Metrophage

EIGHT

"You're a very stupid boy, Jonny-san."

Water hit him and someone pulled the hood away. He found himself face-down on the riveted steel floor of an abattoir. His shirt was gone; the freezing water cut into him like knives.

"How much of this have you taken?"

He stood and Nimble Virtue tossed a packet of Mad Love at his feet. It came to rest by the toe of his boot, where the water was icing up over a flaking patch of dried blood. Welding marks, like narrow scars of slag. The slaughterhouse had been grafted together from a stack of old Sea Train cargo containers. A cryogenic pump hummed at the far end of the place, like a beating heart, pushing liquid oxygen through a network of pipes that criss-crossed the walls and floor. From the ceiling, dull steel hooks held shapeless slabs of discolored meat. Jonny looked at the slunk merchant.

"We found your pockets packed with this. From the size of your pupils, I would guess you've snorted up a small fortune's worth." She wore a bulky floor-length coat of some opalescent sea-green fur.

Shrugging, she turned away from him, a tense, mechanical gesture.

Her exoskeleton whirred. "We could have extracted the information we need painlessly, with drugs. But that seems impossible now. Who knows what might happen when the mnemonics mixed with the toxins you've ingested. We'll have to do it another way. But I want you to remember," Nimble Virtue said, "You've brought this on yourself (he heard her voice overlaid with Zamora's then: 'You beg for it, Gordon-')."

Easy Money and a thick-necked cowboy Jonny knew as Billy Bump stepped into his field of vision. Easy was wearing a sleeveless gray down jacket, Billy a surplus Army parka. Each held a Medusa.

Easy swung the whip end of his in a lazy arc before him. A bright, almost luminous fury welled up in his eyes. "So when is it, asshole?" he asked.

"When is what?" Jonny asked.

"When's the raid?" snapped the cowboy. He spoke in a thick south Texas drawl, the result of a quartz chip implanted in the speech center of his brain. He spit a rust-colored stream of tobacco juice onto the floor. Billy Bump had picked up his name as teenager, when he had a habit of pushing people in front of moving cars for their pocket change.

"I can't hear you," Easy said in a mock sing-song fashion.

"Why bother?" Jonny asked. "You're not going to believe anything I say."

"Jonny, please tell me when Zamora is going to move against us," said Nimble Virtue.

"I don't know," Jonny told her.

Easy Money whipped his arm out. The charged copper tips of his Medusa snapped into Jonny's chest, blinding him with sparks. The water radiated the shock across his arms and down into his groin.

Jonny doubled up and came to, finding himself clinging to a side of gray meat for support. He could barely breath.

"When are the raids?" asked Nimble Virtue.

"I don't know," he said.

"Asshole," said Easy.

Jonny pushed himself from the meat and took off between the stinking rows, but Billy was waiting for him. The cowboy jammed a big boot into Jonny's stomach and brought the Medusa down across his back. Jonny collapsed onto the metal floor.

Above him, Nimble Virtue's face appeared. Through his confusion and pain she seemed as gray and lifeless as her slunk.

Hard bones beneath dead meat. Maybe that's her secret, Jonny thought dreamily. No more Johns, she's found another way to sell herself.

Easy Money kicked him in the ribs and shook the coils of his Medusa over Jonny, sending sparks into his eyes. Jonny heard Billy and Easy laugh. "Well it's cryin' time again," Billy sang.

"Do you know where you are, Jonny-san?" asked Nimble Virtue.

Jonny nodded. "Meat locker," he said, trying to get his breath.

"Correct. And there is a warehouse full of my men just outside. There is no way out of here without my say-so."

"No way out," echoed Easy Money.

"I could have these young men beat you all week. Do you understand that?"

He sat up. Strange lights boiled around the edges of his vision.

"Yes," he said.

"Good," said the slunk merchant. "Then why not be reasonable? When are the raids?

"Tuesday," he said. Then: "Oh fuck, I told you: I don't know."

Easy and Billy were on him, snapping the coils of their Medusas down on Jonny's back and stomach. Pain and the mad dance of sparks overwhelmed him, merged with the flow of sensory data along his nerves until he was unable to tell where the white storm of agony ended and his body began. When they stopped, his muscles continued to convulse.

"When are the raids?" asked Nimble Virtue.

"I don't know," said Jonny. "Zamora didn't talk to me about raids."

"What did he talk about?"

"I don't remember." Jonny crawled to his hands and knees. Despite the cold, sweat was flowing from his arms and chest. "My life," he said.

"What?" Nimble Virtue demanded. She waited until he was in a kneeling position, then she slapped him hard across the face. Jonny felt the metal around her fingers tear his skin.

