused for a moment to take a couple of deep, even
breaths. His hands were shaking. He closed his eyes, tried to will
himself calm. Nothing but ruins, he thought. Seeing Ice pinned down
had snapped something inside him. He thought of Sumi. He could not
lose them both in one night.
        A high-pitched animal scream. Jonny ran back to the
warehouse in time to see Skid zig-zagging into the open, his pixels
wild, a slight figure crawling with pastel geometrics and snapping
death's heads. As the Kid ran, he shot wildly at the roof of the
adjoining warehouse, forcing the Committee boys back. Ice, Jonny
realized, had been caught between the buildings, unable to get out of
the line of fire. Now, under Skid's cover, she made it to a greenhouse
on the far side, Groucho right on her heels. They turned to give the
Kid covering fire, but he seemed confused; unwilling to be pinned at
the warehouse wall as they had been, he sprinted back toward
Jonny.
        He got about ten meters when a shot caught him from behind,
punching a wet hole in his chest. The Kid spun around stiffly, firing
the last of his clip into the pavement.  Skid!" Ice screamed. The Kid
was on his back, half-conscious, crawling with snakes and
phosphenes. A file dump, Jonny realized. All the images in his
software were bubbling up at once, out of control. The arm Skid held
up strobed madly: the arm of a woman, a reptile, an industrial robot;
crimson spiders webbed him; amber alphanumerics scrolled up his
twisted face; Brando, Lee, Bowie, Vega; his system was looping, the
faces flickering by faster and faster, merging into one meta-fantasy
face, colorless, all colors, fading at the same instant it formed. Skid
sat up, looked around wildly and laughed. A single bright flash of
binary, and he slumped to the ground. The Kid lay still and dark.
        By the meat wagons, a loudspeaker clicked on:  MY GOD, IS
THAT YOU, GORDON? NICE TO SEE YOU, ASSHOLE. WHAT HAPPENED
TO OUR DEAL?  came Zamora's voice. "YOU FUCKED ME, GORDON, BUT I
DIDN'T THINK YOU WERE STUPID. I CUT YOU LOOSE AND YOU RUN
RIGHT INTO THE ARMS OF CRIMINALS; TERRORISTS, FOR CHRISSAKE. 
        It was a game, Jonny knew. Could the Colonel make him mad
enough to do something stupid? Jonny tried to force the sound of
Colonel Zamora's voice from his brain; he conjured up visions of
clawing the man's eyes out with his hands, but he stayed in the
shadows, shaking, hating himself, and biting his lip until he drew
blood.
         I'M GOING TO ROAST YOU, KID. ONE OF YOUR BITCHES IS MINE
ALREADY. THEY LOVE FRESH CUNT AT THE WEAPONS LAB, YOU
KNOW. THEY'LL HAVE HER INCUBATING SPINAL WORMS. EVER SEEN
THOSE THINGS? ALL THEY EAT IS NERVE TISSUE, AND THEY DON'T
STOP TILL IT'S ALL GONE... 
        Before Jonny knew what he was doing, he was flat on his belly,
screaming, firing the Futukoro, filling the air above the meat wagons
with dragons, burning comets, screeching harpies. He knocked out
the P.A. with the first volley, and took out some of the flood lights.
Something occurred to him then, and he was up, scrambling back to
the van. Some of Man Ray's toys were been back there, he
remembered. What a nice surprise they would be for the Colonel.
        But he never got there.
        Two dark suited men intercepted him as he was stepping into
the vehicle. Instinctively, Jonny brought his boot up into one man's
armpit, paralyzing the arm. But it was not enough. His whole system
hummed, crying out for blood. Jonny grabbed a handful of the first
man's face and pushed him into the second. They both went down,
and Jonny was on them, bringing his boots down heel-first, aiming
for the throat. He missed the first man, corrected his aim for the
second and knocked out some of his teeth. Jonny's fun was cut short,
however, when an arm clamped across his face, and something cold
and stinging touched his throat. As his body went limp, some neutral
part of his brain noted that he had been stuck with a neural
scrambler. The effect was a strange one since Jonny's mind continued
to function perfectly, but with the pyramidal tracks of his brain
jammed, his body had suddenly been reduced to so much useless
meat. He was aware of the two men carrying him for some distance.
