said to the girl who sat at the low desk, a terminal on her lap. “Lower level.” He handed her his chip.
“Gender preference?” She passed the chip across a glass plate on the face of the terminal.
“Female,” he said automatically.
“Number thirty-five. Phone if it isn’t satisfactory. You can access our special services display beforehand, if you like.” She smiled. She returned his chip.
An elevator slid open behind her.
The corridor lights were blue. Case stepped out of the elevator and chose a direction at random. Numbered doors. A hush like the halls of an expensive clinic.
He found his cubicle. He’d been looking for Molly’s; now, confused, he raised his chip and placed it against a black sensor set directly beneath the number plate.
Magnetic locks. The sound reminded him of Cheap Hotel.
The girl sat up in bed and said something in German. Her eyes were soft and unblinking. Automatic pilot. A neural cutout. He backed out of the cubicle and closed the door.
The door of forty-three was like all the others. He hesitated. The silence of the hallway said that the cubicles were soundproof. It was pointless to try the chip. He rapped his knuckles against enameled metal. Nothing. The door seemed to absorb the sound.
He placed his chip against the black plate.
The bolts clicked.
She seemed to hit him, somehow, before he’d actually gotten the door open. He was on his knees, the steel door against his back, the blades of her rigid thumbs quivering centimeters from his eyes. . . .
“Jesus Christ,” she said, cuffing the side of his head as she rose. “You’re an idiot to try that. How the hell you open those locks, Case? Case? You okay?” She leaned over him.
“Chip,” he said, struggling for breath. Pain was spreading from his chest. She helped him up and shoved him into the cubicle.
“You bribe the help, upstairs?”
He shook his head and fell across the bed.
“Breathe in. Count. One, two, three, four. Hold it. Now out. Count.”
He clutched his stomach.
“You kicked me,” he managed.
“Shoulda been lower. I wanna be alone. I’m meditating, right?” She sat beside him. “And getting a briefing.” She pointed at a small monitor set into the wall opposite the bed. “Wintermute’s telling me about Straylight.”
“Where’s the meat puppet?”
“There isn’t any. That’s the most expensive special service of all.” She stood up. She wore her leather jeans and a loose dark shirt. “The run’s tomorrow, Wintermute says.”
“What was that all about, in the restaurant? How come you ran?”
“ ’Cause, if I’d stayed, I might have killed Riviera.”
“Why?”
“What he did to me. The show.”
“I don’t get it.”
“This cost a lot,” she said, extending her right hand as though it held an invisible fruit. The five blades slid out, then retracted smoothly. “Costs to go to Chiba, costs to get the surgery, costs to have them jack your nervous system up so you’ll have the reflexes to go with the gear. . . . You know how I got the money, when I was starting out? Here. Not here, but a place like it, in the Sprawl. Joke, to start with, ’cause once they plant the cut-out chip, it seems like free money. Wake up sore, sometimes, but that’s it. Renting the goods, is all. You aren’t in, when it’s all happening. House has software for whatever a customer wants to pay for. . . .” She cracked her knuckles. “Fine. I was getting my money. Trouble was, the cut-out and the circuitry the Chiba clinics put in weren’t compatible. So the worktime started bleeding in, and I could remember it. . . . But it was just bad dreams, and not all bad.” She smiled. “Then it started getting strange.” She pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. “The house found out what I was doing with the money. I had the blades in, but the fine neuromotor work would take another three trips. No way I was ready to give up puppet time.” She inhaled, blew out a stream of smoke, capping it with three perfect rings. “So the bastard who ran the place, he had some custom software cooked up. Berlin, that’s the place for snuff, you know? Big market for mean kicks, Berlin. I never knew who wrote the program they switched me to, but it was based on all the classics.”
“They knew you were picking up on this stuff? That you were conscious while you were working?”
“I wasn’t conscious. It’s like cyberspace, but blank. Silver. It smells like rain. . . .