"Conover," said Jonny. "Zamora wants me to turn Conover."

At a signal from Nimble Virtue, Billy hit Jonny from behind.

While he was stunned, Easy secured hard loops of white plastic around Jonny's wrists. Then Easy and Billy lifted him from the floor, Easy pushing Jonny's arms over his head so that when they released him, he was hanging by his wrists from one of the heavy steel hooks.

The pain was instant and terrible. He screamed.

Nimble Virtue picked up the Medusa Easy had left on the floor and approached Jonny. "Answer me quickly and simply," she said.

She gathered the coils of the Medusa together and pressed the charged tips into Jonny's side. He convulsed on the hook and went limp. "What is your name?" she asked.

"Jonny Qabbala."

"Your real name."

It took him a moment. "Gordon Joao Acker."

"Where were you born?"

"The Hollywood Greyhound Station," he said. Easy and Billy laughed again. It echoed. Jonny looked up; framed by the corroded bulkhead around a ventilation shaft, he saw his hands, blood on his arms.

"What is your profession?" Nimble Virtue asked.

"Dealer."

"When did Colonel Zamora tell you to expect the raids?"

"He didn't."

"Liar!" yelled Nimble Virtue. She pressed the ends of the Medusa into Jonny's stomach and held them there. "You stupid boy, I can keep you up alive for weeks! Cut off a piece everyday and sell you in the mercado!"

When Jonny came to, he realized that he had blacked-out again.

Nimble Virtue was muttering in Japanese and making unpleasant sucking sounds as the exoskeleton breathed her. Jonny's arms and shoulders had gone numb. He thought he could hear music in the next room. When Nimble Virtue looked at him, he said, "I can't tell you what I don't know. Zamora just wanted to talk about the Alpha Rats."

Jonny saw something flicker over Nimble Virtue's face. "Take him down," she said. Easy and Billy moved under him, lifted Jonny off the hook and laid him out on the floor. Nimble Virtue moved closer and put a hand on his leg. The fur of her coat tickled his stomach. "Say it again. Say it or I'll have them put you back up."

Jonny looked at her eyes. Fear or relief, he wondered. His head swam. He wondered when the dream would be over and he would wake up next to Ice and Sumi. "There's a deal," he said and his head fell back.

"Wrap him up," Nimble Virtue told one of the men. "But leave his hands bound."

Jonny lay on the cold steel, hoping it had worked. Fear kept him still, but he was satisfied that they had bought the fainting act. A trickle of relief washed through him. He could hear the purring of Nimble Virtue's exoskeleton as she moved around the abattoir. "Get the Arab back here," she said. "Tell him we can deal."

Jonny listened to the foot steps. Billy's heavy and flat-footed, his cowboy boots coming down like open-handed slaps; Nimble Virtue's, rapid and light, with insect hums and clicks. Easy Money moved in quick bursts, his club foot dragging behind him. Jonny knew he would have to wait at least until Easy or Billy had left the room before he could make a break. He willed himself to remain still, to use what time he had to rest and collect himself. The sweat on his right arm was freezing to the slaughterhouse floor. Just as he was beginning to worry about frostbite, he felt Billy (he caught a whiff of chew) wrap a rough woolen blanket around his shoulders.

"Don't want you croaking out on us, now," he heard the cowboy say.

There was a loud buzz from the far end of the room. Jonny kept his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. Movement, machine-like and delicate. "What is it?" came Nimble Virtue's voice.

Static. At first Jonny could not understand the voice. "-spotter picked up police vans headed this way. Looks like a raid," the intercom sputtered.

Nimble Virtue cursed in Japanese. "Not now. I'm not ready," she said.

Jonny heard Easy Money: "It's the cops, not the Committee. No sweat."

"Perhaps," she said. The coldness came back to her voice, the hard suggestion of efficiency. "Stay with him. You come with me." A confusion of footsteps, all three of them moving around the room at once. The abattoir door opened and closed. Then there was nothing.

Jonny could not stand it. He opened his eyes.

At the far end of the room, Easy Money was leaning against the cryogenic pump, grinning at him.

"Ollie, ollie oxen free," Easy said. He chuckled and steam from his breath curled around his grafted satyr horns. "Watching you's like watching porn. I mean, you're so fucking trite, but I can't help it. I still get off. Twisted, huh?"

Jonny got up from the freezing floor and pulled the blanket tight across his shoulders. "You gonna tell the teacher I was bad when she left the room?"

