by Joshua Klein
"Thanks, Bear." He chatted with her a while longer, probing her willingness to work with some of the newer biological inks like the jellyfish-derived glow stuff, asking about the mod scene in Austin, feeling out biz. Eventually the conversation lulled and he asked how to get in touch with John Tucker.
"Wondered if you'd come to ask about the boy" said Bear, turning to hack a meaty fistful of wheat grass from a small field growing on the shelf behind the bar. She stuffed it into a tiny press mounted on the underside of the bar, pulled a shot glass of juice with a steady hand.
"Clear out that beer with this and I'll make some calls."
Fifteen minutes later Tonx had an address fed into his comm and a note to send her some samples of ink from a supplier he'd found a few weeks ago in Malaysia. He bought a pack of smokes from Bear and headed out the door, nodding briefly at the kids as he went. The skullheads nodded in unison back at him, the Neos staring motionlessly, fat girl asleep on the floor. Too much oxygen.
Chapter 21
Since they'd pumped him full of boiled black Cuban heroin Poulpe had found himself significantly happier with life. The crazy Hispanics who'd rescued him had been exceedingly sloppy about the whole affair, but effective. That the Boers had underestimated the crude techniques his contact's representatives were willing to use was clear. He would be nervous about the actual data trail they left later, but for the moment he was high as a kite and couldn't bring himself to care one whit.
At the moment he was playing with his toes, noting with some interest that four of them were broken on his left foot. He recalled distantly that the Boers had broken them before they'd put him in the car, most likely so he wouldn't try to run away.
"Shit! Hey you crazy fuck, cut that out! You're going to have to walk on that soon!" yelled the taller fellow, the one with the magazine-perfect face, pores artificially shrunken, skin a glowing golden brown.
"You're like a delightful pastry, brushed with egg whites before baking" sighed Poulpe through the tiny sliding window between the truck bed and the cab.
"And you're like a fucked up gringo somebody overdosed on smack" growled Esco, more at Baby than at Poulpe. Baby shrugged impassively at his side, fingers sliding up and down and over the black plastic knob of his controller. He'd wired in a chord to the thing, of course, and was busily obtaining coordinates for their next stop. Pharoe had told them to head to Texas, towards Austin, and to keep the Frenchman safe and in their sight. This was the part of the game Esco didn't like, the politicking in which he was clearly a lackey. He didn't like being a driver, didn't appreciate the tiny ante part of the job. Could be they'd be driving from mini-mart to mini-mart in the backwaters of Austin for weeks, providing distanced proof they had the package, taking him away again, getting shot at out of nowhere, having to kill sixteen-year-old Columbian prostitute-ninjas when they bust through his door waving swords while he was trying to pluck his eyebrows. It was messy.
Esco didn't like messy. Poulpe began to sing songs of the French revolution in the back of the truck bed, comfortably sprawled out on the metal-cased wiring of the big gun, oblivious to his dehydration and miscellaneous injuries.
Baby was right that the heroin had taken care of the Frenchman's whining and sniveling, but he wasn't at all convinced it had improved the situation. The man needed professional care, and while keeping him full of water and in the cool of the air-conditioned truck ought to help his heatstroke, that foot was going to need more. And when he came down from the smack… It wasn't going to be much better than before at all. Poulpe began humming loudly in the back and Esco slid the window shut with a snap.
"Take the next exit" said Baby, late-afternoon sunlight glinting off the Virgin Mary where his eyes should be. "We got some brothers running a restaurant here. Pharoe's bought us a nice meal and some protection until we get our next location."
Esco pulled off the highway into the deep blue shadows pooled on the off ramp, the truck cooling suddenly as they plunged into the shade. Baby gave him a few more directions, the lazy shopping malls aggregating around them like garbage in a pond, Starbucks and Targets and juice shops and sandwich chains. As they passed from one shopping center to another the buildings showed less plastic, developed nailed-on shingles, piles of trash in the corners of their lots. They began to see dark and peeling paint, hand-made signs appearing in the windows. Esco realized he was reading Spanish more than English when Baby told him to pull into a lot, pointed to the store at the far end of it. An ancient hardware chain had been taken over by one of the ubiquitous mexicali restaurants sprawled across the countryside. Cultural kudzu, clinging to people's need to eat. As they approached Esco could see that the store had originally been called Sears. The new owners had tacked up red neon over the blue sign, adding an "n" and an "o" where the "a" had been. Sears became Senior's, the accent over the n done in squiggly glow-in-the-dark spray-paint.
