All Tomorrow's Parties Read online

  He hears the old man, in the next box, say something in Japanese, and knows that the Suit has arrived. He wonders what model the old man is building now, and sees, in his mind's eye, with hallucinatory clarity, the finishing touches being put on a model of Colin Laney.

  It is a “garage” kit, this Laney kit, a limited run produced for only the most serious of enthusiasts, the otaku of plastic model kits, and as such it is molded from styrene of a quite nauseous mauve. The plastic used in garage kits tends to uniformly ghastly shades, as the enthusiast-manufacturers know that no kit, assembled, will ever remain unpainted.

  The Laney the old man is detailing is an earlier Laney, the Laney of his days in LA, when he worked as a quantitative analyst for Slitscan, a tabloid television show of quite monumental viciousness: this Laney wears Padanian designer clothing and sports a very expensive pair of sunglasses, the frames of which are even now being picked out in silver by the old man's narrowest sable, scarcely more than a single hair.

  But this waking dream is broken now by the advent of the Suit's head, his hair like the molded pompadour of some archaic mannequin. Laney feels, rather than sees, the precision with which the Suit's black eyeglass frames have been most recently mended, and as the Suit crawls in, beneath the flap of melon blanket, Laney smells the rancid staleness the Suit's clothing exudes. It is strange that any odor produced by a warm body should suggest intense cold, but the Suit's somehow does.

  The Suit is bringing Laney more of the blue syrup, more Regain, several large chocolate bars laden with sucrose and caffeine, and two liters of generic cola. The Suit's painted shirtfront seems faintly self-luminous, like the numerals of a diver's watch glimpsed far down in the depth of a lightless well, a sacrificial cenote perhaps, and Laney finds himself adrift for just an instant in fragments of some half-remembered Yucatan vacation.

  Something is wrong, Laney thinks; something is wrong with his eyes, because now the Suit's luminous shirt glows with the light of a thousand suns, and all the rest is black, the black of old negatives. And still somehow he manages to give the Suit two more of the untraceable debit chips, and even to nod at the Suit's tense little salaryman bow, executed kneeling, amid sleeping bags and candy wrappers, and then the Suit is gone, and the glare of his shirt, surely that was just some artifact of whatever process this is that Laney is here to pursue.

  LANEY drinks half of one of the bottles of cough syrup, chews and swallows a third of one of the candy bars, and washes this down with a swallow of the lukewarm cola.

  When he closes his eyes, even before he puts the eyephones on, he seems to plunge into the flow of data.

  Immediately he is aware of Libia and Paco, directing him. They do not bother to speak or to present, but he knows them now by a certain signature, a style of navigation. He lets them take him where they will, and of course he is not disappointed.

  A lozenge opens before him.

  He is looking down into what he takes to be Harwood's office, in San Francisco, at Harwood seated behind a vast dark desk littered with architectural models and stacks of printout. Harwood holding a telephone handset.

  “It's an absurd launch,” Hardwood says, “but then it's an insane service. It works because it's redundant, understand? It's too dumb not to work.”

  Laney does not hear the reply, and takes this to mean that Libia and Paco have hacked a security camera in the ceiling of Harwood's office. The audio is ambient sound, not a phone tap.

  Now Harwood rolls his eyes.

  “People are fascinated by the pointlessness of it. That's what they like about it. Yes, it's crazy, but it's fun. You want to send your nephew in Houston a toy, and you're in Paris, you buy it, take it to a Lucky Dragon, and have it re-created, from the molecules up, in a Lucky Dragon in Houston… What? What happens to the toy you bought in Paris? You keep it. Give it away. Eviscerate it with your teeth, you tedious, literal-minded bitch. What? No, I didn't. No, I'm sorry, Noriko, that must be an artifact of your translation program. How could you imagine I'd say that?” Harwood stares straight ahead, stunned with boredom. “Of course I want to give the interview. This is an exclusive, after all. And you were my first choice.” Harwood smiles as he calms the journalist, but the smile vanishes the instant she begins to ask her next question.

