Neuromancer - William Gibson Page 0,20

constellations of data. Like city lights, receding. . . .”

“What’s that?” Molly asked, as he flipped the channel selector.

“Kid’s show.” A discontinuous flood of images as the selector cycled. “Off,” he said to the Hosaka.

“You want to try now, Case?”

Wednesday. Eight days from waking in Cheap Hotel with Molly beside him. “You want me to go out, Case? Maybe easier for you, alone. . . .” He shook his head.

“No. Stay, doesn’t matter.” He settled the black terry sweatband across his forehead, careful not to disturb the flat Sendai dermatrodes. He stared back at the deck on his lap, not really seeing it, seeing instead the shop window on Ninsei, the chromed shuriken burning with reflected neon. He glanced up; on the wall, just above the Sony, he’d hung her gift, tacking it there with a yellow-headed drawing pin through the hole at its center.

He closed his eyes.

Found the ridged face of the power stud.

And in the bloodlit dark behind his eyes, silver phosphenes boiling in from the edge of space, hypnagogic images jerking past like film compiled from random frames. Symbols, figures, faces, a blurred, fragmented mandala of visual information.

Please, he prayed, now—

A gray disk, the color of Chiba sky.

Now—

Disk beginning to rotate, faster, becoming a sphere of paler gray. Expanding—

And flowed, flowered for him, fluid neon origami trick, the unfolding of his distanceless home, his country, transparent 3D chessboard extending to infinity. Inner eye opening to the stepped scarlet pyramid of the Eastern Seaboard Fission Authority burning beyond the green cubes of Mitsubishi Bank of America, and high and very far away he saw the spiral arms of military systems, forever beyond his reach.

And somewhere he was laughing, in a white-painted loft, distant fingers caressing the deck, tears of release streaking his face.

MOLLY WAS GONE when he took the trodes off, and the loft was dark. He checked the time. He’d been in cyberspace for five hours. He carried the Ono-Sendai to one of the new worktables and collapsed across the bedslab, pulling Molly’s black silk sleeping bag over his head.

The security package taped to the steel firedoor bleeped twice. “Entry requested,” it said. “Subject is cleared per my program.”

“So open it.” Case pulled the silk from his face and sat up as the door opened, expecting to see Molly or Armitage.

“Christ,” said a hoarse voice, “I know that bitch can see in the dark. . . .” A squat figure stepped in and closed the door. “Turn the lights on, okay?” Case scrambled off the slab and found the old-fashioned switch.

“I’m the Finn,” said the Finn, and made a warning face at Case.

“Case.”

“Pleased to meecha, I’m sure. I’m doing some hardware for your boss, it looks like.” The Finn fished a pack of Partagas from a pocket and lit one. The smell of Cuban tobacco filled the room. He crossed to the worktable and glanced at the Ono-Sendai. “Looks stock. Soon fix that. But here’s your problem, kid.” He took a filthy manila envelope from inside his jacket, flicked ash on the floor, and extracted a featureless black rectangle from the envelope. “Goddamn factory prototypes,” he said, tossing the thing down on the table. “Cast ’em into a block of polycarbon, can’t get in with a laser without frying the works. Booby-trapped for x-ray, ultrascan, God knows what else. We’ll get in, but there’s no rest for the wicked, right?” He folded the envelope with great care and tucked it away in an inside pocket.

“What is it?”

“It’s a flipflop switch, basically. Wire it into your Sendai here, you can access live or recorded simstim without having to jack out of the matrix.”

“What for?”

“I haven’t got a clue. Know I’m fitting Moll for a broadcast rig, though, so it’s probably her sensorium you’ll access.” The Finn scratched his chin. “So now you get to find out just how tight those jeans really are, huh?”

FOUR

CASE SAT IN the loft with the dermatrodes strapped across his forehead, watching motes dance in the diluted sunlight that filtered through the grid overhead. A countdown was in progress in one corner of the monitor screen.

Cowboys didn’t get into simstim, he thought, because it was basically a meat toy. He knew that the trodes he used and the little plastic tiara dangling from a simstim deck were basically the same, and that the cyberspace matrix was actually a drastic simplification of the human sensorium, at least in terms of presentation, but simstim itself struck him as a gratuitous multiplication of flesh input. The commercial