He hoped they would not let him swallow his tongue.
        When they removed the scrambler, Jonny found himself on the
filthy floor of an underground garage. A stretched Cadillac limousine,
the rear end huge under twin sweeping tail fins, was parked nearby.
His tongue seemed to be intact. The car door swung open, and a
familiar florid scent of clove cigarettes billowed out. Then the ugliest
man Jonny had ever seen smiled out at him.
         Please don't be angry, Jonny. Your friends are gone. Some of
their compatriots picked them up a few moments ago,  said Mister
Conover, the smuggler lord.  Aside from that, it's been my sad
experience that people who are ready to die for a cause, all too often,
end up doing just that.  He grinned apologetically, showing horrid
yellow teeth.  There are far too many of them out there for you to do
any good, you know. You'll just get yourself killed. 
         Killed?" said Jonny. He laughed.  Wouldn't that be a joke on
everybody. 



                                                SIX:
                                        The Exquisite Corpse

        Mister Conover, relaxed and smiling, was sporting that season's
newest suit style from Milan (high-waisted pants, shoulder pads in
the jacket, all woven from Russian silk. There was a Cyrillic character
on each of the gold buttons. In all, the suit violated a dozen U.S. trade
embargoes against pro-Arab countries.). He was the most powerful
smuggler lord in Los Angeles, singlehandedly controlling most of the
drug traffic in and out of southern California.
        Many of the other lords were working small, furtive drug deals
of their own, deals designed to boost their cash flow and their self-
esteem, and while they were, technically, cutting into Conover's
action, he did not mind. Allowing the other lords to have their little
deals helped to keep them happy and in line. And that, Conover
knew, was a form of power he could not buy or do without.
        Rumor had it that Mr. Conover's influence reached far beyond
the limits of Los Angeles, into the governor's mansion, and the offices
of the multi-nationals in Osaka and Mexico City. Part of this was due
to an elaborate kick-back scheme he had reputedly concocted with
several pharmaceutical firms decades before, a scheme having to do
with the scuttling of artificial intelligence controlled-cargo blimps
and tankers, allowing the companies to collect on the insurance, then
returning the vessels with new names and computer logs, while he
kept the cargo. However, a portion of his influence had simply to do
with his age. He had been born in the previous century, making him
older than most of the corporations and politicos he was dealing with.
Through the years, he had become a link to a golden age when the
foundations for the power structure of their world was being laid, a
sort of icon to commerce and stability.
        Mr. Conover was also a Greenies addict. Originally marketed in
the late nineteen nineties as a longevity drug, Greenies were later
found to be responsible for a whole range of bizarre side effects.
However, these effects manifested themselves only after decades of
use, and by then it was usually too late; the drug had already bonded
with and re-inscribed large segments of the addict's DNA. To stop
taking the drug would have killed Conover. The drug's street name
derived from its peculiar tendency to slow the oxidation of blood in
the user's system, giving the addict's skin a brittle, greenish-blue
quality.
        The final irony was that Greenies turned out to be an
exceptionally effective life extender. Thus, the user could look
forward to decades (centuries?) of addiction and slow physical
disintegration. No one really knew how old Mr. Conover was, but
what he had become was obvious to all.
        Conover's small grayish-green skull of a head bobbed between
narrow shoulders set above a thick torso. His nose was little more
than a mass of jagged scar tissue surrounded by livid clusters of red
tumors. He puffed constantly at gold-tipped Sherman clove cigarettes
which he held in a long mother-of-pearl holder, an affectation which,
like his clothes, was another symptom of his compulsion to
accentuate his own ugliness. When he smiled, which was often, his
thin lips stretched back from a stained jumble of teeth. His
appearance always gave Jonny the feeling that he was in
conversation with a well-dressed corpse.

