19
The Villa Straylight was a parasitic structure, Case reminded himself, as he stepped past the tendrils of caulk and through _Marcus Garvey_'s forward hatch. Straylight bled air and water out of Freeside, and had no ecosystem of its own.
The gangway tube the dock had extended was a more elab orate version of the one he'd tumbled through to reach _Haniwa,_ designed for use in the spindle's rotation gravity. A corrugated tunnel, articulated by integral hydraulic members, each seg ment ringed with a loop of tough, nonslip plastic, the loops serving as the rungs of a ladder. The gangway had snaked its way around _Haniwa;_ it was horizontal, where it joined _Garvey_'s lock, but curved up sharply and to the left, a vertical climb around the curvature of the yacht's hull. Maelcum was already making his way up the rings, pulling himself up with his left hand, the Remington in his right. He wore a stained pair of baggy fatigues, his sleeveless green nylon jacket, and a pair of ragged canvas sneakers with bright red soles. The gangway shifted slightly, each time he climbed to another ring.
The clips on Case's makeshift strap dug into his shoulder with the weight of the Ono-Sendai and the Flatline's construct. All he felt now was fear, a generalized dread. He pushed it away, forcing himself to replay Armitage's lecture on the spin dle and Villa Straylight. He started climbing. Freeside's eco system was limited, not closed. Zion was a closed system, capable of cycling for years without the introduction of external materials. Freeside produced its own air and water, but relied on constant shipments of food, on the regular augmentation of soil nutrients. The Villa Straylight produced nothing at all.
`Mon,' Maelcum said quietly, `get up here, 'side me.' Case edged sideways on the circular ladder and climbed the last few rungs. The gangway ended in a smooth, slightly convex hatch, two meters in diameter. The hydraulic members of the tube vanished into flexible housings set into the frame of the hatch.
`So what do we --'
Case's mouth shut as the hatch swung up, a slight differential in pressure puffing fine grit into his eyes.
Maelcum scrambled up, over the edge, and Case heard the tiny click of the Remington's safety being released. `You th' mon in th' hurry...' Maelcum whispered, crouching there. Then Case was beside him.
The hatch was centered in a round, vaulted chamber floored with blue nonslip plastic tiles. Maelcum nudged him, pointed, and he saw a monitor set into a curved wall. On the screen, a tall young man with the Tessier-Ashpool features was brushing something from the sleeves of his dark suitcoat. He stood beside an identical hatch, in an identical chamber. `Very sorry, sir,' said a voice from a grid centered above the hatch. Case glanced up. `Expected you later, at the axial dock. One moment, please.' On the monitor, the young man tossed his head impatiently.
Maelcum spun as a door slid open to their left, the shotgun ready. A small Eurasian in orange coveralls stepped through and goggled at them. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth. Case glanced at the monitor. Blank.
`Who?' the man managed.
`The Rastafarian navy,' Case said, standing up, the cyber space deck banging against his hip, `and all we want's a jack into your custodial system.'
The man swallowed. `Is this a test? It's a loyalty check. It must be a loyalty check.' He wiped the palms of his hands on the thighs of his orange suit.
`No, mon, this a real one.' Maelcum came up out of his crouch with the Remington pointed at the Eurasian's face. `You move it.'
They followed the man back through the door, into a corridor whose polished concrete walls and irregular floor of overlap ping carpets were perfectly familiar to Case. `Pretty rugs,' Maelcum said, prodding the man in the back. `Smell like church.'
They came to another monitor, an antique Sony, this one mounted above a console with a keyboard and a complex array of jack panels. The screen lit as they halted, the Finn grinning tensely out at them from what seemed to be the front room of Metro Holografix. `Okay,' he said, `Maelcum takes this guy down the corridor to the open locker door, sticks him in there, I'll lock it. Case, you want the fifth socket from the left, top panel. There's adaptor plugs in the cabinet under the console. Needs Ono-Sendai twenty-point into Hitachi forty.' As Mael cum nudged his captive along, Case knelt and fumbled through an assortment of plugs, finally coming up with the one he needed. With his deck jacked into the adaptor, he paused.
`Do you have to look like that, man?' he asked the face on the screen. The Finn was erased a line at a time by the image of Lonny Zone against a wall of peeling Japanese posters.
`Anything you want, baby,' Zone drawled, `just hop it for Lonny...'
`No,' Case said, `use the Finn.' As the Zone image van ished, he shoved the Hitachi adaptor into its socket and settled the trodes across his forehead.
`What kept you?' the Flatline asked, and laughed.
`Told you don't do that,' Case said.
`Joke, boy,' the construct said, `zero time lapse for me. Lemme see what we got here...'
The Kuang program was green, exactly the shade of the T-A ice. Even as Case watched, it grew gradually more opaque, although he could see the black-mirrored shark thing clearly when he looked up. The fracture lines and hallucinations were gone now, and the thing looked real as _Marcus Garvey,_ a wingless antique jet, its smooth skin plated with black chrome.
`Right on,' the Flatline said.
`Right,' Case said, and flipped.