Easy shook his head. "Hell no," he said. "You think I care about the bitch? I'm just watching the parade go by. Besides," he said, strolling toward Jonny, "I know what you really want. You want the stuff I took off Raquin. It's Conover's dope, isn't it? What is it? No, don't tell me, you'd only lie, and I'd get pissed. Anyway, after we're clear of this, maybe you and me, we can work out a deal. Meet me at the Forest of Incandescent Bliss in Little Tokyo." Easy nodded toward the door Nimble Virtue had just used. "That's one of Yokohama Mama's clubs."

"The Forest of Incandescent Bliss. Right," said Jonny.

"I assume you're in contact with Conover, and can get me a fair price."

"No problem."

Easy moved a little closer. He spoke to Jonny softly. "Tell me the truth, you were gonna blow me away that night at the Pit, weren't you?"

"Who me? I was just stopping by to watch the movie stars."

"Liar," said Easy Money. He smiled, "We're gonna have to work that out, too."

"Whatever you say."

"But later," Easy said. Through the slaughterhouse wall came the muffled sound of automatic weapons fire. The lights in the abattoir went out. A few seconds later, emergency flood lamps flared to life over the doors throwing the room into brilliant arctic relief.

"They'll be back in a minute. You better get back on the floor." Jonny reluctantly lay back down and Easy bent over him. "One more thing," he said. "I'm not helping you, understand, but if I were you, I'd make a real effort to get out of here. You don't want to deal with the bitch's Arab friends."

Jonny nodded. "Thanks." The meat locker shuddered. Nimble Virtue and Billy hurried through the door.

"Bring him!" shouted Nimble Virtue. "It is the police, but I don't want him found."

Jonny smelled tobacco again. He went limp as Billy grabbed him around the chest and began hauling him toward the door. When they hit warm air, Jonny dug his heels in and drove an elbow into Billy's midsection. The cowboy groaned and fell back against a wall of yellow fiberglass packing crates. Jonny spun, put a boot to Billy's chin (just for fun, that) and took off running, Nimble Virtue shrieking behind at him.

He made one corner and hid between a cluster of rubberized storage cylinders and the angled steel wall supports. Men armed with Futukoros ran past him. Jonny's hands, when he looked at them, were blue and swollen. Running again, he saw police wearing breathing apparatus, moving among the long rows of crates. Down another row, and he was gasping and stumbling, knee-deep in carbon dioxide foam. He tried to climb out over a wall of crates, but lack of oxygen muddled him. Black things with glassy eyes and tubes for mouths grabbed him. He swung his bound hands weakly, but missed.

His feet could not find the floor.

And the foam swallowed him.

It seemed to him that he was always waking up in strange places. As if his whole life had been a series of dull, terrifying discoveries- trying to find some point of reference, finding it and having it swept away at the next moment. The feeling frightened and infuriated him even as he nursed it along, believing that if he ever lost his terror and rage he might lose himself, flicker and disappear like an image on a video screen.

Jonny woke up to a hot pain that extended from his shoulders, across his back and down into his hands. When he moved his fingers, pins and needles stabbed him. The familiar smell of prison (human waste and disinfectants) turned his stomach.

"Christ," he said, opening his eyes. "Don't they know any other color but green?"

The door of his cell scraped open and a balding waxy-faced young man peered at him from the hall. Evidently he had been waiting there for some time and Jonny's voice had startled him.

Jonny was relieved to see that the man was wearing the blue uniform of the police department, and not Committee black.

"Hello?" said the cop.

Jonny swung his feet onto the floor and sat up on the pallet.

The cop tried to cover it, but Jonny saw his head snap back in surprise. "I was just commenting on the accommodations," said Jonny. "They suck." Pain, like a tight cord, cut through his middle.

The cop frowned and closed the door. Jonny listened to his footsteps as they faded down the corridor. Alone again, he pulled up the stiff gray paper prison shirt and probed his ribs with the tips of his fingers. Bruises and tender flesh there, but nothing seemed to be broken.

Surveying the cell, Jonny felt relief and a quiet kind of joy.

Dealing with the police, he knew from experience, would be no problem. They were wired for failure, ridiculed even by the city government that supported them; in the street, they were considered a notch below meter-maids as authority figures. Most of the department was staffed by boys who could not cut it in the Committee, had blown their chance through lack of cunning or nerve or the inability to zero in on and take advantage of the fine edge of madness that was absolutely essential in Committee work.

In their own odd way, the police were more vicious that the Committee, a brutal down-scale version of their sister agency. Their lack of power and the consequent pettiness of their concerns had, over the years, become a kind of strength for them, a license to use whatever savagery they thought required to complete the job at hand. And the jobs took many forms; mostly, they concerned shaking-down small-time smugglers, dealers and prostitutes for protection from the gangs. These were often the same people who were paying off one or more gang for protection from the police.

