At dawn, she made coffee in the unlit kitchen and sat watching the pale line of the surf. »Continuity.« »Hello, Angie.« »Do you know how to reach Hans Becker?« »I have his agent’s number in Paris.« »Has he done anything since Antarctica? « »Not that I know of.« »And how long has that been?« »Five years.« »Thanks.« »You’re welcome, Angie.« »Goodbye.« »Goodbye, Angie.« Had Becker assumed that 3Jane was responsible for Ashpool’s eventual death? He seemed to suggest it, in an oblique way. »Continuity.« »Hello, Angie.« »The folklore of console jockeys, Continuity. What do you know about that?« And what will Swift make of all this? she wondered. »What would you like to know, Angie?« » ‘When It Changed’ . . .« »The mythform is usually encountered in one of two modes. One mode assumes that the cyberspace matrix is inhabited, or perhaps visited, by entities whose characteristics correspond with the primary mythform of a ‘hidden people.’ The other involves assumptions of omniscience, omnipotence, and incomprehensibility on the part of the matrix itself.« »That the matrix is God?« »In a manner of speaking, although it would be more accurate, in terms of the mythform, to say that the matrix has a God, since this being’s omniscience and omnipotence are assumed to be limited to the matrix.« »If it has limits, it isn’t omnipotent.« »Exactly. Notice that the mythform doesn’t credit the being with immortality, as would ordinarily be the case in belief systems positing a supreme being, at least in terms of your particular culture. Cyberspace exists, insofar as it can be said to exist, by virtue of human agency.« »Like you.« »Yes.« She wandered into the living room, where the Louis XVI chairs were skeletal in the gray light, their carved legs like gilded bones. »If there were such a being,« she said, »you’d be a part of it, wouldn’t you?« »Yes.« »Would you know?« »Not necessarily.« »Do you know?« »No.« »Do you rule out the possibility?« »No.« »Do you think this is a strange conversation, Continuity?« Her cheeks were wet with tears, although she hadn’t felt them start. »No.« »How do the stories about –« she hesitated, having almost said the loa , »about things in the matrix, how do they fit in to this supreme-being idea?« »They don’t. Both are variants of ‘When it Changed.’ Both are of very recent origin.« »How recent?« »Approximately fifteen years.«
Jump City
She woke with Sally’s cool palm pressed to her mouth, the other hand gesturing for silence. The little lamps were on, the ones set into the panels of gold-flecked mirror. One of her bags was open, on the giant bed, a neat little stack of clothing beside it. Sally tapped her index finger against closed lips, then gestured toward the case and the clothing. Kumiko slid from beneath the duvet and tugged on a sweater against the cold. She looked at Sally again and considered speaking; whatever this was, she thought, a word might bring Petal. She was dressed as Kumiko had last seen her, in the shearling jacket, her tartan scarf knotted beneath her chin. She repeated the gesture: pack. Kumiko dressed quickly, then began to put the clothing into the case. Sally moved restlessly, silently around the room, opening drawers, closing them. She found Kumiko’s passport, a black plastic slab embossed with a gold chrysanthemum, and hung it around Kumiko’s neck on its black nylon cord. She vanished into the veneered cubicle and emerged with the suede bag that held Kumiko’s toilet things. As Kumiko was sealing the case, the gilt-and-ivory telephone began to chime. Sally ignored it, took the suitcase from the bed, opened the door, took Kumiko’s hand, and pulled her out into the darkened hallway. Releasing her hand, Sally closed the door behind them, muffling the phone and leaving them in total darkness. Kumiko let herself be guided into the lift — she knew it by its smell of oil and furniture polish, the rattle of the metal gate. Then they were descending. Petal was waiting for them in the bright white foyer, wrapped in an enormous faded flannel robe. He wore his decrepit slippers; his legs, below the robe’s hem, were very white. He held a gun in his hands, a squat, thick thing, dull black. »Fucking hell,« he said softly, as he saw them there, »and what’s this then?« »She’s going with me,« Sally said. »That,« said Petal, slowly, »is entirely impossible.« »Kumi,« Sally said, her hand on Kumiko’s back, guiding her out of the lift, »there’s a car waiting.« »You can’t do this,« Petal said, but Kumiko sensed his confusion, his uncertainty. »So fucking shoot me, Petal.« Petal lowered the gun. »It’s Swain who’ll fucking shoot me , if you have your way.« »If he were here, he’d be in the same bind, wouldn’t he?« »Please,« Petal said, »don’t.« »She’ll be fine. Not to worry. Open the door.« »Sally,« Kumiko said, »where are we going?« »The Sprawl.«