The Bridge Trilogy Part 65

When the waitress, in tiny silver shorts and a prehensile pink angora top, had taken their orders, Arleigh opened her purse and removed a notebook. "These are linear topographies of some of the structures you accessed earlier today." She pa.s.sed Laney the notebook. "They're in a format called Realtree 7.2."

Laney clicked through a series of images: abstract geometrics arranged in vanis.h.i.+ng linear perspective. "I don't know how to read them," he said.

She poured her sake. "You really were trained by DatAmerica?"

"I was trained by a bunch of Frenchmen who liked to play tennis."

"Realtree's from DatAmerica. The best quant.i.tative a.n.a.lysis software they've got." She closed the notebook, put it back in her purse.

Laney poured his beer. "Ever hear of something called TIDAL?"

"Tidal'?"

"Acronym. Maybe."

"No." She lifted the china cup and blew, like a child cooling tea.

"It was another DatAmerica tool, or the start of one. I don't think it reached the market. But that was how I learned to find the nodal points."

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"Okay,' she said."What are the nodal points?" I Laney looked at the bubbles on the surface of his beer. "It's like seeing things in clouds," Laney said. "Except the things you see are really there."

She put her sake down. "Yamazaki promised me you weren't crazy."

"It's not crazy It's something to do with how I process low-level, broad-spectrum input. Something to do with pattern-recognition."

"And Slitscan hired you on the basis of that?"

"They hired me when I demonstrated that it works, But I can't do that with the kind of data you showed me today"

"Why not?"

Laney raised his beer. "Because it's like trying to have a drink with a bank. It's not a person.

It doesn't drink. There's no place for it to sit." He drank. "Rez doesn't generate patterns I can read, because everything he does is at one remove. It's like looking in an annual report for the personal habits of the chairman of the board. It's not going to be there. From the outside, it just looks like that Realtree stuff. If I enter a specific area, I don't get any sense of how the data there relates to the rest of it, see? It's got to be relational." He drummed his fingers on the laminated gum wrappers. "Somewhere in Ireland. Guesthouse with a beach view. n.o.body there.

Records of how it was kept stocked: stuff for the bathroom, toothpaste, shaving foam.

"I've been there," she said. "That's on an estate he bought from an older musician, an Irishman.

It's beautiful. Like Italy, in a way."

"You think he'll take this idoru back there, when they get hitched?"

"n.o.body has any idea what he's talking about when he says he wants to 'marry' her."

"Then an apartment in Stockholm. Huge. Great big stoves in each room, made of glazed ceramic bricks."

"I don't know that one. He has places all over, and some of them are kept very quiet. There's another country place in the south of 148 William Gibson France, a house in London, apartments in New York, Paris, Barcelona. . . . I was working out of the Catalan office, reformatting all their stuff and Spain's as well, when this idoru thing hit, I've been here ever since."

"But you know him? You knew him before?"

"He's the navel of the world I work in, Laney. That has a way of making people unknowable."

"What about Lo?"

"Quiet. Very. Bright. Very." She frowned at her sake. "I don't think any of it's ever really gotten to Lo. He seems to regard their entire career as some freak event unrelated to anything else."

"Including his partner deciding to marry a software agent?"

"Lo cold me a story once, about a job he'd had. He worked for a soup vendor in Hong Kong, a wagon on the sidewalk. He said the wagon had been in business for over fifty years, and their secret was that they'd never cleaned the kettle. In fact, they'd never stopped cooking the soup. It was the same seafood soup they'd been selling for fifty years, but it was never the same, because they added fresh ingredients every day, depending on what was available. He said that was what his career as musician felt like, and he liked that about it. Blackwell says if Rez were more like Lo, he'd still be in prison."

"Why?"

"Blackwell was serving a nine-year sentence, in an Australian maximum-security prison, when Rez talked his way in. To give a concert. Just Rez. Lo and the others thought it was too dangerous.

They'd been warned that it could turn into a hostage-taking situation. The prison authorities refused to take any responsibility, and they wanted it in writing. Rez signed anything they put in front of him. His security people resigned on the spot. He went in with two guitars, a wireless mike, and a very basic amplification system. During the concert, a riot broke out. Apparently it was orchestrated by a group of Italian prisoners from Melbourne. Five of them took Rez into the prison laundry, which they'd chosen because it was windowless and easily defended. They informed Rez they were going to kill 0.

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him if they couldn't negotiate their release in exchange for his. They discussed cutting off at least one of his fingers to demonstrate that they meant business. Or possibly some more intimate part, though that may simply have been to make him more anxious. Which it did." She signaled the pink angora waitress for more sake. "Black-well, who'd evidently been extremely irritated at the interruption of the concert, which he'd been enjoying enormously, appeared in the laundry approximately forty minutes after Rez was taken prisoner. Neither Rez nor the Italians saw him arrive, and the Italians definitely hadn't been expecting him." She paused.

"He killed three of them, with a tomahawk. Put the end of it into their heads: one, two, three, Rez says, like that. No fuss whatever."

'A tomahawk?"

"Sort of narrow-bladed hatchet, with a spike opposite the blade. Extends the reach, imparts terrific force, and with practice can be thrown with considerable accuracy. Blackwell swears by it. The other two fled, although they both seem to have died in the aftermath of the riot.

Personally, I'm sure Blackwell or his 'mates' killed them, because he was never charged with the murder of the other three. The sole surviving witness was Rez, whom Blackwell escorted to the barricade the guards had erected in the exercise yard." Her sake arrived. "It took Rez's lawyers three months to get Blackwell's sentence reversed on a technicality. They've been together ever since."

"What was Blackwell in for?"

"Murder," she said. "Do you know what a standover man is?"

"No."

"It's a peculiarly Australian concept. I'm tempted to think it could only have grown out of a culture comprised initially of convicts, but my Australian friends don't buy that. The standover man is a loner, a predator who preys on other, more prosperous criminals, often extremely dangerous ones. He captures them and 'stands over' them. To extort money."

"What's that mean?"

"He tortures them until they tell him where their money is. And 150 William Gibson these are often fhirly serious operators, with people paid to take care of them, specifically to prevent this sort of thing

"Tortures them?"

"'Toe-cutter' is a related term. When they tell him what he needs to know, he kills them."

And Blackwell was suddenly and noiselessly and simply there, very black, and matte, in an enormous waxed-cotton drover's coat. Behind him the faded American advertising and the grays and pinks of gum. Flis fretted scalp concealed by the waxed-cotton crown of a broad black hat.

"Arleigh, dear, you wouldn't take the name in vain, would you?"