Jonny reflected that the cop who had looked in his cell was typical of the department. Older than most Committee boys and lacking the spark of youthful certainty that death, when it came, would be looking for someone else. Jonny decided he would feel the cop out when he returned. See exactly what kind of story he wanted, cop a plea and get assigned to a road gang or one of the Mayor's neighborhood renewal projects. Jonny knew that once he was outside, he was gone. With any luck, he figured he could be back on the street in a week.

It was about a half-hour, by his reckoning, before he heard footsteps again. Two sets, walking with a purpose. The door of his cell ground open and the cop he had seen earlier entered, followed by an older man wearing a worn blue pin-stripe suit patched at the cuffs with thread-jell, a cheap polymeric fiber that hardened when it came into contact with air. The older man's tie was a shade too light to go with his suit and was at least two seasons too thin. Jonny made him for a bureaucrat. A public defender or maybe a social worker. He would be the one to work on. Talk about his deprived childhood, the violence in the streets…

"Officer Acker," said the older man; his eyes were red and anxious. His shoes were injection-molded polyvinyl, vending machine numbers. "I'm Detective Sergeant Russo, and this is Officer Heckert."

Jonny smiled and shook the hand Russo extended to him, but his mind was kicking into overdrive. New tack, thinking: He called me officer.

"I wanted to let you know, personally, that we're on top of the situation," said Detective Russo, smiling as he sat down next to Jonny on the plastic sleeping pallet. "You see, when you were brought in with that bunch from the warehouse, Officer Heckert here ran retinal scans on everybody to check for old and foreign warrants- not something we usually do until after arraignment, but considering the volume of goods in the warehouse- Then, when he saw Colonel Zamora's note in your file, he crossed-checked your retinal print and found your Committee record."

That's it, Jonny thought. This lunatic thinks I'm still in the Committee. I can walk right out of here. "Good work, Officer," Jonny said. He nodded to Heckert. The cop nodded back, obviously happy with his new-found status. "How is it you happened to raid the warehouse when you did?"

"Anonymous tip," said Heckert. "A woman's voice synthesized to sound male. We ran the call through the analyzer and got a good print, but I guess she doesn't have a record." The cop smiled. (Playing hard boy, Jonny thought. Type of guy fails Committee application, becomes police department and swears up and down he wanted to be a cop all along, not a stuck-up Committee boy.) "Probably just some chippie tryin' to get even with a boy friend."

"Anyway," said Detective Russo, giving Heckert a disapproving glance, "we called Colonel Zamora and he'll be by to pick you up soon-"

"You what?" Jonny yelled. He was on his feet, feeling as if the bottom had just fallen out of his stomach. "Don't you know the Committee's been compromised?" He knew he had to give them something. He made it up as he went along. "Moles from the New Palestine Federation penetrated the Committee months ago! I'm undercover, investigating Arab terrorist cells operating in southern California. They're insidious. Dumping mycotxins in the water table. Releasing plague infested rats in the suburbs. This is strictly top-level stuff, you understand. Eyes only. Washington and Tokyo are involved, Sergeant Russo. None of this can leave this room."

Russo's gaze passed from Heckert to Jonny and back again. His forehead was furrowed (unsure of his responsibility, his culpability, Jonny thought, unsure, also, if he's being mocked). "But surely you can't suspect Colonel Zamora-" Russo asked.

"How do you know it was Zamora you were speaking to?" Jonny yelled. He was angling closer to the door. He could see they were buying the line of nonsense. It was there in the cops' eyes. Their colorless bureaucratic blood was bubbling to the surface. He knew they would let him go because they believed he was just like them: another link in the chain of command that bound them and defined them. But their gears shifted slowly, and Jonny felt he had to push them along. "Listen pal, you may have blown my cover but good," he said. "And if the Arabs get wind that I'm in here, with the data I've got, we can all kiss our asses goodbye, 'cause they'll level this whole complex, rather than have me get away."

"Well then, we better get you someplace safe," said a gravelly voice from the door. Jonny turned around. He had not even heard Zamora coming, and now it was too late to do anything about it. He turned back to the cops. "Wait, I was lying. I'm not really a Fed," he said. "I'm a Croaker! An anarquista! Arrest me and I'll tell you everything! Names and dates!"

Detective Russo rose from the pallet and turned to Zamora. A muscle jumped angrily along his quickly reddening jaw. "Colonel Zamora, I hope you can explain what's going on here, he said. "Is or is this not one of your men?

"Why Detective Sergeant Russo," said Zamora, "of course he is."

The Colonel smiled at him and Jonny felt ill. "Didn't you see my notation in his record? Agent Acker has been under deep-cover for some time now. Working among terrorists for so long, he's had a breakdown. Convinced himself he's one of them. It happens sometimes in these deep-cover cases. But we'll get him all the help he needs."

