William Gibson: Idoru

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“I’ll go somewhere where people don’t watch that shit.”

“Well,” said Blackwell, “when you find that fair land, I will go there with you myself. We’ll live on fruit and nuts, commune with all that’s left of bloody nature. But ’til then, Laney, I’m going to have a conversation with your Kathy Torrance. I will explain certain things to her. Nothing complicated. Simple, simple protocols of cause and effect. And she will never allow Slitscan to run that footage of your doppelgänger.”

“Blackwell,” Laney said, “she dislikes me, she has her motive for revenge, but she wants, she needs , to destroy Rez. She’s a very powerful woman in a very powerful, fully global organization. Some simple threat of violence on your part isn’t going to stop her. It’ll only up the ante; she’ll go to her security people—”

“No,” said Blackwell, “she won’t, because that would be a violation of the very personal terms I will have established in our conversation. That’s the key word here, Laney, ‘personal.’ ‘Up close, and.’ We will not meet, we will not carve out this deep and meaningful and bloody unforgettable episode of mutual face-time as representatives of our respective faceless corporations. Not at all. It’s one-on-one time for your Kathy and I, and it may well prove to be as intimate, and I may hope enlightening, as any she ever had. Because I will bring a new certainty into her life, and we all need certainties. They help build character. And I will leave your Kathy with the deepest possible conviction that if she crosses me, she will die—but only after she’s been made to desire that, absolutely.” And Black-well’s smile, then, giving Laney the full benefit of his dental prosthesis, was hideous. “Now how was it exactly you were supposed to contact her, to give her your decision?”

Laney found his wallet, produced the blank card with the pencilled number. Blackwell took it. “Ta.” He stood up. “Shame to waste a good breakfast that way. Ring the hotel doctor from your room and get yourself sorted. Sleep. I’ll deal with this.” He tucked the card into the breast pocket of his aluminum jacket.

And as Blackwell left the room, Laney noticed, centered on the bodyguard’s squeegeed plate and standing upright on its broad flat head, a one-and-a-half-inch galvanized roofing-nail.

Laney’s ribs, an ugly patchwork of yellow, black, and blue, were sprayed with various cool liquids and tightly bound with micropore. He took the hypnotic the doctor had offered, showered at great length, climbed into bed, and was suggesting the light turn itself off when a fax was delivered.

It was addressed to C. LANEY, GUEST:

DAY MANAGER GAVE ME MY WALKING PAPERS. “FRATERNIZING.” ANYWAY, I’M SECURITY HERE AT THE LUCKY DRAGON, MIDNITE ON, YOU CAN GET ME FAX, E-MAIL, PHONE’S BIZ ONLY BUT THE PEOPLE ARE OKAY. HOPE YOU’RE OKAY. FEEL RESPONSIBLE. HOPE YOU’RE ENJOYING JAPAN, WHATEVER. RYDELL

“Good night,” Laney said, putting the fax on the bedside module, and fell instantly and very deeply asleep.

And stayed that way until Arleigh phoned from the lobby to suggest a drink. Nine in the evening, by the blue clock in the corner of the module-screen. Laney put on freshly ironed underwear and his other blue Malaysian button-down. He discovered that White Leather Tuxedo had sprung a few seams in his only jacket, but then the boss Russian, Starkov, hadn’t let the man come with them in the van, so Laney figured they were even.

Crossing the lobby, he encountered a frantic-looking Rice Daniels, so tense that he’d reverted to the black head-clamp of his Out of Control days. “Laney! Jesus! Have you seen Kathy?”

“No. I’ve been asleep.”

Daniels did a strange little jig of anxiety, rising on the toes of his brown calfskin loafers. “Look, this is too fucking weird, but I swear – I think she’s been abducted .”

“Have you called the police?”

“We did, we did, but it’s all fucking Martian , all these forms they tick through on their notebooks, and what blood type was she… You don’t know what blood type she is, do you, Laney?”

“Thin,” Laney said. “Sort of straw-colored.”

But Daniels didn’t seem to hear. He seized Laney’s shoulder and showed him teeth, a rictus intended somehow to indicate friendship. “I have real respect for you, man. How you don’t have any issues.”

Laney saw Arleigh wave to him from the entrance to the lounge. She was wearing something short and black.

“You take care, Rice.” Shaking the man’s cold hand. “She’ll turn up. I’m sure of it.”

And then he was walking toward Arleigh, smiling, and he saw that she was smiling back.

Chia was on the bed, watching television. It made her feel more normal. It was like a drug, that way. She remembered how much television her mother had watched, after her father had left.

But this was Japanese television, where girls who could have been Mitsuko, only a little younger, wearing sailor-suit dresses, were spinning huge wooden tops at a long table. They could really spin them, too; keep them up forever. It was a contest. The console could translate, but it was even more relaxing not to know what they were saying. The most relaxing parts of all were the close-ups of the tops spinning.

She’d used the translation to check out the NHK coverage of the death hoax on the net and the candlelight vigil at the Hotel Di.

She’d seen a very satisfyingly pudgy Hiromi Ogama denying she knew who had nuked her chapter’s site and then issued the call to mourning from its ruins. It had not been a member of the club, Hiromi had stressed, either locally or internationally. Chia knew Hiromi was lying, because it had to have been Zona, but the Lo/Rez people would be telling her what to say. Arleigh had told Chia the whole thing had been launched out of a disused website that belonged to an aerospace company in Arizona. Which meant that Zona had blown her country, because now she wouldn’t be able to go back there. (Nice as Arleigh seemed to be, Chia hadn’t told her anything about Zona.)

And she’d seen the helicopter shots of the vigil, a field of the baffled tactical squads facing an estimated twenty-five hundred teary-eyed girls. The injury count was low, everything fairly minor except for one girl who’d slid down a freeway embankment and broken both her ankles. The real problem had been getting everyone out of there, because a lot of them had arrived five or six to a cab, and had no way of getting home. Some had taken the family car and then abandoned it in their hurry to reach the vigil, and that had created another kind of mess. There had been a few dozen arrests, mostly for trespassing.

And she’d seen the message Rez had recorded, assuring people he was alive and well, and regretting the whole thing, which of course he’d had nothing to do with. He wasn’t wearing the monocle-rig, for this, but he had on the same black suit and t-shirt. He looked thinner, though; someone had tweaked it. He’d played it light, at first, grinning, saying he’d never been to the Hotel Di and in fact had never visited a love hotel, but now maybe he should. Then he’d turned serious and said how sorry he was that people had been inconvenienced and even hurt by someone’s irresponsible prank. And he’d capped it, smiling, by saying that the whole thing had been quite uniquely moving for him, because how often do you get to watch your own funeral?

And she’d seen the people who owned and managed the Hotel Di, expressing their regret. They had no idea, they said, how any of this had happened. She got the feeling that expressing regret was a big thing here, but the owners of the Di had also managed to explain how there was no on-site staff at their hotel, in the interest of the guests’ greater privacy. Arleigh, watching this, had said that that was the commercial, and that she bet the place was going to be booked solid for the next two months. It was famous, now.