Snow Crash

by Neal Stephenson

  Every time they come around a corner, they encounter a little plantation of vegetables, tended by Asians or South Americans. Y.T. gets the impression that Ng wants to just run them over, but he always changes his mind at the last instant and swerves around them.

  Some Spanish-speaking blacks are playing baseball on a broad flat area, using the round lids of fifty-five-gallon drums as bases. They have parked half a dozen old beaters around the edges of the field and turned on their headlights to provide illumination. Nearby is a bar built into a crappy mobile home, marked with a graffiti sign: THE SACRIFICE ZONE. Lines of boxcars are stranded in a yard of rusted-over railway spurs, nopal growing between the ties. One of the boxcars has been turned into a Reverend Wayne's Pearly Gates franchise, and evangelical CentroAmericans are lined up to do their penance and speak in tongues below the neon Elvis. There are no NeoAquarian Temple franchises in the Sacrifice Zone.

  “The warehouse area is not as dirty as the first place we went,” Ng says reassuringly, “so the fact that you can't use the toxics mask won't be so bad. You may smell some Chill fumes.”

  Y.T. does a double take at this new phenomenon: Ng using the street name for a controlled substance. “You mean Freon?” she says.

  “Yes. The man who is the object of our inquiry is horizontally diversified. That is, he deals in a number of different substances. But he got his start in Freon. He is the biggest Chill wholesaler/retailer on the West Coast.”

  Finally, Y.T. gets it. Ng's van is air-conditioned. Not with one of those shitty ozone-safe air conditioners, but with the real thing, a heavy metal, high-capacity, bone-chilling Frigidaire blizzard blaster. It must use an incredible amount of Freon.

  For all practical purposes, that air conditioner is a part of Ng's body. Y.T.'s driving around with the world's only Freon junkie.

  “You buy your supply of Chill from this guy?”

  “Until now, yes. But for the future, I have an arrangement with someone else.”

  Someone else. The Mafia.

  They are approaching the waterfront. Dozens of long, skinny, single-story warehouses run parallel down toward the water. They all share the same access road at this end. Smaller roads run between them, down toward where the piers used to be. Abandoned tractor-trailers are scattered around from place to place.

  Ng pulls his van off the access road, into a little nook that is partly concealed between an old red-brick power station and a stack of rusted-out shipping containers. He gets it turned around so it's pointed out of here, kind of like he is expecting to leave rapidly.

  “There's money in the storage compartment in front of you,” Ng says.

  Y.T. opens the glove compartment, as anyone else would call it, and finds a thick bundle of worn-out, dirty, trillion-dollar bills. Ed Meeses.

  “Jeez, couldn't you get any Gippers? This is kind of bulky.”

  “This is more the kind of thing that a Kourier would pay with.”

  “Because we're all pond scum, right?”

  “No comment.”

  “What is this, a quadrillion dollars?”

  “One-and-a-half quadrillion. Inflation, you know.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Fourth warehouse on the left,” Ng says. “When you get the tube, throw it up in the air.”

  “Then what?”

  “Everything else will be taken care of.”

  Y.T. has her doubts about that. But if she gets in trouble, well, she can always whip out those dog tags.

  While Y.T. climbs down out of the van with her skateboard, Ng makes new sounds with his mouth. She hears a gliding and clunking noise resonating through the frame of the van, machinery coming to life. Turning back to look, she sees that a steel cocoon on the roof of the van has opened up. There is a miniature helicopter underneath it, all folded up. Its rotor blades spread themselves apart, like a butterfly unfolding. Its name is painted on its side: WHIRLWIND REAPER.

  32

  It's pretty obvious which warehouse we are looking for here. Fourth one on the left, the road that runs down toward the waterfront is blocked off by several shipping containers—the big steel boxes you see on the backs of eighteen-wheelers. They are arranged in a herringbone pattern, so that in order to get past them you have to slalom back and forth half a dozen times, passing through a narrow mazelike channel between high walls of steel. Guys with guns are perched on top, looking down at Y.T. as she guides her plank through the obstacle course. By the time she makes it out into the clear, she's been heavily checked out.