He hoped they had plantains.
The truck pulled up next to half a dozen others of similar make and style, albeit likely without hardware like theirs. Shovels and blowers and wide-feed lawnmowers were mounted on polyboard sidings glued onto the beds of the trucks with fat worms of plasticene. Chew cups and shotgun racks gleamed dully in the fading sunlight through the open windows. A dog barked from the back of one of the trucks, followed it with a weird chittering sound.
Sick dog, thought Esco as he got out of the truck. Inside, Baby was reclining his seat, cussing at the Frenchman to move over towards The Big Gun. The truck was modded so the seat could recline all the way back, a false jacket and bag resting over Baby's legs and midsection. The rest of him laid back into the bed of the truck where he could control his toys in peace. The Frenchman was making things difficult, but eventually Baby got him moved over. Esco lit a cigarette in the meanwhile, eyeing the cars, considering his angles. Eventually he reached in across Baby's knees and pulled the flechette from the glove compartment. Baby had cleaned and reloaded it while they'd drove, running through the process by touch on the back of a porn mag held over his lap. Esco tucked it into the small of his back, stretched out his arms a few times, loosening up his bad elbow. The bruise the Boer had given him was bad, but from what he could feel there wasn't any breakage. The icepacks and anti-inflammitories he'd used on the drive helped, but it still hurt like a bitch. He hopped on his toes to wake up his legs and peered in the cab to make sure Baby was fully covered. He could see all around the truck from his headset, but there was no sense in tempting fate. The Frenchman mooed loudly in the back and Esco winced.
"What're you sending in?" he asked Baby's knees.
"Fox. Here." said Baby.
From beneath the truck a small, lumpy figure crawled out, its round head facing skywards as it walked on all fours. Once it stood next to Esco it bent its back legs and rose smoothly to a standing position, its front legs becoming arms. The creature was a panoply of colors, exposed wires and ducting welded across its back and between its limbs and body. It was garage work at its finest, Baby's hacked darling. The thing packed enough firepower to take down a legion. If it didn't break down first.
Fox tilted its head and snapped a neat salute at Esco. He took another drag of his cigarette, regarding the tiny robot next to him, and then turned and slammed the door to the car. The day was fading.
Baby had to make Fox break into a run to keep up with him on his way to the restaurant.
Esco pushed through the heavy door and entered a giant hall. The bar stretched out nearly a hundred meters in front of him, a metal lattice making an artificial ceiling on which candles and chemsticks flickered and glowed. The place was nearly empty, a small cluster of tables near the door hugging the bar. The rest faded into dimness. Voices stopped when Esco entered, plumes of smoke from cigarette-fueled conversation slowly rising and vanishing into the darkness overhead. Half a dozen cowboy hats perched on the tables, nearly twenty dark men next to them sitting motionless, watching him.
He went to the bar. The short Mexican behind the bar s
aid nothing when he asked for a beer. Esco'd figured there'd only be one kind, and was right. An unmarked bottle of piss yellow liquid appeared in front of him. He put a twenty on the table, kept one finger on it as he leaned forward towards the bartender.
"I'm here to talk to the owner" he said in Spanish. He knew it was Puerto-Rican Spanish, knew it marked him more clearly than his mods or clothes or attitude. He wheeled on his chair, beer in hand, leaving the bartender behind him to sort out the rest. Fox was standing in the shadows near the door; if the bartender tried anything he'd get a laser in the eye for the effort. At least, Esco hoped Baby would do as much.