        The Cadillac moved swiftly along an all but abandoned stretch
of freeway. Sand was blowing in off the desert, carried to the city on
the backs of freak Santa Ana winds. Carbon arcs mounted on the roof
threw the cracked roadbed into stark relief, made the sand look like
static on a video screen. Jonny looked out the double-glazed
windows, but there was not much to see. They were driving through
hills northwest of the city, on the edge of the German industrial
sector, a bleak dead zone of strip mining equipment and half-
finished bunkers housing the Krupp Corporation's experimental
tokamak. The leached hills depressed Jonny, reminded him of a
painting by Max Ernst that Groucho had shown him: Europe After the
Rain. The landscape brought back uneasy memories of evenings on
the Committee shooting speed with Krupp's young shock truppen.
The German's did not have Meat Boys, instead, it was common for
young recruits to display their machismo by replacing their limbs
with unfeeling myoelectric prosthesis. Jonny had the patchy,
drunken memory of a laughing boy holding a cigarette lighter to his
fingertips until they melted and dripped away, revealing the silicon
sensors and black alloy mesh beneath.
        Jonny relaxed on the soft leather seat in the rear of the
limousine. Seated next to him, Conover pulled out an ornate silver
cigarette case and offered him a smoke. Jonny accepted the cigarette
and a light, pulling the harsh, sweet clove smoke deep into his lungs
and letting it trickle out through his nose.
        It had been months since he last smoked a cigarette (Sumi had
guilted him into stopping when a Croaker working out of the back of
a taqueria told him he had a shadow on one lung), but his past
seemed to be catching up with him at such a rate that Jonny figured
he might as well get into the spirit of it. He coughed wearily as the
smoke caught in his throat. Resting his head on the seatback, he
watched the road slide by. Conover's chauffeur, a heavy-set ex-
Guardia Nacional man, was skull-plugged into a radar/navigational
unit in the dashboard, following a trail of military sensors under the
road bed. Conover was one of the few men in the city Jonny trusted,
certainly the only lord. For the moment, he felt safe. Conover leaned
over and spoke to him quietly.
         You seem to have brought down the wrath of god, old son. Or
at least you pissed off Zamora, which amounts to the same thing.
What in the world can you have done? 
        Jonny ran a hand through his hair.  I wish I knew," he said.
 Maybe I'd feel like I deserve all this special attention."
         Much as he'd like to, the Colonel does not stage raids just for
fun. He must have had some reason for singling you out.  Conover
put a hand on Jonny's arm.  No offense, you're a charming boy, but--"
         The man's insane. He thinks you and I are playing footsie with
the Alpha Rats,  Jonny said. "I suppose that's assuming they have
feet. I don't know. This whole thing's crazier by the minute. 
         The Alpha Rats," Conover said, half as a question, half a reply.
He smoked his pastel Sherman, laughed mildly.  The Colonel never
ceases to amaze me. Did he happen to mention what, specifically, you
and I were doing with the Alpha Rats? 
         No. He just said we'd had contact and that we're into some
kind of deal,  Jonny explained. He gave up and ground out the
cigarette in an ashtray gouged from a crystal lump of Amazon quartz.
His throat burned.
         And that's all he said?" Conover asked.
         Yeah." Jonny hesitated before saying anything about Zamora's
demand that he turn Conover. Just saying the words, Jonny felt,
implied a kind of betrayal. But how will it look, he wondered, if I
don't say anything and he finds out?  Zamora's really got the hots for
you,  he said. "He cut me loose and told me I had to deliver you in
forty eight hours or-- 
         --Or we get the little scene back at the warehouses. Tell me,
did Easy Money ever come up in your talk? 
         I don't think so."
         Take a moment. I want you to be sure. Did Colonel Zamora
mention Easy Money? 
         No, never."
         You didn't seem so sure a moment ago."
         Well, I wasn't then; I'm sure now," said Jonny. He looked at the
smuggler lord.