  There is the occasional light-bulb-on-a-wire strung around, and even a couple of strings of Christmas-tree lights. These are switched on, just to make her feel a little more welcome. She can't see anything, just lights making colored halos amid a generalized cloud of dust and fog. In front of her, access to the waterfront is blocked off by another maze of shipping containers. One of them has a graffiti sign: THE UKOD SEZ: TRY SOME COUNTDOWN TODAY!

  “What's the UKOD?” she says, just to break the ice a little.

  “Undisputed King of the Ozone Destroyers,” says a man's voice. He is just in the act of jumping down from the loading dock of the warehouse to her left. Back inside the warehouse, Y.T. can see electric lights and glowing cigarettes. “That's what we call Emilio.”

  “Oh, right,” Y.T. says. “The Freon guy. I'm not here for Chill.”

  “Well,” says the guy, a tall rangy dude in his forties, much too skinny to be forty years old. He yanks the butt of a cigarette from his mouth and throws it away like a dart. “What'll it be, then?”

  “What does Snow Crash cost?”

  “One point seven five Gippers,” the guy says.

  “I thought it was one point five,” Y.T. says.

  The guy shakes his head. “Inflation, you know. Still, it's a bargain. Hell, that plank you're on is probably worth a hundred Gippers.”

  “You can't even buy these for dollars,” Y.T. says, getting her back up. “Look, all I've got is one-and-a-half quadrillion dollars.” She pulls the bundle out of her pocket.

  The guy laughs, shakes his head, hollers back to his colleagues inside the warehouse. “You guys, we got a chick here who wants to pay in Meeses.”

  “Better get rid of 'em fast, honey,” says a sharper, nastier voice, “or get yourself a wheelbarrow.”

  It's an even older guy with a bald head, curly hair on the sides, and a paunch. He's standing up on the loading dock.

  “If you're not going to take it, just say so,” Y.T. says. All of this chatter has nothing to do with business.

  “We don't get chicks back here very often,” the fat bald old guy says. Y.T. knows that this must be the UKOD himself. “So we'll give you a discount for being spunky. Turn around.”

  “Fuck you,” Y.T. says. She's not going to turn around for this guy.

  Everyone within earshot laughs. “Okay, do it,” the UKOD says.

  The tall skinny guy goes back over to the loading dock and hauls an aluminum briefcase down, sets it on top of a steel drum in the middle of the road so that it's at about waist height. “Pay first,” he says.

  She hands him the Meeses. He examines the bundle, sneers, throws it back into the warehouse with a sudden backhand motion. All the guys inside laugh some more.

  He opens up the briefcase, revealing the little computer keyboard. He shoves his ID card into the slot, types on it for a couple of seconds.

  He unsnaps a tube from the top of the briefcase, places it into the socket in the bottom part. The machine draws it inside, does something, spits it back out.

  He hands the tube to Y.T. The red numbers on top are counting down from ten.

  “When it gets down to one, hold it up to your nose and start inhaling,” the guy says.

  She's already backing away from him.

  “You got a problem, little girl?” he says.

  “Not yet,” she says. Then she throws the tube up in the air as hard as she can.

  The chop of the rotor blades comes out of nowhere. The W
hirlwind Reaper blurs over their heads; everyone crouches for an instant as surprise buckles their knees. The tube does not come back to earth.

  “You fucking bitch,” the skinny guy says.

  “That was a really cool plan,” the UKOD says, “but the part I can't figure out is, why would a nice, smart girl like you participate in a suicide mission?”

  The sun comes out. About half a dozen suns, actually, all around them up in the air, so that there are no shadows. The faces of the skinny man and the UKOD look flat and featureless under this blinding illumination. Y.T. is the only person who can see worth a damn because her Knight Visions have compensated for it; the men wince and sag beneath the light.