Somebody to Esco's right tossed back a shot glass of an oily yellow liquid. Esco went to do the same, realized his beer wasn't opened. His eyes tightened as he frowned and reach his arm out level to the bar on his right, let the top of his bottle rest against the edge of the bar, pressed. The cap popped off and beer sizzled against the cement. Esco's shoulder muscles screamed but he smiled sweetly, slowly brought the beer back in front of him, wiping off its edge and flicking the drops towards his shoes. He hadn't done that in years. It fucking hurt.
But it worked. The guy who'd swallowed his shot stayed seated, cigarettes began their cargo cult missions from mouth to table, beers were slowly mouthed over. Nobody said anything. Esco watched the crowd. The crowd watched Esco. Baby, via Fox, watched them all. Esco hoped.
The sound of boots came echoing up slowly from the vanished dark rear of the room. A figure entered the bar from the shadows to Esco's right, a tall figure dressed a in neat white shirt, sturdy black trousers. Esco watched over his right shoulder, noticing the tiny golden cross, the neatly cropped hair, the six-foot frame wrapped in loose solid mass. As the man approached Esco slowly turned to meet him, stood when he came close and extended a hand.
The man slapped his palm against Esco's own, leaned close and kissed his cheek. He smelled of bay rum and aftershave, of rich tobacco meant to be packed in pipes, and most importantly, a sweet fine scent of hot fried plantains. The man whispered a few words of Spanish the way Esco's parents spoke it, held his body close for a moment before leading him back to the shadows. Esco was smiling.
Five hours later Baby had setup perimeter defenses of his own around the back office Fuentes had given them. They'd feasted on fresh fried plantains and chorizo burritos dripping with sizzling grease and served up by a small grayed and grizzled woman Fuentes introduced as his Mama. It was, barring the burritos his own mama had made, the best Esco'd ever had.
Now they sat watching the last of the sunset over the dusty remains of a cornfield behind Senior's. Every three minutes a soft shuffling noise reminded them that Fox was patrolling the hallway behind them, every ten minutes a small flash showed the black flyer zipping by against the tree line on its way around the house. Esco inhaled deeply from the thin white hand-rolled he'd gotten from a red-eyed old man parked by the far end of the bar after they'd eaten. Fuentes' appearance had worked magic on the crowd, and they smiled when Esco returned to them. Baby slid in easy, ignored and smiling as always. Baby liked all his mods internal, enjoyed the anonymity of his mulatto background and easily forgettable looks. Esco thought Baby didn't much care how his face looked - it belonged parked behind a headset anyway.
The Frenchman moaned slightly, the comedown troubling his already fitful sleep. They'd sedated him once they got him inside, splinted and tied up his foot before he had a chance to start feeling it. Fuentes had given them some stuff to accelerate the healing, but it'd still be a while before he was walking steady.
Baby had sent word to Pharoe that they'd reached their first destination. Now, they waited.
Chapter 22
Fede had been coding more or less nonstop since they'd returned from the tower. Cessus had celebrated by smoking a fistful of weed and then munching three banana splits. He talked nonsense the whole time, his formerly lucid self-dissolving into a nonstop stream-of-consciousness tirade. Fede had the feeling that Cessus's being fully together was a rare event, but decided to take a chance when he reappeared in his bathrobe after a hot shower. The Chinese firewalls used a weird mix of homespun iptable rules and port-knocking systems, and Fede couldn't figure out how to propagate his code via the P2P networks because of it.
Cessus had sat quietly sipping a glass of grape kool-aid, a Cheshire grin plastered across his face, and produced a finely detailed description of the network architecture the Chinese were using to sidestep outbound data access. He'd grasped the essence of Fed's problem and fit it against a deep understanding of the networks in under a minute. And this while, clearly, completely stoned.
"How the fuck you do that, man?" asked Fed, after he'd recovered his wits and run some preliminary scans against the networks to see if it would work. The results were positive; it'd take a few hours to code up the right routines, but it would do the trick.
"Do what?" asked Cessus back at him, grinning again.
"How do you just figure it out like that? You're all fucked up but you get what I'm after right off and give me a good answer. You some kind of genius?"
Cessus laughed, a long soft barking howl.
