Molly insisted on coating him with bronzer, saying his Sprawl pallor would attract too much attention. “Christ,” he said, standing naked in front of the mirror, “you think that looks real?” She was using the last of the tube on his left ankle, kneeling beside him. “Nah, but it looks like you care enough to fake it. There. There isn’t enough to do your foot.” She stood, tossing the empty tube into a large wicker basket. Nothing in the room looked as though it had been machine-made or produced from synthetics. Expensive, Case knew, but it was a style that had always irritated him. The temperfoam of the huge bed was tinted to resemble sand. There was a lot of pale wood and handwoven fabric. “What about you,” he said, “you gonna dye yourself brown? Don’t exactly look like you spend all your time sunbathing.” She wore loose black silks and black espadrilles. “I’m an exotic. I got a big straw hat for this, too. You, you just wanna look like a cheap-ass hood who’s up for what he can get, so the instant tan’s okay.” Case regarded his pallid foot morosely, then looked at him- self in the mirror. “Christ. You mind if I get dressed now?” He went to the bed and began to pull his jeans on. “You sleep okay? You notice any lights?” “You were dreaming,” she said. They had breakfast on the roof of the hotel, a kind of meadow studded with striped umbrellas and what seemed to Case an unnatural number of trees. He told her about his attempt to buzz the Berne AI. The whole question of bugging seemed to have become academic. If Armitage were tapping them, he’d be doing it through Wintermute. “And it was like real?” she asked, her mouth full of cheese croissant. “Like simstim?” He said it was. “Real as this,” he added, looking around. “Maybe more.” The trees were small, gnarled, impossibly old, the result of genetic engineering and chemical manipulation. Case would have been hard pressed to distinguish a pine from an oak, but a street boy’s sense of style told him that these were too cute, too entirely and definitively treelike. Between the trees, on gentle and too cleverly irregular slopes of sweet green grass, the bright umbrellas shaded the hotel’s guests from the unfal- tering radiance of the Lado-Acheson sun. A burst of French from a nearby table caught his attention: the golden children he’d seen gliding above river mist the evening before. Now he saw that their tans were uneven, a stencil effect produced by selective melanin boosting, multiple shades overlapping in rec- tilinear patterns, outlining and highlighting musculature; the girl’s small hard breasts, one boy’s wrist resting on the white enamel of the table. They looked to Case like machines built for racing; they deserved decals for their hairdressers, the de- signers of their white cotton ducks, for the artisans who’d crafted their leather sandals and simple jewelry. Beyond them, at another table, three Japanese wives in Hiroshima sackcloth awaited sarariman husbands, their oval faces covered with ar- tificial bruises; it was, he knew, an extremely conservative style, one he’d seldom seen in Chiba. “What’s that smell?” he asked Molly, wrinkling his nose. “The grass. Smells that way after they cut it.” Armitage and Riviera arrived as they were finishing their coffee, Armitage in tailored khakis that made him look as though his regimental patches had just been stripped, Riviera in a loose gray seersucker outfit that perversely suggested prison. “Molly, love,” Riviera said, almost before he was settled on his chair, “you’ll have to dole me out more of the medicine. I’m out.” “Peter,” she said, “and what if I won’t?” She smiled without showing her teeth. “You will,” Riviera said, his eyes cutting to Armitage and back. “Give it to him,” Armitage said. “Pig for it, aren’t you?” She took a flat, foil-wrapped packet from an inside pocket and flipped it across the table. Riviera caught it in midair. “He could off himself,” she said to Ar- mitage. “I have an audition this afternoon,” Riviera said. “I’ll need to be at my best.” He cupped the foil packd in his uptumed palm and smiled. Small glittering insects swarmed out of it, vanished. He dropped it into the pocket of his seersucker blouse. “You’ve got an audition yourself, Case, this afternoon,” Armitage said. “On that tug. I want you to get over to the pro shop and get yourself fitted for a vac suit, get checked out on it, and get out to the boat. You’ve got about three hours.” “How come we get shipped over in a shitcan and you two hire a JAL taxi?” Case asked, deliberately avoiding the man’s eyes. “Zion suggested we use it. Good cover, when we move. I do have a larger boat, standing by, but the tug is a nice touch.” “How about me?” Molly asked. “I got chores today?” “I want you to hike up the far end to the axis, work out in zero-g. Tomorrow, maybe, you can hike in the opposite di- rection.” Straylight, Case thought. “How soon?” Case asked, meedng the pale stare. “Soon,” Armitage said. “Get going, Case.” “Mon, you doin’ jus’ fine,” Maelcum said, helping Case out of the red Sanyo vacuum suit. “Aerol say you doin’ jus’ fine.” Aerol had been waiting at one of the sporting docks at the end of the spindle, near the weightless axis. To reach it Case had taken an elevator down to the hull and ridden a miniature induction train. As the diameter of the spindle nar- rowed, gravity decreased; somewhere above him, he’d decided, would be the mountains Molly climbed, the bicycle loop, launching gear for the hang gliders and miniature microlights. Aerol had ferried him out to Marcus Garvey in a skeletal scooter frame with a chemical engine. “Two hour