  “People are frightened of nanotechnology, Noriko. We know that. Even in Tokyo, seventeen-point-eight of your markedly technofetishistic populace refuses to this day to set foot in a nanotech structure. Here on the coast, I'd point to the example of Malibu, where there's been a very serious biotech accident, but one which is entirely unrelated to nanotech. It's actually being cleaned up with a combination of three smart algae, but everyone's convinced that the beaches are alive with invisible nanobots waiting to crawl up your disagreeable pussy. What? ‘Unfriendly cat‘? No. There's something wrong with your software, Noriko. And I do hope you're only writing this down, because we negotiated the interview on a nonrecorded basis. If any of this ever turns up in any recorded form at all, you'll not be getting another. What? Good. I'm glad you do.” Harwood yawned, silently. “One last question, then.”

  Harwood listens, pursing his lips.

  “Because Lucky Dragon is about convenience. Lucky Dragon is about being able to purchase those things you need, really need, when you need them, twenty-four seven. But Lucky Dragon is also about fun. And people are going to have fun with these units. We've done enough research that we know that we don't really know what, exactly, Lucky Dragon customers will find to do with this technology, but that's all part of the fun.” Harwood explored the recesses of his left nostril with the nail of his little finger but seemed to find nothing of interest. “Blow me,” he said. “‘Inflate’? I don't think so, Noriko, but I'd have that software checked, if I were you. ‘Bye.” Harwood puts the phone down, stares straight ahead. It rings. He picks it up, listens. Frowns.

  “Why doesn't that surprise me? Why doesn't that surprise me in the least?” He looks, to Laney, as if he's on the verge of laughing. “Well. You can try. You can certainly try. Please do. But if you can't, then he'll kill you. All of you. Every last one. But I shouldn't worry about that, should I? Because I've got your brochure here, and it's really a wonderful brochure, printed in Geneva, spare no expense in presentation, full-color, heavy stock, and it assures me that I've hired the best, the very best. And I really do believe that you are the best. We did shop comparatively. But I also know that he is what he is. And God help you.”

  Harwood hangs up.

  Laney feels Libia and Paco tugging at him, urging him elsewhere.

  He wishes that he could stay here, with Harwood. He wishes that he and Harwood could sit opposite one another across that desk, and share their experience of the nodal apprehension. He would love, for instance, to hear Harwood's interpretation of the node of 1911. He would like to be able to discuss the Lucky Dragon nanofacsimile launch with Harwood. He imagines himself sending a replica of the garage kit Laney—though “sending” isn't the word, here—but where, and to whom?

  Libia and Paco tug him to the place where that thing is growing, and he sees that it has changed. He wonders if Harwood has looked at it recently: the shape of a new world, if any world can be said to be new. And he wonders if he will ever have the chance to speak with Harwood. He doubts it.

  Some things never happen, he reminds himself.

  But this one always does, says the still small voice of mortality.

  Blow me, Laney tells it.

  55. BRIGHT YOUNG THINGS

  LATER Fontaine would remember that when he woke, hearing the sound at his door, he thought not of his Smith & Wesson but of the Russian chain gun, plastered away beneath gypsum filler and gauze some four months earlier, out of sight and out of mind.

  And he would wonder about why that was, that he'd thought of that particular ugly thing as he became conscious of something clicking urgently against the glass of the shop door.

  “Fontaine!” A sort of stage whisper.

  “Spare m
e,” Fontaine said, sitting up. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the luminous hands of a soulless black Japanese quartz alarm, a gift of sorts from Clarisse, who liked to point out that Fontaine was frequently late, particularly with the child support, in spite of owning such a great many old watches.

  He'd gotten about an hour's sleep.

  “Fontaine!” Female, yes, but not Clarisse.

  Fontaine put his trousers on, slid his feet into his cold clammy shoes, and picked up the Kit Gun. “I'll say it was self-defense,” he said, glancing back to see his mystery boy sprawled whale-like on the camping pad, snoring again but softly.

  And out through the shop, where he made out the face of Skinner's girl, though somewhat the worse for wear, really major serious shiner going there, and looking anxious indeed.

  “It's me! Chevette!” Rapping on his glass with something metal.