Russo grunted. "This man has wasted all our time, Colonel. And put this department in an embarrassing position. I hope you get him some help soon." He shook his head, jammed his hands into the pockets of his shabby suit and started out of the cell. "Colonel Zamora," he said, in a tired voice, "The next time you're having trouble with your men, I'd appreciate your notifying the Department. I realize that the Police aren't held in quite the same regard as the Committee, but really-"

"You're absolutely right, detective," said Zamora. "Communication. That's what it's all about."

Russo and Heckert left the cell (the younger man fixing Jonny with a look of absolute loathing) and went one way down the corridor, while Zamora and a couple of heavily-armed Committee boys led Jonny in the opposite direction. In an a waiting area painted in two tones of blistered green paint, Zamora grabbed Jonny (tearing the cheap prison shirt) and punched him in the stomach. "That's for being a smart ass," said the Colonel.

Zamora shoved Jonny, still doubled-up, into an elevator.

Someone pushed a button and they started moving. Jonny saw his reflection in one transparent wall, ghostly with receding rooftops and cumulus clouds. The overcast sky burned muddily through the grime and mirror-glazed Lexan that encased the rising car. Straightening, Jonny looked at the Committee boys that flanked him. They appeared to be about fourteen years old, radiating waves of amphetamine tension. Both were skull-plugged into multiplexers set to coordinate their Futukoros with the Sony targeting matrices that webbed their chest and backs in tight diamond mesh. Each boy had a powerpack around his waist and a datapatch, also jacked into the array, covering one eye.

"The best we have," said Zamora, indicating the boys. "See all the trouble I go through for you?" he smiled sympathetically. "Look at me, Gordon. I'm an avalanche. And I'm coming down hard on you this time. You should not have blown our deal."

"What deal?" asked Jonny. He rubbed his sore ribs. "We never had a deal. You put a gun to my head and gave me an order. Bullshit, that's what that is."

Zamora shrugged. "Call it anything you like. The fact of the matter is you fucked me over and now you've got to pay the price."

He looked away and Jonny followed his gaze as it settled out over the docks. White articulated-boom cranes were off-loading bright silver boxcars from container ships, sliding on their induction cushions like the skeletons of immense horses.

An old and familiar anger enclosed Jonny, like a fist tightening in his chest. He choked; it reminded him of speed, the reckless and undirected anger of the comedown.

He looked at the floor, trying to clear his mind. Strands of plastic-coated copper wire coiled at angles from around the dull service panel beneath the elevator button pad. Jonny gained some small sense of control by telling himself that he had denied Zamora the thing he wanted most- Conover. But he's got me, thought Jonny.

And he knew that Zamora would eventually get Conover anyway.

That thought brought the anger back, stronger that ever.

"I see right through you, Colonel," said Jonny.

Zamora raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh really?"

"Damn straight," Jonny said. "It came to me while I was up there in the hills. I haven't worked out all the details, but I know you're in bed with the Arabs. I saw broadcasts from L.A., on a restricted Arab Link channel. Obviously, if there are Arabs operating in the city, you know about it. And if you know about it, it means you're being paid off."

"What if I told you weren't even warm?"

"You'd be lying. Cause it's that Arab connection that makes you so nervous about Conover. He's got CIA connections that go back decades. You're afraid he's onto you, that he'll cut a deal with the Feds and that you'll end up in a sterile room somewhere with wires in your head, spilling every thought you ever had."

"What makes you think I'm not prepared to go up there and drag Conover down by his skinny neck?"

"Because you don't want a war. Conover's not stupid. Obviously, you know where he is. That hologram dome is just a carny trick to impress the locals and the other lords, but he's got that haunted house set up really nice against any kind of assault. You'd have to flatten the whole hill to get him down. But if you did that, people would start asking questions and you'd be back in the shit again. That's why you told me that fairy tale about the Alpha Rats. You thought I'd be all impressed and terrified of your heavy connections. That I'd get Conover off that hill and come sucking around to you, looking for table scraps."

Colonel Zamora shook his head, let go with his throaty lizard laugh. "God kid, you've really gone around the bend. Maybe we should get you to a hospital after all, W he said. "Naturally, there's Arabs operating in Last Ass. Hell, Washington and Tokyo've got some of the most influential Mullahs in Qom and Baghdad on the payroll. It's the way of the world. (Economics, remember?) But these L. A sand-scratchers are just a propaganda cell. Bureaucratic pussies that couldn't keep me in lunch money."

