“You lost consciousness,” the steward was saying, his fingers moving across her neck. “It isn’t uncommon, and our onboard medical computers tell us you’re in excellent health. However, we’ve applied a dermadisk to counteract the adapta- tion syndrome you might experience prior to docking.” His hand left her neck. “Europe After the Rains.” she said. “Max Ernst The lichen . . The man stared down at her, his face alert now and express- ing professional concern. “Excuse me? Could you repeat that?” “I’m sorry,” she said. “A dream … Are we there yet, at the terminal?” “Another hour,” he said. * * *
Japan Air’s orbital terminus was a white toroid studded with domes and ringed with the dark-rimmed oval openings of docking bays. The terminal above Marly’s g-web-though above had temporarily lost its usual meaningdisplayed an exquisitely drafted animation of the torus in rotation, while a series of voicesin seven languagesannounced that the passengers on board JAL’s Shuttle 580, Orly Terminus I, would be taxied to the terminal at the earliest opportunity. JAL offered apologies for the delay, which was due to routine repairs underway in seven of the twelve bays Marly cringed in her g-web, seeing the invisible hand of Virek in everything now. No. she thought, there must be a way. I want out of it, she told herself, I want a few hours as a free agent, and then I’ll be done with him . . Good-bye, Herr Virek, I return to the land of the living, as poor Alain never will, Alain who died because I took your job. She blinked her eyes when the first tear came, then stared wide- eyed as a child at the minute floating spherelet the tear had become And Maas, she wondered, who were they? Virek claimed that they had murdered Alain, that Alain had been working for them. She had vague recollections of stories in the media, something to do with the newest generation of computers, some ominous-sounding process in which immortal hybrid cancers spewed out tailored molecules that became units of circuitry. She remembered, now, that Paco had said that the screen of his modular telephone was a Maas product
The interior of the JAL toroid was so bland, so unremarka- ble, so utterly like any crowded airport, that she felt like laughing. There was the same scent of perfume, human ten- sion, and heavily conditioned air, and the same background hum of conversation. The point-eight gravity would have made it easier to carry a suitcase, but she only had her black purse Now she took her tickets from one of its zippered inner pockets and checked the number of her connecting shuttle against the columns of numbers arrayed on the nearest wall screen. Two hours to departure. Whatever Virek might say, she was sure that his machine was already busy, infiltrating the shuttle’s crew or roster of passengers, the substitutions lubri- cated by a film of money . . There would be last-minute illnesses, changes in plans, accidents Slinging the purse over her shoulder, she marched off across the concave floor of white ceramic as though she actually knew where she was going, or had some sort of plan, but knowing, with each step she took, that she didn’t. Those soft blue eyes haunted her “Daren you.” she said, and a jowly Russian businessman in a dark Ginza suit sniffed and raised his newsfax, blocking her out of his world.
“So I told the bitch, see, you gotta get those opto-isolators and the breakout boxes out to Sweet Jane or I’ll glue your ass to the bulkhead with gasket paste….” Raucous female laughter and Marly glanced up from her sushi tray. The three women sat two empty tables away, their own table thick with beer cans and stacks of styrofoam trays smeared with brown soy sauce. One of them belched loudly and took a long pull at her beer. “So how’d she take it, Rez?” This was somehow the cue for another, longer burst of laughter, and the woman who’d first attracted Marly’s attention put her head down in her arms and laughed until her shoulders shook. Marly stared dully at the trio, wondering what they were. Now the laughter had subsided and the first woman sat up, wiping tears from her eyes. They were all quite drunk, Marly decided, young and loud and rough-looking. The first woman was slight and sharp-faced, with wide gray eyes above a thin straight nose. Her hair was some impossible shade of silver, clipped short like a schoolboy’s, and she wore an oversized canvas vest or sleeveless jacket covered entirely in bulging pockets, studs, and rectangular strips of Velcro. The garment hung open, revealing, from Marly’s angle, a small round breast sheathed in what seemed to be a bra of fine pink and black mesh. The other two were older and heavier, the muscles of their bare arms defined sharply in the seemingly sourceless light of the terminal cafeteria. The first woman shrugged, her shoulders moving inside the big vest. “Not that she’ll do it.” she said. The second woman laughed again, but not as heartily, and consulted a chronometer riveted on a wide leather wristband. “Me for off.” she said. “Gotta Zion run, then eight pods of algae for the Swedes.” Then shoved her chair back from the table, stood up, and Marly read the embroidered patch cen- tered across the shoulders of her black leather vest.