  “Don't break my damn window, girl.” Fontaine had the gun out of sight, by his side, as was his habit when answering the door, and he saw now that she was not alone; two white men behind her, the one a big, brown-haired, cop-looking person, and the other reminding him of a professor of music known decades before, in Cleveland. This latter causing Fontaine a prickling of neck hair, though he couldn't have said exactly why. A very still man, this one.

  “Chevette,” he said, “I'm sleeping.”

  “We need help.”

  “‘We' who, exactly?”

  “It's Rydell,” she said. “You remember?”

  And Fontaine did, though vaguely: the man she'd gone down to Los Angeles with. “And?”

  She started to speak, looked lost, glanced back over her shoulder.

  “A friend,” the one called Rydell said, none too convincingly. He was hugging a cheap-looking drawstring bag, which seemed to contain a large thermos, or perhaps one of those portable rice cookers. (Fontaine hoped that this wasn't going to be one of those pathetic episodes in which he was mistaken for a pawnbroker.)

  “Let us in, Fontaine. We're in trouble.”

  You probably are trouble, by now, Fontaine decided, after whatever it was got you the black eye. He started unlocking the door, noticing how she kept glancing either way, as if expecting unwanted company. The cop-looking one, this Rydell, was doing the same. But the professor, Fontaine noted, was watching him, watching Fontaine, and it made him glad to have the Kit Gun down by his leg.

  “Lock it,” Chevette said, as she entered, followed by Rydell and the professor.

  “I'm not sure I want to,” Fontaine said. “I might want to show it to you.”

  “Show it to me?”

  “You in the plural. Show you the door. Follow me? I was sleeping.”

  “Fontaine, there are men on the bridge with guns.”

  “There are indeed,” said Fontaine, as he rubbed his thumb over the knurls atop the little double-action's hammer.

  The professor closed the door.

  “Hey,” Fontaine said, in protest.

  “Is there another exit?” the professor asked, studying the locks.

  “No,” Fontaine said.

  The man glanced back through the shop, to the rear wall, beyond the upturned toes of Fontaine's guest. “And on the other side of this wall, there is only a sheer drop?”

  “That's right,” Fontaine said, somehow resenting the ease with which the man had extracted this information.

  “And above? There are people living above?” The man looked up at the shop's painted plywood ceiling.

  “I don't know,” Fontaine admitted. “If there are, they're quiet. Never heard em.”

  This Rydell, he seemed to be having trouble walking. He made it over to the glass-topped counter and put his duffel down on it.

  “You don't want to break my display there, hear?”

  Rydell turned, hand pressed into his side. “Got any adhesive tape? The wide kind?”

  Fontaine did have a first-aid kit, but it never had anything anyone ever needed. He had a couple of crumbling wound compresses circa about 1978 in there, and an elaborate industrial eye bandage with instructions in what looked like Finnish. “I got gaffer tape,” Fontaine said.

  “What's that?”

  “Duct tape. You know: silver? Stick to skin okay. You want that?”

  Rydell shrugged painfully out of his black nylon jacket and started fumbling one-handed with the buttons of his wrinkled blue shirt. The girl started helping him, and when she'd gotten the shirt off Fontaine saw the yellow-gray mottling of a fresh bruise, up his side. A bad one.

  “You in an accident?” He'd tucked the Smith & Wesson into the side pocket of his trousers, not a safe carry ordinarily but a convenient one under the circumstances. The worn checkered walnut of the butt stuck out just enough to get a handy purchase, should he need it. He got a roll of tape out of the top drawer of an old steel filing cabinet. It made that sound when he pulled out a foot or so of it. “You want me to put this on you? I taped fighters in Chicago. In the ring, you know?”

  “Please,” said Rydell, wincing as he raised the arm on the bruised side.

  Fontaine tore the length of tape off and studied Rydell's rib cage. “Tape's mystical, you know that?” He snapped the tape taut between his two hands, the darker, adhesive-coated side toward Rydell.

  “How's that?” Rydell asked.