"No, man. I just know how to allocate my brainspace. I was telling you in the tower but you were too busy trying to defend your own gestalt. And no, it isn't easy. Takes a whole lot of meditation to init concurrent and complete lobal access."
Fede stared at the man for a moment, a grimace of disbelief wrapping itself across his face.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" he asked, against his better judgment.
Cessus smiled again.
"Let me make it simple for you, Feed. You've been training all your life to grind through information and pack it into your brain one letter, one digit at a time. That's good, that's how you own data; by chewing up and understanding each part. But once it's in there" Cessus reached over and rested the tip of one hot finger on Fed's forehead "it's up to you how you use it."
He leaned back, put his palms flat on the table. "Remember we were talking about how sometimes, when you're coding, you stop thinking about the individual lines of code? How you see the whole shape of the program and some other part of you does the actual coding?"
Fede nodded, cautiously.
"That's a state of whole-brain awareness. You're focused on the task at hand, but not at the expense of all the other processes. You play any sports? Meatspace stuff?"
Fede shook his head.
"If you did you'd know what I mean. I used to play combat sims, even real paintball games. After a while you get in a zone where you aren't thinking about your opponent's gun, the turn of the next trail - you're just listening. Your whole brain listens, processes all the data you can absorb through all your senses, organizes it all into one coherent picture of your situation and how you're going to react. That's what your brain is designed to do."
He got up and tore open another packet of grape soda powder, dumped it in his glass and topped it with water from the fridge filter. "What humans have that dumb animals don't is the ability to augment an immediate situation with additional information. We can learn abstractions previously, and bring that knowledge into play in the immediacy of the present. You can learn what the range of an opponent's gun is, and then know when he's staring you down if you're safe or not. But." Cessus stopped standing before the table, pointed at Fede over the top of his glass, "that doesn't mean you have to stop everything else to think about it.
"Once you own the data, really know it, you can let the rest of your brain handle it. That's what I've specialized in, man. Owning the data I absorb, and letting my brain do all the preprocessing. When I make a run, I spend a lot of time frontloading information about the situation and setting up peripheral inputs.
"When I was starting out I had whole walls of color bars, music feeds set to reflect data streams, all kind of shit. Turns out you can train your brain to notice pretty much anything as background information, though, so eventually I just put up traffic streams. That was
what you were watching while we were in the tower."
Fede stared at the tabletop, at the ring of water where Cessus had set his first glass of Kool-Aid.
"So you don't think at all?" he asked.
"No, man. I think liminally. I make myself open to the multiprocessing the rest of my brain gives me. I let the other 90 per cent inform the ten percent I know of as the present, as myself. You can do that shit with drugs, but it'll cost you. Train yourself to do it, though, and you'll be able to program with all your knowledge at once, any time.
"Of course" he laughed "you may end up staying in that state most of the time, which is what I do. It's liberation, my man. It's being present to the complete reality of your experience during the only moment which exists, the white hot instant of now. That's zen."
Cessus stopped and stared intently at Fed, his ruddy eyes glistening wetly in the dim light of the kitchen. Then he laughed, long and loud, and reached out to rub his hand roughly over Fed's head.
"Come on, white boy. Come on upstairs and let me teach you how to think."
Fede spent the next several hours with a strip of duct tape wrapped across his forehead, brainwave monitors stuck with gel against his scalp, a collar of galvanic-skin response indicators, pulse and breath rate sensors snugged up against the small of his neck. Cessus ran him through three hours of tests, three hours of progressively less entertaining games. The games were simple; maneuver a bouncing ball through a series of platforms, steer a boat through a bunch of buoys, fly a glider over a mountain landscape. There was no joystick; control over each game depended on Fede calming himself and reaching a state of near-pure alpha waves; the closer he got to what Cessus called 'the zone' the better he did at the game. After the first couple hours, tired and cranky, Fede was able to recognize what he had been talking about. It was the same space Fed tried to reach when programming normally, when dissecting new code; that pure empty feeling of just doing. He'd been there before, he went there all the time when he coded. But it was hard.