         Good," said Conover, nodding in satisfaction.  Forgive me for
being insistent, but it's important that I get to Easy before the
Committee. He's made off with something of mine and I do not want
Zamora involved, on any level, with its recovery. 
         For what it's worth, Groucho, the Croaker, said Easy's gone to
work for Nimble Virtue. 
        Conover reached forward and picked up a bottle of tequila
from a well-stocked traveling bar set into the seatback before them.
Next to the bar was an array of sleek matte-black Japanese electronic
gear; Jonny recognized a Sony compound analyzer, a cellular
videophone and a voice-activated PC. Conover poured a shot of
tequila into a glass and handed it to Jonny.
         I'd heard about Nimble Virtue," said Conover.  In fact, I've
been trying to set up a meet with her, but the witch is on the run.
Paranoid,that woman is. My sources say she might have a pied a
terre in Little Tokyo, but only time will tell.  Jonny finished his
tequila and Conover refilled his glass.  Right now, though, why don't
you relax and tell me, from the beginning, everything that went on
with you and Zamora. Take your time, we have a bit of a drive ahead
of us. 
        Jonny took a gulp of the liquor, bracing himself with its cool
heat. He was not wild about the idea of reliving that night, but he
knew had known it was coming, ever since the smuggler lord had
picked him up. Conover, meanwhile, was using a tiny spoon to scoop
a fine white powder from a glass vial he pulled from the back of the
bar. That done, he cut the pile the into several neat lines with a gold
single-edged razor blade.
        As the lord snorted up a couple of the lines, Jonny began to
talk, telling Conover everything he could remember, from the
moment Zamora had picked him up, until he had found himself alone
behind the prison, confused and outraged. It was painful; all that had
happened since came crashing down on him. Ice was gone. Sumi was
gone. Skid was dead. He even found Groucho's absence disturbing.
        When he finished, Conover had him run through the whole
thing again, focusing on Zamora's theories about their connection to
the Alpha Rats. After going through it a second time, Jonny was
drained.
        Conover patted his arm, and nodded.  A very good job, Jonny.
Thank you,  he said. "You look like you could use a break. 
         I could use a new life. But what about Zamora and the Alpha
Rats? 
        Conover handed the tube he had used to snort the coke to
Jonny.  It all sounds fascinating. I never would have suspected the
Colonel of having an imagination. It almost makes me wish it were
true. Without you to pull out of the fire, Jonny, my life would be
unbearable. Don't let anybody try and sell you on immortality. There
simply isn't enough of interest to make it worthwhile. Do your time
and get it over with; that's the best way. It's not polite to be the last
one to leave a party. 
        Jonny snorted up the white lines and asked:  Then there's
nothing to all this spaceman stuff? 
        Conover shook his head, his eyes fixed miles and centuries
away.  No, nothing," he replied. Then he said something else; Jonny
thought it might be:  Empty."
        Jonny found himself beginning to feel a certain odd sympathy
for the smuggler lord. For all his power, Conover had trapped himself
in the decomposing body of a junky fop through a single
miscalculation-- his urgent will to live. On the other hand, Mr.
Conover was no fool. Had it really been a mistake? Jonny wondered.
Or was it a stage in some other, infinitely more complex and subtle
plan that Jonny and the rest, condemned to a pitiful handful of years,
could not see? If the smuggler lord was working on something else,
Jonny hoped it was very big. The price of it seemed high.
        Conover lit another in his constant stream of cigarettes. Tossing
the match out the window, he let in a sudden blast of hot air and
dust. His mood seemed to have grown lighter.
         I hope you don't mind, but I've a little side trip to make
before we can go home. Just some business, you understand. I have a
boat coming in from the south with some goodies on board: pituitary
extracts, frozen retinas, a few kilos of cocaine. We wouldn't want to
be late and give our neighbors the impression that we keep a sloppy
shop, eh?  He laughed, amused by his own rambling. "Besides, I
believe these boys are going to try and burn me. And I wouldn't miss
that for the world. 
