All Tomorrow's Parties bt-3 Page 20

  'What happened in 1911? the Rooster demands.

  Laney sighs. 'I'm still not sure. It's complicated and I haven't had the time to really look at it. Madame Curie's husband was run over by a horse-drawn wagon, in Paris, in 1906. It seems to start there. But if Harwood is the strange attractor here, the crucial piece of weirdness things need to accrete around, and he's self-aware in that role, what is it he's trying to do that has the potential to literally change everything?

  'We aren't positive, the Rooster begins, 'but-

  'Nanotechnology, Klaus says. 'Harwood was a major player in Sunflower Corporation. A scheme to rebuild San Francisco. Very radical restructuring, employing nanotechnology along much the lines it was employed, post-quake, in Tokyo. That didn't fly, and, very oddly indeed, it looks to us as though your man Rydell was somehow instrumental in helping it not to fly, but that can wait. My point is that Harwood has demonstrated an ongoing interest in nanotechnology, and this has manifested most recently in a collaboration between Nanofax AG of Geneva-

  'Harwood front, the Rooster says, 'run through a shell corporation in Antigua-

  'Shut up, and the Rooster does. 'Between Nanofax AG of Geneva and the Lucky Dragon Corporation of Singapore. Lucky Dragon is a Harwood Levine client of course.

  'Nanofax?

  'Everything the name implies, says Klaus, 'and considerably less.

  'What's that supposed to mean?

  'Nanofax AG offers a technology that digitally reproduces objects, physically, at a distance. Within certain rather large limitations, of course. A child's doll, placed in a Lucky Dragon Nanofax unit in London, will be reproduced in the Lucky Dragon Nanofax unit in New York-

  'How?

  'With assemblers, out of whatever's available. But the system's been placed under severe legal constraints. It can't, for instance, reproduce functional hardware. And of course it can't, most particularly can't, reproduce functional nanoassemblers.

  'I thought that they'd proven that didn't work anyway, Laney says.

  'Oh no, says the Rooster, 'they just don't want it to.

  'They who?

  'Nation-states, says the Rooster. 'Remember them?

  48. IN THE MOMENT

  RYDELL watched this man move ahead, in front of him, and felt something complicated, something he couldn't get a handle on, but something that came through anyway, through the ache in his side, the pain that grated there if he stepped wrong. He'd always dreamed of a special kind of grace, Rydell: of just moving, moving right, without thinking of it. Alert, relaxed, there. And somehow he knew that that was what he was seeing now, what he was following: this guy who was maybe fifty, and who moved, though without seeming to think about it, in a way that kept him in every bit of available shadow. Upright in his long wool coat, hands in pockets, he just moved, and Rydell followed, in his pain and the clumsiness that induced, but also in the pain somehow of his adolescent heart, the boy in him having wanted all these years to be something like this man, whoever and whatever he was.

  A killer, Rydell reminded himself, thinking of the weight lifter they'd left behind; Rydell knew that killing was not the explosive handshake exchange of movies, but a terrible dark marriage unto and perhaps (though he hoped not) even beyond the grave, as still his own dreams were sometimes visited by the shade of Kenneth Turvey, the only man he'd ever had to kill. Though he'd never doubted the need of killing Turvey, because Turvey had been demonstrating his seriousness with random shots through the door of a closet in which he'd locked his girlfriend's children. Killing anyone was a terrible and permanent thing to enter into, Rydell believed, and he also knew that violent criminals, in real life, were about as romantic as a lapful of guts. Yet here he was, doing the best he could to keep up with this gray-haired man, who'd just killed someone in a manner Rydell would've been unable to specify, but silently and without raising a sweat; who'd just killed someone the way another man might change his shirt or open a bottle of beer. And something in Rydell yearned so to be that, that, feeling it now, he blushed.

  The man stopped, in shadow, looking back. 'How are you?

  'Fine, Rydell said, which was almost always what he said if anyone asked him that.

  'You are not fine. You are injured. You may be bleeding internally.

  Rydell halted in front of him, hand pressed to his burning side. 'What did you do to that guy?

