Idoru tb-2 Page 20

  Arleigh handed Laney the eyephones. “Have a look,” she said. “If it doesn’t work, to hell with it.” Yamazaki flinched. “Either way, we’ll go and find you the hotel doctor, after.”

  Laney settled his neck against the seat’s headrest and put the ’phones on.

  Nothing. He closed his eyes. Heard the ’phones power up. Opened his eyes to those same faces of data he’d seen earlier, in Akihabara. Characterless. Institutional in their regularity.

  “Here comes the fan club,” he heard Arleigh say, and the barren faces were suddenly translucent, networked depths of postings and commentary revealed there in baffling organic complexity.

  “Something’s—” he started to say, but then he was back in the apartment in Stockholm, with the huge ceramic stoves. But it was a place this time, not just a million tidily filed factoids. Shadows of flames danced behind the narrow mica panes of the stove’s ornate iron door.

  Candlelight. The floors were wooden planks, each one as broad as Laney’s shoulders, spread with the soft tones of old carpets. Something directed his point of view into the next room, past a leather sofa spread with more and smaller rugs, and showed him the black window beyond the open drapes, where snowflakes, very large and ornate, fell with a deliberate gravity past the frosted panes.

  “Getting anything?” Arleigh. Somewhere far away.

  He didn’t answer, watching as his view reversed. To be maneuvered down a central hallway, where a tall oval mirror showed no reflection as he passed. He thought of CD-ROMs he’d explored in the orphanage: haunted castles, monstrously infested spacecraft abandoned in orbit… Click here. Click there. And somehow he’d always felt that he never found the central marvel, the thing that would have made the hunt worthwhile. Because it wasn’t there, he’d finally decided; it never quite was, and so he’d lost interest in those games.

  But the central marvel here—click on bedroom—was Rei Toei. Propped on white pillows at the head of a sea of white, her head and gowned shoulders showing above eyelet lace and the glow of fine cottons.

  “You were our guest tonight,” she said. “I wasn’t able to speak with you. I am sorry. It ended badly, and you were injured.”

  He looked at her, waiting for the mountain valleys and the bells, but she only looked back, nothing came, and he remembered what Yamazaki had said about bandwidth.

  A stab of pain in his side. “How do you know? That I was injured?”

  “The preliminary Lo/Rez security report. Technician Paul Shannon states that you appeared to have been injured.”

  “Why are you here?” (“Laney,” he heard Arleigh say, “are you okay?”)

  “I found it,” the idoru said. “Isn’t it wonderful? But he has not been here since the renovations were completed. So, really, he’s never been here. But you’ve been here before, haven’t you? I think that’s how I found it.” She smiled. She was very beautiful here, floating in this whiteness. He hadn’t been able to really look at her in the Western World.

  “I accessed it earlier,” he said, “but it wasn’t like this.”

  “But then it… rounded out, didn’t it? It became so much better. Because one of the artisans who reassembled the stoves had made a record of it all, when it was done. Just for herself, for her friends, but you see what it’s done. It was in the data from the fan club.” She gazed in delight at a single taper, banded horizontally in cream and indigo, that burned in a candlestick of burnished brass. Beside it on the bedside table were a book and an orange. “I feel very close to him, here.”

  “I’d feel closer to him if you’d put me back, outside.”

  “In the street? It’s snowing. And I’m not certain the street is there.”

  “In the general data-construct, Please. So I can do my job…”

  “Oh,” she said, and smiled at him, and he was staring into the tangled depths of the data-faces.

  “Laney?” Arleigh said, touching his shoulder. “Who are you talking to?”

  “The idoru,” Laney said.

  “In nodal manifestation?” Yamazaki.

  “No. She was there in the data, I don’t know how. She was in a model of his place in Stockholm. Said she got there because I’d cruised it before. Then I asked her to put me back out here.

  “Out where?” Arleigh asked.

  “Where I can see,” Laney said, staring down into intricately overgrown canyons, dense with branchings that reminded him of Arleigh’s Realtree 7.2, but organic somehow, every segment thickly patched with commentary. “Yamazaki was right. The fan stuff seems to do it.”

  He heard Gerrard Delouvrier, back in the TIDAL labs, urge him notto focus. What you do, it is opposite of the concentration, but we will learn to direct it.

  Drift. Down through deltas of former girlfriends, degrees of confirmation of girlfriendhood, personal sightings of Rez or Lo together with whichever woman in whatever public place, each account illuminated with the importance the event had held for whoever had posted it. This being for Laney the most peculiar aspect of this data, the perspective in which these two loomed. Human in every detail but then not so. Everything scrupulously, fanatically accurate, probably, but always assembled around the hollow armature of celebrity. He could see celebrity here, not like Kathy’s idea of a primal substance, but as a paradoxical quality inherent in the substance of the world. He saw that the quantity of data accumulated here by the band’s fans was much greater than everything the band themselves had ever generated. And their actual art, the music and the videos, was the merest fragment of that.

