William Gibson - Idoru

The idoru had the Music Master’s haircut now; it made her look like a girl pretending to be a boy. She seemed to like his greatcoat, too, because she kept turning on her heel—his heel—to twirl the hem out. “I’ve seen so many new places,” she said, smiling at Chia, “so many different people and things.”

–So have I, but…

“He told me it would be this way, but I had no idea, really.” Twirl. “Having seen all this, I’m so much more … Does it feel like that for you, when you travel?”

The death’s-head emitted a burst of blue light and a sound like a short, sharp fart. “Zona!” Chia hissed. Then all in a rush, to the idoru, “I haven’t traveled much and so far I don’t think I like it, but we just came here to see what you were, because we didn’t know, because you’re in my software, and maybe in Zona’s site, too, and that bothers her because it’s supposed to be private.”

“The country with the beautiful sky?”

“Yeah,” Chia said. “You aren’t really supposed to be able to go there unless she asks you.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” The idoru looked sad. “I thought I could go anywhere—except where you come from.”

“Seattle?”

“The hive of dreams,” said the idoru, “windows heaped against the sky. I can see the pictures, but there is no path. I know you’ve come from there, but it’s there … isn’t there!”

“The Walled City?” It had to be, because that was where she and Zona were coming from now. “We’re only ported through. Zona’s in Mexico City and I’m in this hotel, okay? And we really better go back now, ’cause I don’t know what’s happening—”

The blue skull expanded and went Zonaform, grim and sullen, “Finally you say something worthwhile. Why do you speak with this thing? She is nothing, only a more expensive version of this toy of yours she’s stolen and taken over. Now that I have seen her, I can only think that Rez is crazy, pathetically deluded…”

“But he isn’t crazy,” the idoru said. “It is what we feel together. He has told me that we will not be understood, not at first, and there will be resistance, hostility. But we mean no harm, and he believes that in the end only good can come from our union.”

“You synthetic bitch,” Zona said. “You think we don’t see what you’re doing? You aren’t real! You aren’t as real as this imitation of a drowned city! You’re a made-up thing, and you want to suck what’s real out of him!” Chia saw the thunderhead, the aura, starting to build. “This girl crossed the ocean to find you out, and now her life is in danger, and she is too stupid to see that you are the cause!”

The idoru looked at Chia. “Your life?”

Chia had to swallow. “Maybe,” she said. “I don’t know. I’m scared.”

And the idoru was gone, draining from Chia’s Music Master like a color that had no name. He stood there in the light of twenty candles, his expression unreadable. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but what exactly was it we were discussing?”

“We weren’t,” said Chia, then her goggles were lifted away, taking the Music Master and the room in Venice and Zona with them, and two of the fingers of the hand that held the goggles was ringed with gold, each ring linked to a gold watch’s massive bracelet with its own fine length of chain. Pale eyes looked into hers.

Eddie smiled. Chia drew her breath in to scream, and another hand, not Eddie’s, but large and white, smelling of metallic perfume, covered her mouth and nose. And a hand on her shoulder, pressing down, as Eddie stepped back, letting the goggles fall to the white carpet.

Holding her gaze, Eddie raised one finger to his lips, smiled, and said “Shhhh.” Then stepped aside, turning away, so that Chia saw Masahiko sitting there on the floor, the black cups over his eyes, his fingers moving in their tip-sets.

Eddie took something black from his pocket and reached Masahiko in two silent, exaggerated steps. He did something to the black thing and bent down with it. She saw it touch Masahiko’s neck.

Masahiko’s muscles all seemed to jerk at once, his legs straightening, throwing him sideways, where he lay on the white carpet, twitching, his mouth open. One of the black cups had come off. The other still covered his right eye.

Eddie turned back, looking at her.

“Where is it?” he said.

Shannon offered Laney a tall foam cup with half an inch of very hot, very black coffee in it. Beyond him, past the orange barricades, was a long white Land-Rover with integral crash-bars and green-tinted windows. Kuwayama waited there, in a dark gray suit, his rimless glasses glinting in the greenish light from the cable overhead. A black-suited driver stood beside him.

“What’s he want?” Laney asked Arleigh, tasting Shannon’s espresso. It left grit on his tongue.

“We don’t know,” said Arleigh, “But apparently Rez told him where to find us.”

“That’s what he said.”

Yamazaki appeared at Laney’s elbow. His glasses had either been repaired or replaced, but two of the pins holding the sleeve of his green jacket had come undone. “Mr. Kuwayama is Rei Toei’s creator, in a sense. He is the founder and chief executive officer of Famous Aspect, her corporate entity. He was the initiator of her project. He asks to speak with you.”

“I thought it was so urgent that I access the combined data for you.”

“It is, yes,” said Yamazaki, “but I think you should speak with Kuwayama now, please.”

Laney followed him through the black modules and past the barricades, and watched as the two exchanged bows. “This is Mr. Colin Laney,” Yamazaki said, “our special researcher.” Then, to Laney: “Michio Kuwayama, Chief Executive Officer of Famous Aspect.”

No one would have guessed that Kuwayama had so recently been up there in the dark at the Western World, the crowd heaving and screaming around him. How had he gotten out, Laney wondered, and wouldn’t the idoru have been lit up like a Christmas tree? Blood had seeped down into Laney’s shoe; it was sticky between his toes. How much had the combined weight of all the human nervous tissue on the planet increased since he and Arleigh had left the bubble-gum bar with Blackwell? He felt like he’d acquired more himself, all of it uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t have a card.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kuwayama said, in his precise, oddly accented English. He shook Laney’s hand. “I know that you are very busy. We appreciate your taking the time to meet with us.” The plural caused Laney to glance at the driver, who wore the kind of shoes that Rydell had worn at the Chateau, flexible-looking black lace-ups with cleated, rubbery soles, but it didn’t seem as though the driver was the other half of that “we.” “Now,” Kuwayama said to Yamazaki, “if you will excuse us.” Yamazaki bowed quickly and walked back toward the van, where Arleigh, pretending to be doing something to the espresso machine, was watching out of the corner of her eye. The driver opened the Land-Rover’s rear door for Laney, who got in. Kuwayama got in from the other side. When the door closed behind him, they were alone.

Something that looked like a large silver thermos bottle was mounted between the two seats, in a rack with padded clamps.

“Yamazaki tells us that you had band-width difficulties during the dinner,” Kuwayama said.

“That’s true,” Laney said.

“We have adjusted the band-width…”And the idoru appeared between them, smiling. Laney saw that the illusion even provided a seat for her, melding the two buckets in which he and Kuwayama sat into a third.