  You couldn't have said that the man smiled, but the creases in his cheeks seemed to deepen slightly. 'I completed the movement he began when he struck you.

  'You stabbed him with something, Rydell said.

  'Yes. That was the most elegant conclusion, under the circumstances. His unusual center of gravity made it possible to sever the spinal cord without contacting the vertebrae themselves. This in a tone that someone might use to describe the discovery of a new but convenient bus route.

  'Show me.

  The man's head moved, just a fraction. Some birdlike acuity. Light winked, reflected, in the round, gold-framed glasses. He reached into the open front of his long coat and produced, with a very peculiar and offhand grace, a blade curved, upswept, chisel-tipped. What they called a tanto, Rydell knew: the short version of one of those Japanese swords. The same light that had caught in the round lenses now snagged for an instant in a hair-fine line of rainbow along the curved edge and the angled tip, and then the man reversed the movement that had produced the knife. It vanished within the coat as though a segment of tape had been run backward.

  Rydell remembered being taught how you had to use something anything if someone was coming after you with a knife and you were unarmed. If nothing else you were supposed to take off your jacket and roll it around your hands and wrists to protect them. Now he imagined using the projector, in its bag, as a sort of shield, to ward off the knife he'd just seen, and the hopelessness of the idea actually struck him as funny.

  'Why did you smile? the man asked.

  Rydell stopped smiling, 'I don't think I could explain, he said 'Who are you?

  'I can't tell you that, the man said.

  'I'm Berry Rydell, Rydell said. 'You saved my ass back there.

  'But not your torso, I think.

  'He might've killed me.

  'No, the man said, 'he wouldn't have killed you. He would have rendered you helpless, taken you to a private location, and tortured you to extract information. Then he would have killed you.

  'Well, Rydell said, uneasy with the matter-of-factness here, 'thanks.

  'You are welcome, said the man, with great gravity and not the least hint of irony.

  'Well, Rydell said, 'why did you do that, take him out?

  'Because it was necessary, to complete the movement.

  'I don't get it, said Rydell.

  'It was necessary, the man said. 'There are a number of these men seeking you tonight. I'm uncertain of how many. They are mercenaries.

  'Did you kill someone else, back there, last night? Where those patches of dried blood and Kil'Z are?

  'Yes, the man said.

  'And I'm safer with you than I am with these guys you say are mercs?

  'I think so, yes, the man said, frowning, as though he took the question very seriously.

  'You kill anybody else in the past forty-eight hours?

  'No, said the man, 'I did not.

  'Well, Rydell said, 'I guess I'm with you. I'm sure not going to try to fight you.

  'That is wise, the man said.

  'And I don't think I could run fast enough, or very far, with this rib.

  'That is true.

  'So what do we do? Rydell shrugged, instantly regretting it, his face contorting in a grimace of pain.

  'We will leave the bridge, the man said, 'and seek medical aid for your injury. I myself have a thorough working knowledge of anatomy, should it prove necessary.

  'Unh, thanks, Rydell managed. 'If I could just buy some four-inch tape and some analgesic plasters at that Lucky Dragon, I could probably make do. He looked around, wondering when he'd next see or b
e seen by the one with the scarf. He had a feeling the scarf was the one he'd really have to watch out for; he couldn't say why. 'What if those mercs scope us leaving?

  'Don't anticipate outcome, the man said. 'Await the unfolding of events. Remain in the moment.

  In the moment, Rydell decided he knew for a fact his ass was lost. Just plain lost.

  49. RADON SHADOW

  FONTAINE finds the boy an old camping pad, left here by his children perhaps, and lays him back on this, still snoring. Removing the heavy eyephones he sees how the boy sleeps with his eyes half-open, showing the white; imagines watches ticking past, there, one after another. He covers him with an old sleeping bag whose faded flannel liner depicts mountains and bears, then takes his miso back to the counter to think.

  There is a faint vibration now, though whether of the shop's flimsy fabric, the bones of the bridge, or the underlying plates of the earth he cannot tell: but small sounds come from the shelves and cabinets as tiny survivors of the past register this new motion. A lead soldier, on one shelf, topples forward with a definitive clack, and Fontaine makes a mental note to buy more museum wax, a sticky substance meant to prevent this.

