The Bridge Trilogy Part 128

"I thought you were gone," Heron said, displaying broken teeth.

Maybe something broken in his head too, it struck her. Or maybe just some substance, tonight.

"1 was," Chevette said.

"Where?"

"SoCal."

"You ride down there? Messenger?"

"No," she said.

"I can't ride now," Heron said and swung his left leg, rigid, forward, catching his weight on it, something wrong there with his knee. "Tangled with a cage."A car, and she thought how long it had been since she'd heard that.

"You get insurance?"

"s.h.i.t no, cage from DoJ City." The Department of Justice. "I got lawyers on it, but Crooked shrug. "One of my lawyers, Njembo, you know those three guys? Refugees from the African Union, right? Njembo, he knows that Fontaine. You know Fontaine, right?"

"Yeah," Chevette said, glancing back over her shoulder. "He still out by Oakland, wives and kids?"

"No," Heron said, "no, he's got a shop, just up there." He pointed. "Sleeps there. Sells stuff to tourists. Njembo says his wives are after his a.s.s." He squinted at her, the scar on his cheek catching the light. "You look good. Hair's different."

Something in that flash of scar catching in the edge of Creedmore's spit-high; she shivered, the dancer dealing her cards of Carson walking this way, that same expression on his face, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

"Good to see you, Heron."

"Yeah," he said, something sullen and untrusting, maybe longing, evident there, and again the crooked shrug, maybe just to shake some pain from his shoulders. He looked down and set off back the way she'd come, and she saw how twisted the accident had left him, hobbling, swinging his stiff leg as he went.

She zipped up Skinner's jacket and went looking for Fontaine's shop, wondering if she'd know it if she found it.

ISO.

36. FAMOUS ASPECT.

RYDELL bought a white foam take-out beef bowl from Ghetto Chef, then had to figure out how to get up the ladder one-handed, without spilling it.

Climbing a ladder with something hot in one hand was one of those things that you never ordinarily thought about, but that turned out to be difficult. You can't safely tuck a hot beef bowl under your arm, and when you climb with only one hand, you've got to move that hand fast, keep catching those rungs.

But he got up there, didn't spill any, and then he put it down while he unlocked the two-by-four and chicken-wire security grid. This had a chrome-plated Nepalese padlock on either side, and he'd found the keys, earlier, hanging on a nail. It was one of those deeply pointless arrangements, in terms of security, because anyone who wanted in could boltcut the padlocks, pry their hasps out of the wood, or just yank the chicken wire until the staples pulled out. On the other hand, if you went out, left it unlocked, and somebody took your stuff with no effort at all, he guessed you'd feel even stupider.

When he got it open, he settled down on the foot of the bed with his beef bowl and the plastic spoon they'd given him. He was just inhaling the steam when it came to him he should check on the

thermos-thing. The projector, Laney had called it. He sighed, put his beef bowl down, and got up (well, he had to crouch).

The GlobEx box was in the cabinet there, beside his bag, and the spun-metal cylinder was in the GlobEx box.

He sat back down, with the GlobEx box next to him on the bed, and got to work on his beef bowl, which was worth waiting for. It was strange how this kind of shaved, basically overcooked mystery meat, which he guessed really was, probably, beef, could be tastier, under the right circ.u.mstances, than a really good steak. He ate the whole thing, every last grain of rice and drop of broth and figured the tourist-trap map had put their three stars and a half in the right place.

ALL TOMORROW~S PARTIES.

151.

Then he opened the GlobEx box and got the thermos-thing out. He looked at the FAMOUS ASPECT sticker again, and it didn't tell him any more than it had before. He stood the thing up on its base, on the green-and-orange carpet, and crawled back up the bed to get the switchblade. He used that to slice open the plastic envelopes containing the two cables and sat there looking at them.

The one that was standard power just looked like what you used to run a notebook off the wall, he thought, although the end that went into the thermos looked a little more complicated than usual.

The other one though, the jacks on either end looked serious. He found the socket that one end of this obviously went into, but what was the other end supposed to fit? If the sumo kid was telling the truth, this was a custom cable, required to jack this thing into something that it might not usually be required to jack to. This one was optical, it looked like.

The power cable, that was easy. What took a while was finding a socket up here, but it turned out there was one (well, actually the end of an industrial-grade yellow extension cord) in the storage cabinet.

No control on the thing, that he could see, no switches. He plugged the power cable into the wall socket, then sat on the bed, the other end in his hand, looking at the silvery cylinder.

"h.e.l.l," he said and plugged the cable into the cylinder. Just as he did, he had the clearest possible vision of the thing being, absolutely and no doubt, brimful of plastic explosive and a detonator, just waiting for this juice- But, no, if it had been, he'd be dead. He wasn't. But the cylinder wasn't doing anything either. He thought he could

hear a faint hum from it, and that was it. "I don't get it," Rydell said.

Something flickered. Neon b.u.t.terfly. Torn wings.

And then this girl was there, kneeling, right up close, and he felt his heart roll over, catch itself.

The how of her not being there, then being there. Something hurt in his chest, until he reminded himself to breathe.

If Rydell had had to describe her, he would've said beautiful, and been utterly frustrated in the attempt to convey how. He thought she 152.

had to be one of Durius' examples of hybrid vigor, but saying which races had been mixed was beyond him.

"Where are we?" she asked.

He blinked, uncertain as to whether she saw and addressed him, or someone else, in some other reality. "Bed-and-breakfast," he said, by way of experiment. "San Francisco-Oakland Bay."

"You are Laney's friend?"

"I-Well. Yeah."

She was looking around now, with evident interest, and Rydell felt the hairs stand up along his

arms, seeing that she wore an outfit that exactly mirrored his own, though everything she wore fit her perfectly, and of course looked very different on her. Loose khakis, blue workshirt, black nylon jacket with a Velcro rectangle over the heart, where you stuck the logo of your company.

Right down to black socks (with holes? he wondered) and miniature versions of the black Work-'N'- Walks he'd bought for Lucky Dragon. But the hair on his arms was up because he knew, he had seen,

he had, that in the first instant of her being there,

she'd crouched before him naked.

"I am Rei Toei," she said. Her hair was coa.r.s.e and glossy and roughly but perfectly cut, her mouth wide and generous and not quite smiling, and Rydell put out his hand and watched it pa.s.s right through her shoulder, through the pattern of coherent light he knew she must be. "This

is a hologram," she said, "but I am real."

"Where are you?" Rydell asked, withdrawing his hand. "I'm here," she said.

"But where are you really?"

"Here. This is not a broadcast hologram. It is generated by the Famous Aspect unit. I am here, with you. Your room is very small. Are you poor?" She crawled past Rydell (he supposed she could've crawled through him, if he hadn't moved aside) to the head of his bed, examining the salt- caked hemisphere of plastic. Rydell could see now that she literally was a source of illumination, though somehow it reminded him of moonlight.

"It's a rented room," Rydell said. "And I'm not rich." She looked back at this. "I meant no offense."

153.

"That's okay," Rydell said, looking from her to the projector and back. "I mean, a lot of people, they'd think I'm poor."