The old New Suzuki Envoy had been Angie’s favorite Sprawl hotel since her earliest days with the Net. It maintained its street wall for eleven stories, then narrowed jaggedly, at the first of nine setbacks, into a mountainside assembled from bedrock excavated from its Madison Square building site. Original plans had called for this steep landscape to be planted with flora native to the Hudson Valley region, and populated with suitable fauna, but subsequent construction of the first Manhattan Dome had made it necessary to hire a Paris-based eco-design team. The French ecologists, accustomed to the »pure« design problems posed by orbital systems, had despaired of the Sprawl’s particulate-laden atmosphere, opting for heavily engineered strains of vegetation and robotic fauna of the sort encountered in children’s theme parks, but Angie’s continued patronage had eventually lent the place a cachet it would otherwise have lacked. The Net leased the five topmost floors, where her permanent suite had been installed, and the Envoy had come to enjoy a certain belated reputation with artists and entertainers. Now she smiled as the helicopter rose past a disinterested robot bighorn pretending to munch lichen beside the illuminated waterfall. The absurdity of the place always delighted her; even Bobby had enjoyed it. She glanced out at the Envoy’s heliport, where the Sense/Net logo had been freshly repainted on heated, floodlit concrete. A lone figure, hooded in a bright orange parka, waited beside a sculpted outcropping of rock. »Robin will be here, won’t he, Porphyre?« »Mistah Lanier,« he said sourly. She sighed. The black chrome Fokker brought them smoothly down, glasses tinkling gently in the drinks’ cabinet as the landing gear met the roof of the Envoy. The muted throb of the engines died. »Where Robin is concerned, Porphyre, I’ll have to make the first move. I’m going to speak with him tonight. Alone. In the meantime, I want you to stay out of his way.« »Porphyre’s pleasure, missy,« the hairdresser said, as the cabin door opened behind them. And then he was twisting, clawing at the buckle of his seatbelt, and Angie turned in time to see the bright orange parka in the hatchway, the upraised arm, the mirrored glasses. The gun made no more sound than a cigarette lighter, but Porphyre convulsed, one long black hand slapping at his throat as the security man swung the hatch shut behind him and sprang at Angie. Something was clapped hard against her stomach as Porphyre lolled back bonelessly in his seat, the sharp pink tip of his tongue protruding. She looked down, in pure reflex, and saw the black chrome buckle of her seatbelt through a sticky-looking lozenge of greenish plastic. She looked up into a white oval face framed by a tightly drawn orange nylon hood. Saw her own face blank with shock, doubled in the silver lenses. »He drink, tonight?« »What?« »Him.« A thumb jerked in Porphyre’s direction. »He drink any alcohol?« »Yes . . . Earlier.« »Shit.« A woman’s voice, as she turned to the unconscious hairdresser. »Now I’ve sedated him. Don’t wanna suppress his breathing reflex, y’know?« Angie watched as the woman checked Porphyre’s pulse. »Guess he’s okay . . .« Did she shrug, inside the orange parka? »Security?« »What?« The glasses flashed. »Are you Net security?« »Fuck no, I’m abducting you.« »You are?« »You bet.« »Why?« »Not for any of the usual reasons. Somebody’s got it in for you. Got it in for me too. I was supposed to set it up to grab you next week. Fuck ’em. Had to talk to you, anyway.« »You did? Talk to me?« »Know anybody name of 3Jane?« »No. I mean, yes, but –« »Save it. Our asses outa here, fast.« »Porphyre –« »He’s gonna wake up soon. Look of him, I don’t wanna be around when he does. . . .«
3Jane
If this was part of Bobby’s big gray house in the country, Slick decided, opening his eyes on the cramped curve of the narrow corridor, then it was a stranger place than it had seemed the first time. The air was thick and dead and the light from the greenish glass-tile ceiling-strip made him feel like he was under water. The tunnel was made of some kind of glazed concrete. It felt like jail. »Maybe we came out in the basement or something,« he said, noticing the faint ping of echo off the concrete when he spoke. »No reason we’d cut into the construct you saw before,« Gentry said. »So what is it?« Slick touched the concrete wall; it was warm. »Doesn’t matter,« Gentry said. Gentry started walking in the direction they were both facing. Past the curve, the floor became an uneven mosaic of shattered china, fragments pressed into something like epoxy, slippery under their boots. »Look at this stuff . . .« Thousands of different patterns and colors in the broken bits, but no overall design in how it had been put down, just random. »Art.« Gentry shrugged. »Somebody’s hobby. You should appreciate that, Slick Henry.« Whoever it was, they hadn’t bothered with the walls. Slick knelt to run his fingers over it, feeling raw edges of broken ceramic, glassy hardened plastic in between. »What’s that supposed to mean, ‘hobby’?« »It’s like those things you build, Slick. Your junk toys . . .« Gentry grinned his tense crazy grin. »You don’t know,« Slick said. »Spend your whole fucking life trying to figure what cyberspace is shaped like, man, and it probably isn’t even shaped like anything, and anyway who gives a shit?« There wasn’t anything random about the Judge and the others. The process was random, but the results had to conform to something inside, something he couldn’t touch directly. »Come on,« Gentry said. Slick stayed where he was, looking up at Gentry’s pale eyes, gray in this light, his taut face. Why did he put up with Gentry anyway? Because you needed somebody, in the Solitude. Not just for electricity; that whole landlord routine was really just a shuck. He guessed because you needed somebody around. Bird wasn’t any good to talk to because there wasn’t much he was interested in, and all he talked was stringtown stupid. And even if Gentry never admitted it, Slick felt like Gentry understood about some things. »Yeah,« Slick said, getting up, »let’s go.«