  “But this is my favorite,” Laney heard the idoru say, and then he was watching Rez mount a low stage in a crowded club of some kind, everything psychedelic Korean pinks, hypersaturated tints like cartoon versions of the flesh of tropical melons. “It is what we feel.” Rez raised a microphone and began to speak of new modes of being, of something he called “the alchemical marriage.”

  And somewhere Arleigh’s hand was on his arm, her voice tense. “Laney? Sorry. We need you back here now. Mr. Kuwayama is here.”

  34. Casino

  Chia looked out between the dusty slats, to the street where it was raining. The idoru had done that. Chia had never made it rain, in Venice, but she didn’t mind the way it looked. It seemed to fit. It was like Seattle.

  The idoru said this apartment was called a casino. Chia had seen casinos on television and they hadn’t looked anything like this. This was a few small rooms with flaking plaster walls, and big old-fashioned furniture with gold lion-feet. Everything worked up with fractals so you could almost smell it. It would’ve smelled dusty, she thought, and also like perfume. Chia hadn’t been to many of these modules, the insides of her Venice, because they were all sort of creepy. They didn’t give her the feeling she got in the streets.

  Zona’s head, on the lion-footed table, made that bug-zap sound. She’d reduced herself to that, Zona: this little blue neon miniature of her Aztec skull, about the size of a small apple. Because Chia had told her to shut up and put the switchblade away. And that had pissed her off, and maybe hurt her feelings, but Chia hadn’t known what else to do. Chia had wanted to hear what the idoru had had to say, and Zona’s I’m-dangerous act totally got in the way. And that was all it was, just acting out, because people couldn’t really hurt each other when they were ported. Not physically, anyway. And that had always been a problem, with Zona. That whole swelling-up thunderhead macho thing. Kelsey and the others would make fun of it, but Zona was fierce enough, verbally, that they’d only do it behind her back. Chia had never known what to make of it; it was like Zona’s personality wasn’t together, around acting like that.

  Now Zona wasn’t talking, just making the bug-zap sound every so often, to remind Chia she was still there and still pissed off.

  The idoru was talking, though, telling Chia the old Venetian meaning of the word casino, not some giant sort of mall place where people went to gamble and watch shows, but something that sounded more like what Masahiko had said about love hotels.
Like people had houses where they lived, but these casinos, these secret little apartments, hidden around town, were where they went to be with other people. But they hadn’t been too comfortable there, not to judge by this one, even though the idoru kept adding more and more candles. The idoru said she loved candles.

  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 feeltogether. 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.

  35. The Testhed of Futurity

  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.

  “Did you find what you were looking for, when you left me in Stockholm, Mr, Laney?”

  He looked into her eyes. What sort of computing power did it take to create something like this, something th
at looked back at you? He remembered phrases from Kuwayama’s conversation with Rez: desiring machines, aggregates of subjective desire, an architecture of articulated longing…“I started to,” he said.

  “And what was it that you saw, that made you unable to look at me, during our dinner?”

  “Snow,” Laney said, and was startled to feel himself begin to blush. “Mountains… But I think it was only a video you’ve made.”

  “We don’t ‘make’ Rei’s videos,” Kuwayama said, “not in the usual sense, They emerge directly from her ongoing experience of the world. They are her dreams, if you will.”

  “You dream as well, don’t you, Mr. Laney?” the idoru said. “That is your talent. Yamazaki says it is like seeing faces in the clouds, except that the faces are really there. I cannot see the faces in clouds, but Kuwayama-san tells me that one day I will. It is a matter of plectics.”

  Yamazaki says? “I don’t understand it,” Laney said. “It’s just something I can do.”

  “An extraordinary talent,” Kuwayama said. “We are most fortunate. And we are fortunate as well in Mr. Yamazaki, who, though hired by Mr. Blackwell, has an open mind.”

  “Mr. Blackwell is not too pleased about Rez and…” Nodding toward her. “Mr. Blackwell might be unhappy that I’m talking with you.”

  “Blackwell loves Rez in his own way,” she said. “It is concern that he feels. But he does not understand that our union has already taken place. Our ‘marriage’ will be gradual, ongoing. We wish simply to grow together. When Blackwell and the others can see that our union is best for both of us, all will be well. And you can do that for us, Mr. Laney.”

  “I can?”

  “Yamazaki has explained what you are attempting with the data from the Lo/Rez fan archives,” Kuwayama said. “But that data says nothing, or very little, about Rei. We propose the addition of a third level of information: we will add Rei to the mix, and the pattern that emerges will be a portrait of their union.”