  Fontaine, seated on his high stool, behind the counter, sipping gingerly at his hot miso, wonders what exactly he would see, were he to follow the boy's course today via the notebook's recall function. That business with the lockboxes, and Martial getting all worked up. Where else might the boy have been? But nowhere really dangerous, Fontaine decides, if he's only chasing watches. But how was it he did that, got those lockbox lists? Fontaine puts the miso down and fishes the JaegerLeCoultre from his pocket. He reads the ordnance marks on its back:

  G6B1346

  RA *AF

  172 L53

  The 6B denoting a particular grade of movement, degree of accuracy, he knows, though the 346 is a mystery. The broad arrow, central, the Queen's mark, her property. 53 the year of issue, but 172? Could the boy somehow pry knowledge from these numbers, if the question could be put to him? Somewhere out there, Fontaine knows, every la bit of information makes its way into the stream. He puts the watch down on his Rolex pad and takes up the salty miso again. Looking down through the scratch-frosted glass countertop, he notices a recent purchase, not yet examined. A Helbros from the 1940s, styled after military watches but not an 'issue' watch. Something he bought from a scavenger, down from the Oakland hills. He reaches into the counter and brings it out, a shabby thing after the G6B.

  Its bezel is badly dinged, probably too badly to benefit from buffing, and the luminous on the dull black dial has gone a shade of silvery ash. He takes his loupe from his other pocket and screws it into his eye, turning the Helbros under his ten-power Cyclops gaze. The caseback has been removed, screwed back in, but left untightened. He turns it out with his fingers, to check inside for minute graven records of its repair history.

  He squints through the loupe: the last repair date etched into the inside back is August 1945.

  He turns it over again and studies it. The crystal is synthetic, some sort of plastic, definitely vintage and very probably original. Because, he sees, holding it at just this certain angle to the light, radiation from the original radium numerals has darkened the crystal focally, each number having in effect radiographed itself in the accidental plate of the crystal.

  And somehow this, combined with the hidden date, gives Fontaine a shiver, so that he puts the caseback back into place, replaces the Helbros in the counter, checks the locks on the door, finishes his miso, and starts to ready himself for bed.

  The boy, on his back, is no longer snoring, and that is a good thing.

  When Fontaine lies down on his own narrow bunk, to sleep, the Smith&Wesson Kit Gun, as it is every night, is at the ready.

  50. 'MORE TROUBLE'

  RYDELL'S father, dying of cancer, had told Rydell a story. He claimed to have gotten it from a book of famous last words, or if not famous then at least memorable.

  This man was being executed in England, back in the old days, when execution was made as deliberately hard a thing as possible, and after being burned with hot irons, broken on the wheel, and various other horrific punishments, the man was shown the block, the heads-man's ax. And having been closed-mouthed and stolid throughout his various tortures, he had looked at the ax and the block and the burly headsman and made no reply at all.

  But then another torturer arrived, carrying an assortment of terrible-looking tools, and the man was informed that he was to be disemboweled prior to his beheading.

  The man sighed. 'More trouble, he said.

  If they want me, Rydell said, wincing along beside the man with the tanto in his coat, 'why don't they just grab me?

  'Because you are with me.

  'Why don't they just shoot you?

  'Because we have, these men and I, the same employer. In a sense.

  'He wouldn't let them shoot you?

  'That would depend, the man said.

  Rydell could see that they were coming up on the nameless bar where he'd heard Buell Creedmore sing that old song. There was noise there: loud music, laughter, a crowd around the door, drinking beer and openly smoking cigarettes.

  His side hurt with each step he took, and he thought of Rei Toei perched on his pillow, glowing. What, he wondered, did the projector slung over his shoulder mean to her? Was it her only means of manifesting here, of interacting with people? Did being a hologram feel like anything? (He doubted it.) Or did the programs that generated her somehow provide some greater illusion of being there? But if you weren't real in the first place, what did you have to compare not being there to?