  Y.T. turns to look behind herself. One of the miniature suns is hanging above the maze of shipping containers, casting light into all its crannies, blinding the gunmen who stand guard there. The scene flashes too light and too dark as her goggles' electronics try to make up their mind. But in the midst of this whole visual tangle she gets one image printed indelibly on her retina: the gunmen going down like a treeline in a hurricane, and for just an instant, a line of dark angular things silhouetted above the maze as they crest it like a cybernetic tsunami. Rat Things.

  They have evaded the whole maze by leaping over it in long, flat parabolas. Along the way, some of them have slammed right through the bodies of men holding guns, like NFL fullbacks plowing full speed through nerdy sideline photographers. Then, as they land on the road in front of the maze, there is an instant burst of dust with frantic white sparks dancing around at the bottom, and while all this is happening, Y.T. doesn't hear, she feels one of the Rat Things impacting on the body of the tall skinny guy, hears his ribs crackling like a ball of cellophane. Hell is already breaking loose inside the warehouse, but her eyes are trying to follow the action, watching the sparks-and-dust contrails of more Rat Things drawing themselves down the length of the road in an instant and then going airborne to the top of the next barrier.

  Three seconds have passed since she threw the tube into the air. She is turning back to look inside the warehouse. But someone's on top of the warehouse, catching her eye for a second. It's another gunman, a sniper, stepping out from behind an air-conditioning unit, just getting used to the light, raising his weapon to his shoulder. Y.T. winces as a red laser beam from his rifle sweeps across her eyes once, twice as he zeroes his sights on her forehead. Behind him she sees the Whirlwind Reaper, its rotors making a disk under the brilliant light, a disk that is foreshortened into a narrow ellipse and then into a steady silver line. Then it flies right past the sniper.

  The chopper pulls up into a hard turn, searching for additional prey, and something falls beneath it in a powerless trajectory, she thinks that it has dropped a bomb. But it's the head of the sniper, spinning rapidly, throwing out a fine pink helix under the light. The little chopper's rotor blade must have caught him in the nape of the neck. One part of her is dispassionately watching the head bounce and spin in the dust, and the other part of her is screaming her lungs out.

  She hears a crack, the first loud noise so far. She turns to follow the sound, looking in the direction of a water tower that looms above this area, providing a fine vantage point for a sniper.

  But then her attention is drawn by the pencil-thin blue-white exhaust of a tiny rocket that lances up into the sky from Ng's van. It doesn't do anything; it just goes up to a certain height and hovers, sitting on its exhaust. She doesn't care, she's kicking her way down the road now on her plank, trying to get something between her and that water tower.

  There is a second cracking noise. Before this sound even reaches her ears, the rocket darts horizontally like a minnow, makes one or two minor cuts to correct its course, zeroes in on that sniper's perch, up in the water tower's access ladder. There is a great nasty explosion without any flame or light, like the loud pointless booms that you get sometimes at fireworks shows. For a moment, she can hear the clamor of shrapnel ringing through the ironwork of the water tower.

  Just before she kicks her way back into the maze, a dustline whips past her, snapping rocks and fragments of broken glass into her face. It shoots into the maze. She hears it Ping-Pong all the way through, kicking off the steel walls in order to change direction. It's a Rat Thing clearing the way for her.

  How sweet!

  “Smooth move, Ex-Lax,” she says, climbing back into Ng's van. Her throat feels thick and swollen. Maybe it's from screaming, maybe it's the toxic waste, maybe she's getting ready to gag. “Didn't you know about the snipers?” she says. If she can keep talking about the details of the job, maybe she can keep her mind off of what the Whirlwind Reaper did.

  “I didn't know about the one on the water tower,” Ng says. “But as soon as he fired a couple of rounds, we plotted the bullets' trajectories on millimeter-wave and back-traced them.” He talks to his van and it pulls out of its hiding place, headed for I-405.

  “Seems like kind of an obvious place to look for a sniper.”

  “He was in an unfortified position, exposed from all sides,” Ng says. “He chose to work from a suicidal position. Which is not a typical behavior for drug dealers. Typically, they are more pragmatic. Now, do you have any other criticisms of my performance?”

  “Well, did it work?”