The elevator was still climbing. Jonny knew then that they were headed for the hoverport on the roof. He shook his head. "I know that you were lying that night back at the warehouse. You don't have Sumi. If you did, you'd have brought her up already. Used her to threaten me or something."

Zamora smiled. The elevator was gradually slowing its ascent.

"You sure about that, Jimmy?" The Colonel reached out and gently fingered the rip in Jonny's prison tunic. "You ready to bet your life on it?"

"You telling me I got anything to lose?" Jonny asked.

Zamora laughed again. "No, probably not."

The elevator shuddered as magnetic bolts locked it into place below the hoverport. They were still two floors from the roof. Like most port-equipped buildings in L.A., this one had a special, restricted-access elevator they would have to use to reach the port.

"Get ready," Zamora told the Committee boys. Neither boy directly acknowledged the order, but each moved, adjusting datapatches, wiggling their shoulders to smooth the targeting webs. The boys were living on a different level, Jonny knew, in the extended sense-field of the targeting matrix, experiencing a digital approximation of expanded consciousness. For a moment, Jonny found himself envying them. He shook his head at the absurdity of his own mind. Nothing to lose there, he thought.

The elevator doors whispered open and Jonny was propelled into the hall; Zamora came behind him, the Committee boys on either side. The Colonel moved quickly to the other elevator, slid his identification card into a slot under the key pad and pushed a button.

A few meters down the corridor, a prison maintenance worker was using a caulk gun to apply a clear silicone sealant around the edges of an observation window. The corridor itself was silent and anonymous with beige walls and brown institutional carpeting; Jonny was relieved to find that the vile prison smell did extend up to this level.

Time was definitely slowing, Jonny decided. He felt as if he were moving through some heavy liquid medium, acutely aware of his surroundings, pulsing with the exaggerated senses of the dying and the doomed. Objects had taken on an almost holy significance.

Potted palms by the windows. Dull chrome lighting fixtures. The blue overalls of the maintenance worker, his mottled skin. Pink shading to black. Something in his hand. Silver bolt in a crossbow pistol.

The name came out, involuntarily. "Man Ray," Jonny said. But by then it was over. The Committee boy on his right was dead, a slender length of super-conductive alloy bursting through his chest, glittering there like a bloody spider, the ribbed filaments bent back, tangling and shorting the targeting web- frying the boy in his own sense-data.

The other boy was firing down the corridor, spraying the walls with hot red tracers. Jonny spun and round-housed him in the kidneys. An arm clamped around Jonny's throat, jerking him backwards. "No!" Zamora shouted; the Committee boy had turned on them; stoned and red-faced with rage, he had his gun pressed to Jonny's jaw. There was a subdued hiss. And the boy fell back, his throat split with a spidery bolt.

The elevator doors opened and Zamora pulled Jonny through.

In death, the second Committee boy's eyes were like those of a bewildered child. Jonny felt for him, but then his head was snapped back savagely to meet the barrel of Zamora's Futukoro. "It's not that easy!" the Colonel yelled. He flicked the barrel of his gun at Man Ray and blasted between the closing doors, the sound thundering through Jonny's head. Man Ray leaped the bodies of the dead Committee boys and rolled clear of the shot. The elevator doors closed with a soft thud and the car began to rise.

"Nothing," Zamora whispered in Jonny's ear. "Not a move, not a breath, not a sound. The arm around Jonny's throat tightened, threatening to lift him off his feet. You think your companeros are cute? They're assholes. Got nothing going for them but card tricks."

"Maybe," said Jonny, "but your boys are still dead."

The car shivered gently to a halt and the doors opened under the towering lighting gantries of the hoverport. The Colonel's Futukoro pressed to his temple, Jonny crossed the tarmac, the Colonel hugging his back. Smog-light bloodied the sky, the setting sun burning feebly through hydrocarbon-laden mists. "Heads up, children!" Zamora bellowed. "There's Croakers in the building!" Boys moved in the dusty desert light.

A dozen broad circles, were laid out evenly across the roof, like illuminated manhole covers. The hovercar landing pads were essentially waffled discs of carbon steel inset with guide lights, set on a bed of leaking shock absorbers. At the moment, there was only one car on the roof, resting on a pad at the far end of the port; Zamora was pushing Jonny toward it as a dozen running Committee boys and cops fanned-out behind them, preparing to lay down covering-fire across the rooftop. Off to Jonny's left, a young cop with a lightning bolt tattooed on each side of his bald scalp, was sending the aircraft elevator to the basement, sealing the roof from the rest of the building. Horns sounded and crimson warning beacons revolved. The platform dropped about two meters and stopped. The roof lights flickered and died.

"Power's cut!" someone yelled.

