PART THREE
MIDNIGHT IN THE RUE JULES VERNE
8
Archipelago.
The islands. Torus, spindle, cluster. Human DNA spreading out from gravity's steep well like an oilslick.
Call up a graphics display that grossly simplifies the ex change of data in the L-5 archipelago. One segment clicks in as red solid, a massive rectangle dominating your screen.
Freeside. Freeside is many things, not all of them evident to the tourists who shuttle up and down the well. Freeside is brothel and banking nexus, pleasure dome and free port, bor der town and spa. Freeside is Las Vegas and the hanging gar dens of Babylon, an orbital Geneva and home to a family inbred and most carefully refined, the industrial clan of Tessier and Ashpool.
On the _THY_ liner to Paris, they sat together in First Class, Molly in the window seat, Case beside her, Riviera and Ar mitage on the aisle. Once, as the plane banked over water, Case saw the jewel-glow of a Greek island town. And once, reaching for his drink, he caught the flicker of a thing like a giant human sperm in the depths of his bourbon and water.
Molly leaned across him and slapped Riviera's face, once. `No, baby. No games. You play that subliminal shit around me, I'll hurt you real bad. I can do it without damaging you at all. I _like_ that.'
Case turned automatically to check Armitage's reaction. The smooth face was calm, the blue eyes alert, but there was no anger. `That's right, Peter. Don't.'
Case turned back, in time to catch the briefest flash of a black rose, its petals sheened like leather, the black stem thorned with bright chrome.
Peter Riviera smiled sweetly, closed his eyes, and fell in stantly asleep.
Molly turned away, her lenses reflected in the dark window.
`You been up, haven't you?' Molly asked, as he squirmed his way back into the deep temperfoam couch on the _JAL_ shuttle.
`Nah. Never travel much, just for biz.' The steward was attaching readout trodes to his wrist and left ear.
`Hope you don't get SAS,' she said.
`Airsick? No way.'
`It's not the same. Your heartbeat'll speed up in zero-g, and your inner ear'll go nuts for a while. Kicks in your flight reflex, like you'll be getting signals to run like hell, and a lot of adrenaline.' The steward moved on to Riviera, taking a new set of trodes from his red plastic apron.
Case turned his head and tried to make out the outline of the old Orly terminals, but the shuttle pad was screened by graceful blast-deflectors of wet concrete. The one nearest the window bore an Arabic slogan in red spraybomb.
He closed his eyes and told himself the shuttle was only a big airplane, one that flew very high. It smelled like an airplane, like new clothes and chewing gum and exhaustion. He listened to the piped koto music and waited.
Twenty minutes, then gravity came down on him like a great soft hand with bones of ancient stone.
MIDNIGHT IN THE RUE JULES VERNE
8
Archipelago.
The islands. Torus, spindle, cluster. Human DNA spreading out from gravity's steep well like an oilslick.
Call up a graphics display that grossly simplifies the ex change of data in the L-5 archipelago. One segment clicks in as red solid, a massive rectangle dominating your screen.
Freeside. Freeside is many things, not all of them evident to the tourists who shuttle up and down the well. Freeside is brothel and banking nexus, pleasure dome and free port, bor der town and spa. Freeside is Las Vegas and the hanging gar dens of Babylon, an orbital Geneva and home to a family inbred and most carefully refined, the industrial clan of Tessier and Ashpool.
On the _THY_ liner to Paris, they sat together in First Class, Molly in the window seat, Case beside her, Riviera and Ar mitage on the aisle. Once, as the plane banked over water, Case saw the jewel-glow of a Greek island town. And once, reaching for his drink, he caught the flicker of a thing like a giant human sperm in the depths of his bourbon and water.
Molly leaned across him and slapped Riviera's face, once. `No, baby. No games. You play that subliminal shit around me, I'll hurt you real bad. I can do it without damaging you at all. I _like_ that.'
Case turned automatically to check Armitage's reaction. The smooth face was calm, the blue eyes alert, but there was no anger. `That's right, Peter. Don't.'
Case turned back, in time to catch the briefest flash of a black rose, its petals sheened like leather, the black stem thorned with bright chrome.
Peter Riviera smiled sweetly, closed his eyes, and fell in stantly asleep.
Molly turned away, her lenses reflected in the dark window.
`You been up, haven't you?' Molly asked, as he squirmed his way back into the deep temperfoam couch on the _JAL_ shuttle.
`Nah. Never travel much, just for biz.' The steward was attaching readout trodes to his wrist and left ear.
`Hope you don't get SAS,' she said.
`Airsick? No way.'
`It's not the same. Your heartbeat'll speed up in zero-g, and your inner ear'll go nuts for a while. Kicks in your flight reflex, like you'll be getting signals to run like hell, and a lot of adrenaline.' The steward moved on to Riviera, taking a new set of trodes from his red plastic apron.
Case turned his head and tried to make out the outline of the old Orly terminals, but the shuttle pad was screened by graceful blast-deflectors of wet concrete. The one nearest the window bore an Arabic slogan in red spraybomb.
He closed his eyes and told himself the shuttle was only a big airplane, one that flew very high. It smelled like an airplane, like new clothes and chewing gum and exhaustion. He listened to the piped koto music and waited.
Twenty minutes, then gravity came down on him like a great soft hand with bones of ancient stone.
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