  “'Cause it's got a dark side,” Fontaine said, demonstrating, “a light side,” showing the dull silver backing, “and it holds the universe together.” Rydell started to yell when the strip was applied, but caught it. “Breathe,” Fontaine said. “You ever deliver a baby?”

  “No,” Rydell managed.

  “Well,” said Fontaine, readying the next strip, this one longer, “you want to breathe the way they tell women to breathe when the contractions come. Here: now breathe out…”

  It went pretty fast then, and when Fontaine was done, he saw that Rydell was able to use both hands to button his shirt.

  “Good evening,” he heard the professor say and, turning with the roll of tape in his hand, saw that the boy was awake and sitting up, brown eyes wide and empty, staring at the man in the gray-green overcoat. “You look well. Is this your home?”

  Something moved, behind the boy's eyes; saw, retreated again.

  “You two know each other?” Fontaine asked.

  “We met last night,” the man said, “here, on the bridge.”

  “Wait a minute,” Fontaine said. “He get a watch off you?”

  The man turned and regarded Fontaine evenly, saying nothing.

  Fontaine felt a wave of guilt. “It's okay,” he said. “Just keeping it for him.”

  “I see.”

  “That's quite a watch,” Fontaine said. “Where'd you get it?”

  “Singapore.”

  Fontaine looked from the smooth gaunt wolfish face of the man who very probably wasn't a music professor to the blank and unlined face of the boy, beneath its new haircut.

  “I see that you have a pistol in your pocket,” the man said.

  “I'm just glad to see you,” Fontaine said, but nobody got it.

  “What is its caliber?”

  “Twenty-two long rifle.”

  “Barrel length?”

  “Four inches.”

  “Accurate?”

  “It's not a target pistol,” Fontaine said, “but for four inches of barrel, it's not too bad.” This was making him very nervous, and he very badly wanted the gun in his hand, but he thought that if he touched it now, something would happen. Something would.

  “Give it to me,” the man said.

  “Forget it,” Fontaine said.

  “An undetermined number of armed men are searching for Mr. Rydell tonight. They would like to capture him alive, in order to question him, but they would certainly kill him to prevent his escape. They will kill anyone they find with him. That would simply be a matter of housekeeping for them. Do you understand?”

  “Who are they?”

  “‘Bright young things,’” the man said.

  “W
hat?”

  “They are mercenaries, in the pay of someone who regards Mr. Rydell as being in the employ of a competitor, an enemy.”

  Fontaine looked at him. “Why you want my gun?”

  “In order to kill as many of them as I can.”

  “I don't know you from Adam,” Fontaine said.

  “No,” said the man, “you don't.”

  “This is crazy…” Fontaine looked at Chevette. “You know this guy?”

  “No,” Chevette said.

  “You. Rydell. You know this guy?”

  Rydell looked from Fontaine to the man, back to Fontaine. “No,” Rydell said, “I don't. But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I'd give him the gun.”

  “Why?”

  “I don't know,” Rydell said, and something seemed to catch in his voice. “I just know I would.”

  “This is crazy,” Fontaine said, repeating himself, hearing the pitch of his own voice rising. “Come on, Chevette! Why'd you come in here? You bring these people—”

  “’Cause Rydell couldn't walk fast enough,” she said. “I'm sorry, Fontaine. We just needed help.”

  “Fuck,” said Fontaine, pulling the Smith & Wesson from his pocket, its blue steel warm with his body heat. He opened the cylinder and ejected the five cartridges into his palm. Fragile bits of brass less than the thickness of a pencil, each one tipped with its copper-coated, precisely swaged and hollowed segment of lead alloy. “This is it, right? All the ammunition I've got.” He passed the man the revolver, barrel pointed at the ceiling and cylinder open, then the cartridges.

  “Thank you,” the man said. “May I load it now?”

  “Gentlemen,” said Fontaine, feeling a frustration that he didn't understand, “you may start your fucking engines.”

  “I suggest,” the man said, inserting the five cartridges, one after another, “that you lock the door after me and conceal yourselves, out of the sight lines for the door and window. If they determine you are here, they will try to kill you.” He closed the cylinder, sighted down the barrel at a blank patch of wall.