Zamora shoved Jonny forward, into the arms of a couple of slope-browed Meat Boys. The taller of the two, an acne-scarred chollo, tall even by Committee standards, said, "Where's Rick and Pepe…?

"Shut up," said the Colonel. "They're gone. It's the asshole's fault. Take him to the car."

At the moment the Meat Boys' brutal fingers death-gripped Jonny's shoulders, something fluttered in the air. The Mitsui Pacific Bank complex, dark a moment before, glowed a pale, snowy gray, and a black and white hologram of a woman's face coalesced in the air, gridded with windows and shining robot washers. The image refocused, tightened until only the eye remained. And the profile of a man with a straight razor in his hand. The gray eye covered ten stories at the top of the bank as the razor slid through the cornea, cutting it neatly in half. On every side of the roof, buildings flared behind tides of phosphenes. Pale dustings of porn flesh. The wet red of an autopsy instructional. Collaged ads, too fast to follow: shoes, cars, new eyes, cloned pets.

From somewhere, a loudspeaker blared metallically: "We are the revolt of the spirit humiliated by your works. We are the spark in the wind, but the spark seeking the powder magazine!"

"Get him out of here," said Zamora as the first concussion shook the roof.

The Croakers were above the hoverport when Jonny saw them, high enough to still be silent under the whirling blades of their ultralights. He figured they had launched themselves from the nearby buildings under cover of the holograms. They were circling now, dropping garlands of roses, playing cards, flocks of mechanical doves, which spun on convection currents to the roof below, where they exploded, ripping steel and tarmac from under the boys' feet, billowing choking pink clouds of CS gas. "What'd I tell you?" Zamora said. "They're hotdogs. It's going to be a turkey shoot."

But the power cut in, and the carbon arcs atop the light gantries glowed to life, blotting out the winged figures. "Shit," Zamora yelled, hurrying across the roof. "Get him to detention," he yelled to the Meat Boys. "Lose him and it's your asses."

The shorter Meat Boy, a WASPish blonde with bad teeth, nodded and pushed Jonny in the direction of the hovercar. "Name's Stearn," he said. "This is Julio." He jerked his thumb at the taller boy.

"We'll break your back if you get cute." At about sixteen, Stearn was nearly a meter taller than Jonny, his voice unnaturally deep, his speech slurred by his distended acromegalic jaw.

At the base of the hovercar platform, Jonny panicked, knowing what would be waiting for him when they reached Committee headquarters. He twisted in Stearn's grip, the cheap paper shirt splitting at the shoulders, and vaulted up and over the hovercar. He caught a glimpse of the pilot inside, an amber death's head in the backwash from the navigation console. Down on the other side, Jonny leaped off the platform and ran for the edge of the roof, waving his arms and yelling at the Croakers. "Here! I'm here!"

A fist, the size of Jonny's head, caught him between the shoulder blades and knocked him flat. A moment later, he was dragged to his feet. The Meat Boys double-timed him back to the hovercar. On the far end of the roof, Croakers were bringing their ultralights down, coasting to a halt amidst a wash of tear gas and Futukoro fire.

"All right!" yelled Jonny. "They're gonna use your balls for paperweights, Ubu!"

Stearn released him and Julio shoved Jonny, back-first, through the canopy of the hovercar. He fell, staring up at the huge boot that hovered above his face, and passed over him as Julio settled into the seat on his right. The Meat Boy hauled him up as Stearn got in and sat, boxing Jonny in on the left.

Outside, the amplified voices continued: "I am here by the will of the people and I won't leave until I get my raincoat back."

Stearn snapped down the canopy and tapped the pilot on the shoulder, yelling "Go!" The pilot hit the cut-in switch for the engines.

Sub-sonics rumbled in Jonny's guts as the hovercar's four Pratt and Whitney engines burned to life. Ultralights settled to the roof a few meters from the platform, and Croakers came scrambling for the car.

"Go! Vamonos!" yelled Stearn.

Jonny jammed his leg between the forward seats and swung his boot at the pilot's head. "Keep still," mumbled Stearn, shoving an elbow into Jonny's throat.

In a tear gas fog, the hovercar rose about two feet off the platform. And banged down again. Something silver flashed by the window. The pilot pushed the throttle forward, feeding more power to the engines. The hovercar slowly began to rise, and swung out over the street. Jonny saw Zamora below them, waving frantically.

One of the Meat Boy's cursed and Jonny looked up.

The sickle end of a kusairigama was wrapped around the light rack atop the car. Flash of a face in the window. Noise from the roof.

Jonny whooped at the sight. Three Croakers were chained to the roof as the hovercar flew unsteadily twenty stories above the city.

"I can't keep it steady," the pilot said. "There's something wrong."