  “Yes. The tube was inserted into a sealed chamber inside the helicopter before it discharged its contents. It was then flash-frozen in liquid helium before it could chemically self-destruct. We now have a sample of Snow Crash, something that no one else has been able to get. It is the kind of success on which reputations such as mine are constructed.”

  “How about the Rat Things?”

  “How about them?”

  “Are they back in the van now? Back there?” Y.T. jerks her head aft.

  Ng pauses for a moment. Y.T. reminds herself that he is sitting in his office in Vietnam in 1955 watching all of this on TV.

  “Three of them are back,” Ng says. “Three are on their way back. And three of them I left behind to carry out additional pacification measures.”

  “You're leaving them behind?”

  “They'll catch up,” Ng says. “On a straightaway, they can run at seven hundred miles per hour.”

  “Is it true they have nuke stuff inside of them?”

  “Radiothermal isotopes.”

  “What happens if one gets busted open? Everyone gets all mutated?”

  “If you ever find yourself in the presence of a destructive force powerful enough to decapsulate those isotopes,” Ng says, “radiation sickness will be the least of your worries.”

  “Will they be able to find their way back to us?”

  “Didn't you ever watch Lassie Come Home when you were a child?” he asks. “Or rather, more of a child than you are now?”

  So. She was right. The Rat Things are made from dog parts.

  “That's cruel,” she says.

  “This brand of sentimentalism is very predictable,” Ng says.

  “To take a dog out of his body—keep him in a hutch all the time.”

  “When the Rat Thing, as you call it, is in his hutch, do you know what he's doing?”

  “Licking his electric nuts?”

  “Chasing Frisbees through the surf. Forever. Eating steaks that grow on trees. Lying beside the fire in a hunting lodge. I haven't installed any testicle-licking simulations yet, but now that you have brought it up, I shall consider it.”

  “What about when he's out of the hutch, running around doing errands for you?”

  “Can't you imagine how liberating it is for a pit bullterrier to be capable of running seven hundred miles an hour?”

  Y.T. doesn't answer. She is too busy trying to get her mind around this concept.

  “Your mistake,” Ng says, “is that you think that all mechanically assisted organisms—like me—are pathetic cripples. In fact, we are better than we were before.”

  “Where do you get the pit bulls from?”

  “An incredible number of them are ab
andoned every day, in cities all over the place.”

  “You cut up pound puppies?”

  “We save abandoned dogs from certain extinction and send them to what amounts to dog heaven.”

  “My friend Roadkill and I had a pit bull. Fido. We found it in an alley. Some asshole had shot it in the leg. We had a vet fix it up. We kept it in this empty apartment in Roadkill's building for a few months, played with it every day, brought it food. And then one day we came to play with Fido, and he was gone. Someone broke in and took him away. Probably sold him to a research lab.”

  “Probably,” Ng says, “but that's no way to keep a dog.”

  “It's better than the way he was living before.”

  There's a break in the conversation as Ng occupies himself with talking to his van, maneuvering onto the Long Beach Freeway, headed back into town.

  “Do they remember stuff?” Y.T. says.

  “To the extent dogs can remember anything,” Ng says. “We don't have any way of erasing memories.”

  “So maybe Fido is a Rat Thing somewhere, right now.”

  “I would hope so, for his sake,” Ng says.

  In a Mr. Lee's Greater Hong Kong franchise in Phoenix, Arizona, Ng Security Industries Semi-Autonomous Guard Unit B-782 comes awake.

  The factory that put him together thinks of him as a robot named Number B-782. But he thinks of himself as a pit bullterrier named Fido.

  In the old days, Fido was a bad little doggie sometimes. But now, Fido lives in a nice little house in a nice little yard. Now he has become a nice little doggie. He likes to lie in his house and listen to the other nice doggies bark. Fido is part of a big pack.

  Tonight there is a lot of barking from a place far away. When he listens to this barking, Fido knows that a whole pack of nice doggies is very excited about something. A lot of very bad men are trying to hurt a nice girl. This has made the doggies very angry and excited. In order to protect the nice girl, they are hurting some of the bad men.