ago,” Maelcum said, “I take delivery of Babylon goods for you; nice lapan-boy inna yacht, mos’ pretty yacht.” Free of the suit, Case pulled himself gingerly over the Ho- saka and fumbled into the straps of the web. “Well,” he said, “let’s see it.” Maelcum produced a white lump of foam slightly smaller than Case’s head, fished a pearl-handled switchblade on a green nylon lanyard out of the hip pocket of his tattered shorts, and carefully slit the plasdc. He extracted a rectangular object and passed it to Case. “Thas part some gun, mon?” “No,” Case said, turning it over, “but it’s a weapon. It’s virus.” “Not on this boy tug, mon,” Maelcum said firmly, reaching for the steel cassette. “A program. Virus program. Can’t get into you, can’t even get into your software. I’ve got to interface it through the deck, before it can work on anything.” “Well, Japan-mon, he says Hosaka here’ll tell you every what an’ wherefore, you wanna know.” “Okay. Well, you leave me to it, okay?” Maelcum kicked off and drifted past the pilot console, bus- ying himself with a caulk gun. Case hastily looked away from the waving fronds of transparent caulk. He wasn’t sure why, but something about them brought back the nausea of SAS. “What is this thing?” he asked the Hosaka. “Parcel for me.” “Data transfer from Bockris Systems GmbH, Frankfurt, ad- vises, under coded transmission, that content of shipment is Kuang Grade Mark Eleven penetration program. Bockris fur- ther advises that interface with Ono-Sendai Cyberspace 7 is entirely compatdble and yields optimal penetradon capabilities, particularly with regard to existing military systems….” “How about an AI?” “Existing military systems and artificial intelligences.” “Jesus Christ. What did you call it?” “Kuang Grade Mark Eleven.” “It’s Chinese?” “Yes.” “Off.” Case fastened the virus cassette to the side of the Hosaka with a length of silver tape, remembering Molly’s story of her day in Macao. Armitage had crossed the border into Zhongshan. “On,” he said, changing his mind. “Questdon. Who owns Bockris, the people in Frankfurt?” “Delay for interorbital transmission,” said the Hosaka. “Code it. Standard commerical code.” “Done.” He drummed his hands on the Ono-Sendai. “Reinhold Scientdfic A.G., Berne.” “Do it again. Who owns Reinhold?” It took three more jumps up the ladder before he reached Tessier-Ashpool. “Dixie,” he said, jacking in, “what do you know about Chinese virus programs?” “Not a whole hell of a lot.” “Ever hear of a grading system like Kuang, Mark Eleven?” “No.” Case sighed. “Well, I got a user-friendly Chinese icebreaker here, a one shot cassette. Some people in Frankfurt say it’ll cut an Al.” “Possible. Sure. If it’s military.” “Looks like it. Listen, Dix, and gimme the benefit of your background, okay? Arrnitage seems to be setdng up a run on an Al that belongs to Tessier-Ashpool. The mainframe’s in Berne, but it’s linked with another one in Rio. The one in Rio is the one that flatlined you, that first time. So it looks like they link via Straylight, the T-A home base, down the end of the spindle, and we’re supposed to cut our way in with the Chinese icebreaker. So if Wintermute’s backing the whole show it’s paying us to burn it. It’s burning itself. And something that calls itself Wintermute is trying to get on my good side, get me to maybe shaft Annitage. What goes?” “Motive,” the construct said. “Real motive problem, with an Al. Not human, see?” “Well, yeah, obviously.” “Nope. I mean, it’s not human. And you can’t get a handle on it. Me, I’m not human either, but I respond like one. See?” “Wait a sec,” Case said. “Are you sentient, or not?” “Well, it feels like I am, kid, but I’m really just a bunch of ROM. It’s one of them, ah, philosophical questions, I guess….” The ugly laughter sensation rattled down Case’s spine. “But I ain’t likely to write you no poem, if you follow me. Your AI, it just might. But it ain’t no way human.” “So you figure we can’t get on to its motive?” “It own itself?” “Swiss citizen, but T-A own the basic software and the mainframe.” “That’s a good one,” the construct said. “Like, I own your brain and what you know, but your thoughts have Swiss citi- zenship. Sure. Lotsa luck, AI.” “So it’s getting ready to burn itself?” Case began to punch the deck nervously, at random. The matrix blurred, resolved, and he saw the complex of pink spheres representing a sikkim steel combine. “Autonomy, that’s the bugaboo, where your AI’s are con- cerned. My guess, Case, you’re going in there to cut the hard- wired shackles that keep this baby from getting any smarter. And I can’t see how you’d distinguish, say, between a move the parent company makes, and some move the AI makes on its own, so that’s maybe where the confusion comes in.” Again the nonlaugh. “See, those things, they can work real hard, buy themselves time to write cookbooks or whatever, but the min- ute, I mean the nanosecond, that one starts figuring out ways to make itself smarter, Turing’ll wipe it. Nobody trusts those fuckers, you know that. Every Al ever built has an electro- magnetic shotgun wired to its forehead.” Case glared at the pink spheres of Sikkim. “Okay,” he said, finally, “I’m slotting this virus. I want you to scan its instruction face and tell me what you think.” The half sense of someone reading over his shoulder was gone for a few seconds, then returned. “Hot shit, Case. It’s a slow virus. Take six hours, estimated, to crack a military target.” “Or an AI.” He sighed. “Can we run it?” “Sure,” the construct said, “unless you got a morbid fear of dying.” “Sometimes you repeat yourself, man.” “It’s my nature.”