         Yeah? What would you do for the world?" Jonny asked, feeling
pleasantly numb and reckless, buzzing on the coke. Objects in the car
had taken on a warm internal glow.
        Conover looked at him, not without affection.  Only a lunatic
would want to run this dump,  he said. "I'm content to farm my small
bit and be done with it. L.A. has been a very good investment for me,
in money and time. 
         I always wondered why you didn't move into someplace like
New Hope. I mean, those people have got to have some expensive
habits. 
        Conover raised his ruined eyebrows.  More than you could
know,  he said. "But New Hope is a ghost town. The corruption there
is a closed system. The same families have been running drugs and
data through there for generations. Old families, very powerful.
We're talking here about the Yakuza and the Panteras Aureo. The
families connected to the multinationals have their own internal
organizations to keep their people happy and restful. There's no
freedom in that sort of set-up. Little potential for growth.  He
carefully ground out his cigarette and placed another in his mother
of pearl holder.  Besides, like Lucifer in the poem, I much prefer to
rule in Hell than serve in Heaven. 
        Jonny grinned up at him.  I thought you said you didn't want to
run this dump. 
         It's all semantics. You can't buy Heaven, either."
        Outside, the sand had let up. Heat lightning crackled silently
across the horizon. Inside the Cadillac, they had passed into what
Jonny had come to think of as a pocket of silence, one of those odd
conjunctions of time and place where conversation vanished of its
own accord; at those moments, Jonny believed, all words became
dangerous and banal. He had come to attach a certain sacredness to
the silence. All things were at rest. It was a ritual from boyhood, no
different from stepping around cracks so that he would not break his
mother's back. Meaningless, he knew, but when the feeling passed,
he missed it and in trying to force it back, came up, instead, with the
twin images of Ice and Sumi.
         Hey Mister Conover, anything in this stuff we're picking up
have to do with the new strain of leprosy? 
         No," said the smuggler lord.  Why do you ask?"
         I just figured you might be looking around for something. It's
getting pretty bad in some neighborhoods. 
         Have you seen the epidemic yourself?" asked Conover.  You
know how these things can get blown out of proportion. With AIDS in
the last century and the new hepatitis strains at the beginning of this
one, people are very susceptible to rumors of a new plague. Then the
Link gets hold of the talk, and broadcasts it right into people's skulls,
reinforcing their belief in their own delusions. Couldn't this plague
just be some mass psychogenic reaction? 
         Yeah, I've seen it. People aren't really talking plague-- not yet.
The Croakers have a roomful of lepers quarantined. Say this new
strain is viral and that it kills, maybe through some kind of
secondary infection,  said Jonny. "We're not talking about a few
hysterical whackos here. The whole city's in trouble. 
         Calm down, son," said Mister Conover, laying a hand on Jonny's
arm.  Remind me not to give you stimulants in the future." He smiled.
 Actually, I do know this new strain is real. Looks like a bacteria, acts
like a virus and all that, right? I was just trying to get an untainted
perspective. As I said, all I hear are rumors. Like in east L.A. they've
taken to burning their dead. That neighborhoods are beginning to
seal themselves off. The social effects of the disease are certainly real
enough. Tell me, have the Croakers had any success in isolating
reverse transcriptase from the virus samples? 
         You think it's a retro-virus?"
         AIDS was. And that little fellow practically had the medical
community reading Ouija boards before they got anywhere. 
         What about going after it with a general virus-killer like
ribovirin or amantadine?  asked Jonny.
        The smuggler lord shook his head.  That's been tried," he said.
 Amantadine seems to have some preventative applications, but if
you're already infected, it's useless. 
         You know about this new strain, don't you, Mister Conover?"
         It's my job."
         You don't seem too concerned."
         Personally? No. The Greenies took care of that long ago. I
doubt my blood would be very appetizing to these little bastards.  He
rocked with some internal laughter.  I haven't had a cold in over
forty years. 
         Then you don't know any treatments we could get hold of for
the new strain? 