The Villa Straylight was a parasitic structure, Case reminded himself, as he stepped past the tendrils of caulk and through _Marcus Garvey_'s forward hatch. Straylight bled air and water out of Freeside, and had no ecosystem of its own.
The gangway tube the dock had extended was a more elab orate version of the one he'd tumbled through to reach _Haniwa,_ designed for use in the spindle's rotation gravity. A corrugated tunnel, articulated by integral hydraulic members, each seg ment ringed with a loop of tough, nonslip plastic, the loops serving as the rungs of a ladder. The gangway had snaked its way around _Haniwa;_ it was horizontal, where it joined _Garvey_'s lock, but curved up sharply and to the left, a vertical climb around the curvature of the yacht's hull. Maelcum was already making his way up the rings, pulling himself up with his left hand, the Remington in his right. He wore a stained pair of baggy fatigues, his sleeveless green nylon jacket, and a pair of ragged canvas sneakers with bright red soles. The gangway shifted slightly, each time he climbed to another ring.
The clips on Case's makeshift strap dug into his shoulder with the weight of the Ono-Sendai and the Flatline's construct. All he felt now was fear, a generalized dread. He pushed it away, forcing himself to replay Armitage's lecture on the spin dle and Villa Straylight. He started climbing. Freeside's eco system was limited, not closed. Zion was a closed system, capable of cycling for years without the introduction of external materials. Freeside produced its own air and water, but relied on constant shipments of food, on the regular augmentation of soil nutrients. The Villa Straylight produced nothing at all.
`Mon,' Maelcum said quietly, `get up here, 'side me.' Case edged sideways on the circular ladder and climbed the last few rungs. The gangway ended in a smooth, slightly convex hatch, two meters in diameter. The hydraulic members of the tube vanished into flexible housings set into the frame of the hatch.
`So what do we --'
Case's mouth shut as the hatch swung up, a slight differential in pressure puffing fine grit into his eyes.
Maelcum scrambled up, over the edge, and Case heard the tiny click of the Remington's safety being released. `You th' mon in th' hurry...' Maelcum whispered, crouching there. Then Case was beside him.
The hatch was centered in a round, vaulted chamber floored with blue nonslip plastic tiles. Maelcum nudged him, pointed, and he saw a monitor set into a curved wall. On the screen, a tall young man with the Tessier-Ashpool features was brushing something from the sleeves of his dark suitcoat. He stood beside an identical hatch, in an identical chamber. `Very sorry, sir,' said a voice from a grid centered above the hatch. Case glanced up. `Expected you later, at the axial dock. One moment, please.' On the monitor, the young man tossed his head impatiently.
Maelcum spun as a door slid open to their left, the shotgun ready. A small Eurasian in orange coveralls stepped through and goggled at them. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth. Case glanced at the monitor. Blank.
`Who?' the man managed.
`The Rastafarian navy,' Case said, standing up, the cyber space deck banging against his hip, `and all we want's a jack into your custodial system.'
The man swallowed. `Is this a test? It's a loyalty check. It must be a loyalty check.' He wiped the palms of his hands on the thighs of his orange suit.
`No, mon, this a real one.' Maelcum came up out of his crouch with the Remington pointed at the Eurasian's face. `You move it.'
They followed the man back through the door, into a corridor whose polished concrete walls and irregular floor of overlap ping carpets were perfectly familiar to Case. `Pretty rugs,' Maelcum said, prodding the man in the back. `Smell like church.'
They came to another monitor, an antique Sony, this one mounted above a console with a keyboard and a complex array of jack panels. The screen lit as they halted, the Finn grinning tensely out at them from what seemed to be the front room of Metro Holografix. `Okay,' he said, `Maelcum takes this guy down the corridor to the open locker door, sticks him in there, I'll lock it. Case, you want the fifth socket from the left, top panel. There's adaptor plugs in the cabinet under the console. Needs Ono-Sendai twenty-point into Hitachi forty.' As Mael cum nudged his captive along, Case knelt and fumbled through an assortment of plugs, finally coming up with the one he needed. With his deck jacked into the adaptor, he paused.
`Do you have to look like that, man?' he asked the face on the screen. The Finn was erased a line at a time by the image of Lonny Zone against a wall of peeling Japanese posters.
`Anything you want, baby,' Zone drawled, `just hop it for Lonny...'
`No,' Case said, `use the Finn.' As the Zone image van ished, he shoved the Hitachi adaptor into its socket and settled the trodes across his forehead.
`What kept you?' the Flatline asked, and laughed.
`Told you don't do that,' Case said.
`Joke, boy,' the construct said, `zero time lapse for me. Lemme see what we got here...'
The Kuang program was green, exactly the shade of the T-A ice. Even as Case watched, it grew gradually more opaque, although he could see the black-mirrored shark thing clearly when he looked up. The fracture lines and hallucinations were gone now, and the thing looked real as _Marcus Garvey,_ a wingless antique jet, its smooth skin plated with black chrome.
`Right on,' the Flatline said.
`Right,' Case said, and flipped.
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