think you quite understand about Hideo. She does, evidently.”
“Like a drink?”
“Wine. The white.”
Case jacked out.
MAELCUM WAS HUNCHED over Garvey’s controls, tapping out commands for a docking sequence. The module’s central screen displayed a fixed red square that represented the Straylight dock. Garvey was a larger square, green, that shrank slowly, wavering from side to side with Maelcum’s commands. To the left, a smaller screen displayed a skeletal graphic of Garvey and Haniwa as they approached the curvature of the spindle.
“We got an hour, man,” Case said, pulling the ribbon of fiberoptics from the Hosaka. His deck’s back-up batteries were good for ninety minutes, but the Flatline’s construct would be an additional drain. He worked quickly, mechanically, fastening the construct to the bottom of the Ono-Sendai with micro-pore tape. Maelcum’s workbelt drifted past. He snagged it, unclipped the two lengths of shock cord, with their gray rectangular suction pads, and hooked the jaws of one clip through the other. He held the pads against the sides of his deck and worked the thumb lever that created suction. With the deck, construct, and improvised shoulder strap suspended in front of him, he struggled into his leather jacket, checking the contents of his pockets. The passport Armitage had given him, the bank chip in the same name, the credit chip he’d been issued when he’d entered Freeside, two derms of the betaphenethylamine he’d bought from Bruce, a roll of New Yen, half a pack of Yeheyuans, and the shuriken. He tossed the Freeside chip over his shoulders, heard it click off the Russian scrubber. He was about to do the same with the steel star, but the rebounding credit chip clipped the back of his skull, spun off, struck the ceiling, and tumbled past Maelcum’s left shoulder. The Zionite interrupted his piloting to glare back at him. Case looked at the shuriken, then tucked it into his jacket pocket, hearing the lining tear.
“You missin’ th’ Mute, mon,” Maelcum said. “Mute say he messin’ th’ security for Garvey. Garvey dockin’ as ’nother boat, boat they ’spectin’ out of Babylon. Mute broadcastin’ codes for us.”
“We gonna wear the suits?”
“Too heavy.” Maelcum shrugged. “Stay in web ’til I tell you.” He tapped a final sequence into the module and grabbed the worn pink handholds on either side of the navigation board. Case saw the green square shrink a final few millimeters to overlap the red square. On the smaller screen, Haniwa lowered her bow to miss the curve of the spindle and was snared. Garvey was still slung beneath her like a captive grub. The tug rang, shuddered. Two stylized arms sprang out to grip the slender wasp shape. Straylight extruded a tentative yellow rectangle that curved, groping past Haniwa for Garvey.
There was a scraping sound from the bow, beyond the trembling fronds of caulk.
“Mon,” Maelcum said, “mind we got gravity.” A dozen small objects struck the floor of the cabin simultaneously, as though drawn there by a magnet. Case gasped as his internal organs were pulled into a different configuration. The deck and construct had fallen painfully to his lap.
They were attached to the spindle now, rotating with it.
Maelcum spread his arms, flexed tension from his shoulders, and removed his purple dreadbag, shaking out his locks. “Come now, mon, if you seh time be mos’ precious.”
NINETEEN
THE VILLA STRAYLIGHT was a parasitic structure, Case reminded himself, as he stepped past the tendrils of caulk and through Marcus Garvey’s forward hatch. Straylight bled air and water out of Freeside, and had no ecosystem of its own.
The gangway tube the dock had extended was a more elaborate version of the one he’d tumbled through to reach Haniwa, designed for use in the spindle’s rotation gravity. A corrugated tunnel, articulated by integral hydraulic members, each segment ringed with a loop of tough, nonslip plastic, the loops serving as the rungs of a ladder. The gangway had snaked its way around Haniwa; it was horizontal, where it joined Garvey’s lock, but curved up sharply and to the left, a vertical climb around the curvature of the yacht’s hull. Maelcum was already making his way up the rings, pulling himself up with his left hand, the Remington in his right. He wore a stained pair of baggy fatigues, his sleeveless green nylon jacket, and a pair of ragged canvas sneakers with bright red soles. The gangway shifted slightly, each time he climbed to another ring.
The clips on Case’s makeshift strap dug into his shoulder with the weight of the Ono-Sendai and