         No one is even sure how it's transmitted," Conover said.  And
without the disease vector, curing a few individuals isn't going to
stop an epidemic. 
        Seated beside the driver in the front of the car, a hawk-nosed
man with an oily pompadour turned to face the back. One of his eyes
was blackened, and his upper lip was swollen badly, drawing it
downward, giving him a childish, sullen look. Jonny recognized the
man as the one whose teeth he had loosened with his boots earlier
that evening. The man appeared to be slightly embarrassed. He
would not look at Jonny.
         'Scuse me, Mr. Conover, but I read un transmissor en la auto,"
he said.
         Jonny, my boy, you wouldn't be wired for sound, would you?"
asked the smuggler lord.
        Jonny looked at him.  Hey, you know me, Mister Conover."
        Conover nodded and turned to the front.  What do you say,
Ricos? You sure your little gadget's reading correctly? 
         Si, no cuestion. The maricon es only new baggage 'round here.
I'm not reading nothin' till he get in. 
         Friend, if you can read at all I'd be surprised," said Jonny.
Ricos made a quick grab for Jonny, but Conover shoved the man back
in his seat.  That's enough, children. Jonny, could somebody have
planted something on you? 
         No," Jonny said.  Those Committee boys never got near me and
these clothes are Croaker cast-offs. They'd have no reason to tail me
to their own hideout.  He looked at Ricos, pointed to his skull "Tu
tener un tornillo flojo. 
        Conover puffed thoughtfully at his cigarette, leaned forward
and touched the driver's shoulder.  Pull over up ahead," he said.
 Ricos, bring your remote. Come on, Jonny."
        The car stopped near an old dumpsite for a mining operation
that had flattened the surrounding hills. Conover slipped on a white
Panama hat as he led Jonny out and around to the back of the
Cadillac. Cottony tracers of gas clung to gummy, bitter smelling waste
pits. The smuggler lord pointed to Jonny with his cigarette holder.
 Find it," he said to Ricos.
        Ricos moved very close to Jonny and began moving a small
electromagnetic device over Jonny's clothing, tracing the outline of
his body. Jonny glanced over at Conover and wondered what was
going through the smuggler lord's mind, but it was impossible to read
that face. He concentrated, instead, in affecting a look of extreme
uninterest as Ricos studiously moved the device around his crotch.
         Ai!" Ricos yelled. He held the box to Jonny's bandaged
shoulder.  Got you, maricon."
        Jonny looked at the man and then at the box in his hand.
 Jesus," said Jonny miserably.  Oh fucking hell--"
         Jonny?" said Conover.
        He slumped against the back of car, Ricos standing over him
delightedly. It took several seconds for the image to assemble itself;
it appeared to him much the way he imagined visuals formed
through skull-plugs: an out of focus mass of phosphenes settling
slowly, like a reverse tornado, around a central spiral. In truth, he
did not want to understand it, but in admitting that, he gave the
thought form and terrible substance.
         Zamora did this," Jonny said. The image was clear. The prison
infirmary had fixed him up nicely and, all their doctors were
Committee recruits: bloodless and faceless; company men all the way.
It was obvious. He had lead the Committee to the Croakers. Right to
Ice's room. Now he was leading them to Conover.  Oh fucking hell--"
         What is it, Jonny?" ask Conover.
        Jonny's hand moved involuntarily to his cast.  I got shot
earlier,  he said. "I got shot and Zamora had them wire me. It's in my
goddam shoulder. 
        Conover approached him, shaking his head sympathetically.
 I'm truly sorry, son. It's an awful thing to have done," he murmured.
 We'll have to cut it out, of course. You can't go around beeping the
rest of your life. 
        Jonny laughed, when he thought about it. Zamora could not let
him off that easily. The insult had been there all along; all that had
been required was for him to recognize it. There was, Jonny had to
admit, even a kind of twisted beauty to it.
        Conover called the driver out, and spoke to him for some time
in quiet Spanish. When they parted, the driver opened the trunk and
unrolled a cloth-bound set of surgical instruments. He helped Jonny
off with his coat and pulled back the top of the Pemex jumpsuit.