  But what really bothered him, now, was that Laney, and Klaus and the Rooster too, had thought that the projector was important, really important, and now here he went, Rydell, limping willingly along beside this killer, this man who evidently worked for whoever it was was after Rydell's ass, and probably after the projector as well, and he was just going along with it. Sheep to the slaughter.

  'I want to go in here a minute, Rydell said.

  'Why?

  'See a friend, Rydell said.

  'Is this a bid for escape?

  'I don't want to go with you.

  The man regarded him from behind the thin crystal rounds of his glasses. 'You are complicating things, he said.

  'So kill me, Rydell said, gritting his teeth as he slung his weight around and staggered past the smokers by the door, into the warm loud beer smell and crowd energy

  Creedmore was onstage with Randy Shoats and a bass player with sideburns, and whatever they were playing reached its natural conclusion at just that point, Creedmore jumping into the air as he let out a final whoop and the music crashed down around him, the crowd roaring and stomping and clapping. Rydell had seen Creedmore's eyes flash flat and bright as a doll's in the stage light. 'Hey, Buell! Rydell shouted. 'Creedmore! He shouldered someone out of his way and kept going. He was a few feet from the stage now. 'Buell! It was just a little thing, the stage, maybe a foot high, and the crowd wasn't that thick.

  Creedmore saw him. He stepped down from the stage. The singer's pearl-button cowboy shirt was open to the waist, his hollow white chest gleaming with sweat. Someone handed him a towel and he wiped his face with it, grinning, showing long yellow teeth and no gum. 'Rydell, he said. 'Son of a bitch. Where you been?

  'Looking for you, Buell.

  The man with the knife put his hand on Rydell's shoulder. 'This is unwise, he said.

  'Hey, Buell, Rydell said, 'get me a beer, okay?

  'You see me, Rydell? I was fuckin' Jesus' son, man. Fuckin' Hank Williams, motherfucker. Creedmore beamed, yet Rydell saw the thing that was waiting there to toggle into rage. Someone handed Creedmore two tall cans, already opened. He passed one to Rydell. Creedmore splashed cold malt liquor down his chest, rubbed himself with it. 'Damn, I'm good.

  'We can be too easily contained here, the man said.

  'Leggo my buddy there, said Creedmore, noticing the man for the fir
st time. 'Faggot, he added, as if further taking in the man's appearance and seeming to have difficulty placing it in any more convenient category of abuse.

  'Buell, Rydell said, reaching up and grabbing the man's wrist, 'want you to meet a friend of mine.

  'Looks like some faggot oughta be kilt with a shovel, Creedmore observed, slit-eyed and furious now, the toggle having been thrown.

  'Let go of my shoulder, Rydell said to the man, quietly. 'It doesn't look good.

  The man let go of Rydell's shoulder.

  'Sorry, Rydell said, 'but I'm staying here with Buell and a hundred or so of his close personal friends. He looked at the can in his hand. Something called King Cobra. He took a sip. 'You want to go, go. Otherwise, just kill me.

  'Goddamn you, Creedmore, Randy Shoats said, stepping heavily down from the stage, 'you fucking drug addict. You're drunk. Drunk and ripped to the tits on dancer.

  Creedmore goggled up at the big guitar player, his eyes all pupil. 'Jesus, Randy, he began, 'you know I just needed to get a little loose-

  'Loose? Loose? Jesus. You forgot the words to 'Drop That Jerk and Come with Me'! How fucked do you have to be to do that? Fuckin' audience knew the words, man; they were singing along with you. Trying to, anyway. Shoats rammed his callused thumb into Creedmore's chest for emphasis. 'I told you I don't work with diz-monkeys. You're toast, understand? Outta here. History.

  Creedmore seemed to reach far down into the depths of his being, as if to summon some new degree of honesty, in order to face this moment of crisis. He seemed to find it. Drew himself more upright. 'Fuck you, he said. 'Motherfucker, he added, as Shoats, disgusted, turned and walked away.

  'Buell, Rydell said, 'they got a table or something reserved for you here? Someplace I could sit down?