“Christ,” Case said, awestruck, as Kuang twisted and banked above the horizonless fields of the Tessier-Ashpool cores, an endless neon cityscape, complexity that cut the eye, jewel bright, sharp as razors. “Hey, shit,” the construct said, “those things are the RCA Building. You know the old RCA Building?” The Kuang program dived past the gleaming spires of a dozen identical towers of data, each one a blue neon replica of the Manhattan skyscraper. “You ever see resolution this high?” Case asked. “No, but I never cracked an AI, either.” “This thing know where it’s going?” “It better.” They were dropping, losing altitude in a canyon of rainbow neon. “Dix–” An arm of shadow was uncoiling from the flickering floor below, a seething mass of darkness, unformed, shapeless…. “Company,” the Flatline said, as Case hit the representation of his deck, fingers flying automatically across the board. The Kuang swerved sickeningly, then reversed, whipping itself backward, shattering the illusion of a physical vehicle. The shadow thing was growing, spreading, blotting out the city of data. Case took them straight up, above them the dis- tanceless bowl of jade-green ice. The city of the cores was gone now, obscured entirely by the dark beneath them. “What is it?” “An Al’s defense system,” the construct said, “or part of it. If it’s your pal Wintermute, he’s not lookin’ real friendly.” “Take it,” Case said. “You’re faster.” “Now your best de-fense, boy, it’s a good off-fense.” And the Flatline aligned the nose of Kuang’s sting with the center of the dark below. And dove. Case’s sensory input warped with their velocity. His mouth filled with an aching taste of blue. His eyes were eggs of unstable crystal, vibrating with a frequency whose name was rain and the sound of trains, sud- denly sprouting a humming forest of hair-fine glass spines. The spines split, bisected, split again, exponential growth under the dome of the Tessier-Ashpool ice. The roof of his mouth cleaved painlessly, admitting rootlets that whipped around his tongue, hungry for the taste of blue, to feed the crystal forests of his eyes, forests that pressed against the green dome, pressed and were hindered, and spread, growing down, filling the universe of T-A, down into the waiting, hapless suburbs of the city that was the mind of Tessier-Ashpool S.A. And he was remembering an ancient story, a king placing coins on a chessboard, doubling the amount at each square…. Exponential…. Darkness fell in from every side, a sphere of singing black, pressure on the extended crystal nerves of the universe of data he had nearly become…. And when he was nothing, compressed at the heart of all that dark, there came a point where the dark could be no more, and something tore. The Kuang program spurted from tarnished cloud, Case’s consciousness divided like beads of mercury, arcing above an endless beach the color of the dark silver clouds. His vision was spherical, as though a single retina lined the inner surface of a globe that contained all things, if all things could be counted. And here things could be counted, each one. He knew the number of grains of sand in the construct of the beach (a number coded in a mathematical system that existed nowhere outside the mind that was Neuromancer). He knew the number of yellow food packets in the canisters in the bunker (four hundred and seven). He knew the number of brass teeth in the left half of the open zipper of the salt-crusted leather jacket that Linda Lee wore as she trudged along the sunset beach, swinging a stick of driftwood in her hand (two hundred and two). He banked Kuang above the beach and swung the program in a wide circle, seeing the black shark thing through her eyes, a silent ghost hungry against the banks of lowering cloud. She cringed, dropping her stick, and ran. He knew the rate of her pulse, the length of her stride in measurements that would have satisfied the most exacting standards of geophysics. “But you do not know her thoughts,” the boy said, beside him now in the shark thing’s heart. “I do not know her thoughts. You were wrong, Case. To live here is to live. There is no difference.” Linda in her panic, plunging blind through the surf. “Stop her,” he said, “she’ll hurt herself.” “I can’t stop her,” the boy said, his gray eyes mild and beautiful. “You’ve got Riviera’s eyes,” Case said. There was a flash of white teeth, long pink gums. “But not his craziness. Because they are beautiful to me.” He shrugged. “I need no mask to speak with you. Unlike my brother. I create my own personality. Personality is my medium.” Case took them up, a steep climb, away from the beach and the frightened girl. “Why’d you throw her up to me, you little prick? Over and fucking over, and turning me around. You killed her, huh? In Chiba.” “No,” the boy said. “Wintermute?” “No. I saw her death coming. In the patterns you sometimes imagined you could detect in the dance of the street. Those patterns are real. I am complex enough, in my narrow ways, to read those dances. Far better than Wintermute can. I saw her death in her need for you, in the magnetic code of the lock on the door of your coffin in Cheap Hotel, in Julie Deane’s account with a Hongkong shirtmaker. As clear to me as the shadow of a tumor to a surgeon studying a patient’s scan. When she took your Hitachi to her boy, to try to access it–she had no idea what it carried, still less how she might sell it, and her deepest wish was that you would pursue and punish her–I intervened. My methods are far more subtle than Wintermute’s. I brought her here. Into myself.” “Why?” “Hoping I could bring you here as well, keep you here. But I failed.” “So what now?” He swung them back into the bank of cloud. “Where do we go from here?” “I don’t know, Case. Tonight the very matrix asks itself that question. Because you have won. You have already won, don’t you see? You won when you walked away from her on the beach. She was my last line of defense. I die soon, in one sense. As does Wintermute. As surely as Riviera does, now, as he lies paralyzed beside the stump of a wall in the apartments of my Lady 3Jane Marie-France, his nigra-striatal system unable to produce the dopamine receptors that could save him from Hideo’s arrow. But Riviera will survive only as these eyes, if I am allowed to keep them.” “There’s the word, right? The code. So how’ve I won? I’ve won jack shit.” “Flip now.” “Where’s Dixie? What have you done with the Flatliner’ “McCoy Pauley has his wish,” the boy said, and smiled. “His wish and more. He punched you here against my wish, drove himself through defenses equal to anything in the matrix. Now flip.” And Case was alone in Kuang’s black sting, lost in cloud. He flipped.