Julio, leaned forward. "Look up, stupid," he said.

The pilot turtled his head forward as an ax cracked the windshield just above him. He pulled back on the control stick, rocking the hovercar violently from side to side. The sound of metal and fragmenting plastic came from above. The Croakers were spread out on the roof, methodically hacking away at the canopy.

Stearn had his gun out, pointing it up at the crotch of a Croaker kneeling on the canopy above him. The pilot was still struggling with the stick. The car pitched to the left, a complaining animal, and the boy lost his aim.

"Hold it still. I can't get a shot off," he yelled.

"No!" screamed the pilot. "You might hit the stabilizers! It's hard enough to control now."

"Then shake them off," said Stearn.

"Right, hang on."

The pilot cranked the stick hard to the left and the hovercar flipped. Jonny's feet left the floor. He reached out for the ceiling, dangling a few centimeters above the seat by his safetybelt. The Croakers were still outside, secured to the car by their chains.

"I can't hold it," said the pilot. "Load's too much."

"Hold it," Stearn ordered. He took aim at the Croaker by his window.

Jonny braced his back against the roof and rabbit punched the Meat Boy with both fists, driving his face into the glass. The Futukoro went off, blasting out the window. Shattered glass blew in on them like a thousand flying knives. The sound of hot wind and the scream of overworked turbines.

The pilot righted them. The Croakers clambered back onto the roof and went to work, hacking away at the body of the hovercar.

Stearn turned and stared at Jonny, jagged wedges of glass embedded around the boy's eyes and mouth, glittering there like savage jewels.

Stearn lunged and locked his thick fingers around Jonny's throat, squeezing. Jonny went for the boy's eyes, but missed, felt muscles in his neck tear, felt his breath stop, the world begin to slide away.

"Stop it!" Julio's voice cut through the wind. "We've got to get him to detention," he said. "He's not yours!"

But Stearn kept on squeezing. Jonny heard a muffled explosion, and felt the fingers on his neck go slack. He struggled back. Stearn had jerked upright, his shoulders twitching convulsively. Then he fell forward, revealing a wet hole in his back.

"Move!" yelled the Croaker with the gun. She was leaning in the broken window, upside down, trying to get a shot at the other Meat Boy.

Jonny threw himself down on Stearn's body, heat of gunfire across his back. When he dared to look up, Jonny saw the Croaker out the window, lifeless puppet, chain slipping from around her wrist, dead already as she tumbled from the car.

Julio grunted some obscenity in Spanish. Jonny found him stuffing a handkerchief into the hole in his shoulder. The Committee boy smiled.

"I won't kill you," he said, and pressed the barrel of his Futukoro into Jonny's groin. "But I'll make you wish you were dead."

"We're near the detention center," shouted the pilot. "I'm going to set us down there."

"Do it fast," Julio said. He pressed his back to the shattered window and slid part-way out.

Jonny felt his skin prickle at the thought of returning to Committee headquarters. The hovercar was skimming over the roofs of blacked-out skyscrapers. They neared Union Bank Plaza, with its dry fountains and dead, brittle trees. Jonny saw the freeway. If he could get the pilot to put the hovercar down there, he thought, he and the Croakers could hijack a car and disappear. Jonny glanced at Julio and saw the boy occupied with a Croaker who refused to hold still and get shot.

Using Stearn's body for cover, Jonny stamped his boot down and drew out his long bladed knife. Leaning between the forward seats, he touched the tip of the blade to the pilot's throat, pressing just hard enough to draw blood. The pilot's head snapped back. "Set it down by that fountain," Jonny whispered.

"Yes sir," he said, and started a slow bank toward the Plaza.

Jonny heard a voice: "What the hell are you doing?"

He swung around. Julio was pulled his head in through the window, and Jonny caught him on the chin with his boot heel. Two leather clad arms shot in behind the Meat Boy, latching onto handfuls of his hair, dragging him back out the window. Julio seemed to panic then; he waved his Futukoro all around the cabin, pointing it one moment at the Croaker who had him, then swinging the gun back at Jonny. As the he disappeared out the window, he pulled the trigger.

The pilot's head exploded, and the hovercar angled forward, nose-diving for the pavement.

Jonny reached under the body of the dead pilot and grabbed the stick. Above him, he could hear Julio still struggling with the Croakers. A shot went off through the roof. Jonny pulled back hard on the stick, trying to forestall the crash. The hovercar banked steeply, scraping down belly-first through the trees in Union Bank Plaza.

Across the street, amidst a jumble of rotting patio furniture, sat the mirrored bulk of the Bonaventure Hotel. Jonny looked up just in time to watch his own reflection crash into the building across the street.