When he removed Jonny's cast and xylocaine patch, he did it with
such sureness that Jonny was sure the man had been a medic at
some time.
        Jonny felt a cool punch of compressed air on his arm as the
driver injected him with something from a pressurized syringe.
Seconds later, Jonny was flying. The driver set him on the rear
fender and hooked a small work light to the inside of the trunk lid.
Before Conover retreated inside the car, Jonny heard him say:  When
you find it, bring it to me. 
        The driver held out a small device that looked like an old
fashioned tattoo needle, but which Jonny recognized as an Akasaka
laser scalpel. In Spanish, the driver told Jonny to concentrate on the
hanging light.
        He did not feel a thing.

        Later, when the car was moving and Jonny was sacked out on
the back seat, still high on whatever they shot him with, he heard
voices in the midst of conversation. His shoulder ached with each
heartbeat. But he seemed to recall that his shoulder always hurt,
didn't it? Eventually he recognized Conover's voice.
         We each do our bit as best we can, of course. Zamora is a
vicious, greedy prick, but a sterling leader of men. I've seen him pull
many strange stunts in my time. However, I have never before
known him to betray a sense of humor.  He glanced at Jonny. "Have
you? 
        Jonny just rolled away and fell asleep.  I'd like to go home
now,  he said, but nobody heard him.

        A dark, sour smelling harbor glittering oily rainbows amidst
sluggish waves. Men talking in a circle some distance off, a litter of
shapes around their feet; another painting came to him, Tanguy, this
time. Sharks-- the bleached carcasses of dead sharks, stripped of
their flesh by birds and their jaws by souvenir hunters, strewn
across the sand like some hallucinatory crop ready for harvest. Down
the beach, a roofless merry-go-round, half-collapsed, dangling a
string of bloated wooden horses into the dirty water. The flares of
gas jets miles away.

        Jonny rubbed grit from his eyes and tried to focus on the circle
of men outside on the beach. He had no idea how long he or they had
been here. He was very thirsty.
        From what Jonny could see, only two men were doing all the
talking. One was Conover, who was easy to spot, towering above the
rest, the glowing dot of his cigarette tracing erratic patterns in the
air. Behind Conover stood Ricos, scowling into the ocean wind, his
pompadour flailing around his ears like a dying animal.
        The man Conover was talking to was considerably shorter, but
very board, wearing the white dress uniform of a Mexican Naval
officer. A jet foil with the name Sangre Christi painted on the bow
floated a few meters out in the harbor, rolling gently with the surf.
Two small Zodiac crafts were beached nearby, one overloaded with
sealed metal containers. The identification numbers on the Sangre
Christi indicated that the ship was from the Gobernacion fleet
stationed in San Diego, but she was running no lights, and the flag on
her mast was Venezuelan, not Mexican. When the moon broke
through the heavy cloud layer, Jonny got a good look at her crew,
spread out in a semi-circle around the Zodiacs. About half wore naval
uniforms; the others were dressed variously in jeans and leathers,
pale gringos and dread-locked blacks numerous among the crew.
        That's it then, Jonny thought. They're pirates.
        Picking up the tequila from Conover's traveling bar, Jonny took
a drink. The pirate captain pointed back to his ship and shouted
something. Warmed by the tequila, Jonny's thoughts drifted back to
his own time as a dealer.
        Jonny always picked up a buzz when he was pushing or setting
up a meet that was wholly divorced from the rest of his life. Part of
it was the thrill an ex-Committee boy felt at having gone over to the
 other side." Another part of it had something to dowith vague
notions of changing the world, but he attributed this to youthful
folly, regarding it as a consequence of spending too much time sober.
