5
The medical team Molly employed occupied two floors of an anonymous condo-rack near the old hub of Baltimore. The building was modular, like some giant version of Cheap Hotel, each coffin forty meters long. Case met Molly as she emerged from one that wore the elaborately worked logo of one GER ALD CHIN, DENTIST. She was limping.
`He says if I kick anything, it'll fall off.'
`I ran into one of your pals,' he said, `a Modern.'
`Yeah? Which one?'
`Lupus Yonderboy. Had a message.' He passed her a paper napkin with W I N T E R M U T E printed in red feltpen in his neat, laborious capitals. `He said --' But her hand came up in the jive for silence.
`Get us some crab,' she said.
After lunch in Baltimore, Molly dissecting her crab with alarming ease, they tubed in to New York. Case had learned not to ask questions; they only brought the sign for silence. Her leg seemed to be bothering her, and she seldom spoke.
A thin black child with wooden beads and antique resistors woven tightly into her hair opened the Finn's door and led them along the tunnel of refuse. Case felt the stuff had grown some how during their absence. Or else it seemed that it was changing subtly, cooking itself down under the pressure of time, silent invisible flakes settling to form a mulch, a crystalline essence of discarded technology, flowering secretly in the Sprawl's waste places.
Beyond the army blanket, the Finn waited at the white table.
Molly began to sign rapidly, produced a scrap of paper, wrote something on it, and passed it to the Finn. He took it between thumb and forefinger, holding it away from his body as though it might explode. He made a sign Case didn't know, one that conveyed a mixture of impatience and glum resigna tion. He stood up, brushing crumbs from the front of his bat tered tweed jacket. A glass jar of pickled herring stood on the table beside a torn plastic package of flatbread and a tin ashtray piled with the butts of Partagas.
`Wait,' the Finn said, and left the room.
Molly took his place, extruded the blade from her index finger, and speared a grayish slab of herring. Case wandered aimlessly around the room, fingering the scanning gear on the pylons as he passed.
Ten minutes and the Finn came bustling back, showing his teeth in a wide yellow smile. He nodded, gave Molly a thumbs- up salute, and gestured to Case to help him with the door panel. While Case smoothed the velcro border into place, the Finn took a flat little console from his pocket and punched out an elaborate sequence.
`Honey,' he said to Molly, tucking the console away, `you have got it. No shit, I can smell it. You wanna tell me where you got it?'
`Yonderboy,' Molly said, shoving the herring and crackers aside. `I did a deal with Larry, on the side.'
`Smart,' the Finn said. `It's an AI.'
`Slow it down a little,' Case said.
`Berne,' the Finn said, ignoring him. `Berne. It's got lim ited Swiss citizenship under their equivalent of the Act of '53. Built for Tessier-Ashpool S.A. They own the mainframe and the original software.'
`What's in Berne, okay?' Case deliberately stepped between them.
`Wintermute is the recognition code for an AI. I've got the Turing Registry numbers. Artificial intelligence.'
`That's all just fine,' Molly said, `but where's it get us?'
`If Yonderboy's right,' the Finn said, `this AI is backing Armitage.'
`I paid Larry to have the Moderns nose around Armitage a little,' Molly explained, turning to Case. `They have some very weird lines of communication. Deal was, they'd get my money if they answered one question: who's running Armi tage?'
`And you think it's this AI? Those things aren't allowed any autonomy. It'll be the parent corporation, this Tessle...'
`Tessier-Ashpool S.A.,' said the Finn. `And I got a little story for you about them. Wanna hear?' He sat down and hunched forward.
`Finn,' Molly said. `He loves a story.'
`Haven't ever told anybody this one,' the Finn began.
The medical team Molly employed occupied two floors of an anonymous condo-rack near the old hub of Baltimore. The building was modular, like some giant version of Cheap Hotel, each coffin forty meters long. Case met Molly as she emerged from one that wore the elaborately worked logo of one GER ALD CHIN, DENTIST. She was limping.
`He says if I kick anything, it'll fall off.'
`I ran into one of your pals,' he said, `a Modern.'
`Yeah? Which one?'
`Lupus Yonderboy. Had a message.' He passed her a paper napkin with W I N T E R M U T E printed in red feltpen in his neat, laborious capitals. `He said --' But her hand came up in the jive for silence.
`Get us some crab,' she said.
After lunch in Baltimore, Molly dissecting her crab with alarming ease, they tubed in to New York. Case had learned not to ask questions; they only brought the sign for silence. Her leg seemed to be bothering her, and she seldom spoke.
A thin black child with wooden beads and antique resistors woven tightly into her hair opened the Finn's door and led them along the tunnel of refuse. Case felt the stuff had grown some how during their absence. Or else it seemed that it was changing subtly, cooking itself down under the pressure of time, silent invisible flakes settling to form a mulch, a crystalline essence of discarded technology, flowering secretly in the Sprawl's waste places.
Beyond the army blanket, the Finn waited at the white table.
Molly began to sign rapidly, produced a scrap of paper, wrote something on it, and passed it to the Finn. He took it between thumb and forefinger, holding it away from his body as though it might explode. He made a sign Case didn't know, one that conveyed a mixture of impatience and glum resigna tion. He stood up, brushing crumbs from the front of his bat tered tweed jacket. A glass jar of pickled herring stood on the table beside a torn plastic package of flatbread and a tin ashtray piled with the butts of Partagas.
`Wait,' the Finn said, and left the room.
Molly took his place, extruded the blade from her index finger, and speared a grayish slab of herring. Case wandered aimlessly around the room, fingering the scanning gear on the pylons as he passed.
Ten minutes and the Finn came bustling back, showing his teeth in a wide yellow smile. He nodded, gave Molly a thumbs- up salute, and gestured to Case to help him with the door panel. While Case smoothed the velcro border into place, the Finn took a flat little console from his pocket and punched out an elaborate sequence.
`Honey,' he said to Molly, tucking the console away, `you have got it. No shit, I can smell it. You wanna tell me where you got it?'
`Yonderboy,' Molly said, shoving the herring and crackers aside. `I did a deal with Larry, on the side.'
`Smart,' the Finn said. `It's an AI.'
`Slow it down a little,' Case said.
`Berne,' the Finn said, ignoring him. `Berne. It's got lim ited Swiss citizenship under their equivalent of the Act of '53. Built for Tessier-Ashpool S.A. They own the mainframe and the original software.'
`What's in Berne, okay?' Case deliberately stepped between them.
`Wintermute is the recognition code for an AI. I've got the Turing Registry numbers. Artificial intelligence.'
`That's all just fine,' Molly said, `but where's it get us?'
`If Yonderboy's right,' the Finn said, `this AI is backing Armitage.'
`I paid Larry to have the Moderns nose around Armitage a little,' Molly explained, turning to Case. `They have some very weird lines of communication. Deal was, they'd get my money if they answered one question: who's running Armi tage?'
`And you think it's this AI? Those things aren't allowed any autonomy. It'll be the parent corporation, this Tessle...'
`Tessier-Ashpool S.A.,' said the Finn. `And I got a little story for you about them. Wanna hear?' He sat down and hunched forward.
`Finn,' Molly said. `He loves a story.'
`Haven't ever told anybody this one,' the Finn began.
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