Groucho's casual remark equating Jonny's dealing with revolutionary
politics had disturbed him. It saddled him responsibilities he had no
intention of trying to fulfill. The world (at least Los Angeles, which
was all he knew of the world), as Jonny perceived it, was little more
than the natural battle of competing organisms, like the virus he had
seen on the micrograph at the Croakers' clinic. Each viral unit was
incomplete until it had taken over a living cell and used that
organism to replicate itself, and the one-percenters and gangs of the
city followed the virus's pattern. Inertia swept them along in a
perpetual hustle, moving in time to the endless rhythm of commerce;
most knew nothing else. And, as was the way of nature, the strongest
viruses ate the weaker. The strongest viruses were the Committee,
the lords and the multinationals, Jonny thought, forces that were
overwhelming and, in the end, incomprehensible to him.
        Did the Croakers really believe they could change a world run
by Zamora or Nimble Virtue? Even Conover was just a business man
who had his own reasons for being there. And Groucho was too
damned small to play Atlas, Jonny thought.
        He wondered where Ice was at that moment. He felt certain
that she was all right; she seemed to have a talent for staying alive.
In his mind, however, Sumi had become one with the ruined
apartment. If Zamora really had her, she was lost. Jonny loved both
women (something which he was quick to point out as the single
distinguished feature of his character) but he felt he owed them
something more that.
        The door opposite Jonny opened and Conover leaned in. Salt
mist sparkled on the smuggler lord's shoulders and the wide brim of
his hat. He smiled at Jonny.  How are you feeling?" he asked.  We'll
be through here in just a few minutes. These boys are playing it to
the last row. Hand me that box by your feet, will you? 
        Jonny looked at the floor of the Cadillac and found a small
black lacquered box with brass fittings in the shape of lotus petals.
His head spun as he picked the box up. Conover smiled as he took it.
 Thanks, son. Sit tight. Have a drink," he said.
        Watching the smuggler lord cross the colorless sand, Jonny was
overcome by a sudden and overwhelming sense of loss. As if he were
adrift in some vast and infinite ocean with no land in sight. He had
the strong urge to bail out right there, to run from the car and to
keep running. But for some reason he stayed. If he drifted long
enough, he thought, a landfall was bound to appear. Besides, he was
drugged silly. Where would I go if I ran, he wondered. On the beach,
the pirates were smoking and passing a bottle. Jonny raised his
tequila to them and decided to remain in the car. Drifting, he knew,
was what he was best at.
        Outside, the pirate captain was nodding as Conover
ceremoniously handed him the small box. The pirate opened it for a
moment, waved briskly to a couple of men by the Zodiacs. They
made their way through the sand slowly with several containers,
setting them a few meters from Conover and Ricos. That done, they
retreated quickly from the smuggler lord's presence. Jonny caught a
quick movement of one pirate's hand. He had crossed himself,
Catholic-fashion.
        Ricos flicked open a butterfly knife and slit the metal strips
that bound the top of one container. Reaching inside, he pulled out a
white brick wrapped in heavy plastic and handed it to Conover.
Jonny looked around the car, wondering where Conover's chauffeur
had gone. When he looked back at the beach, the pirates were
moving out, pushing their Zodiac's into the surf. The moon lit, briefly,
the rubber floats that flanked each craft, like twin torpedoes
wrapped in skin. Ricos carried the metal containers back to the
Cadillac, stacking them by the rear bumper as Conover got in.
        Jonny nodded at the brick.  Real cocaine?" he asked.
         Theoretically."
         That's an awful lot."
         You would think so, wouldn't you?" The smuggler lord pushed
some bottles out of the way, and set the brick on the traveling bar.
With his thumb nail, he gouged a hole in the plastic. He touched the
finger to his tongue ad grunted, motioning for Jonny to have a taste.
Wetting the end of his middle finger, Jonny touched it to the pile.
 What's wrong?" he asked, putting the finger gingerly to his tongue.
         You tell me," said Conover as he spooned a small portion of the
powder into a test tube half-filled with a clear fluid. Swirling the
mixture together, the smuggler lord fastened the test tube into the
twin metal receptacles on the front of the compound analyzer. He
punched a switch and a beam of pale laser light lit up the sample
from the inside.
        Jonny found the taste of the p