At the same time, a dozen or so other men are standing up from their tables, forming up behind the first one in a grinning, sunburned phalanx of Confederate flags and sideburns.
“Let’s see,” Hiro says, “is that some kind of a trick question?”
There are a lot of Towne Halls in a lot of Snooze ’n’ Cruise franchises where you have to check your weapons at the entrance. This is not one of them.
Hiro isn’t sure if that is bad or good. Without weapons, the New South Africans would just beat the crap out of him. With weapons, Hiro can fight back, but the stakes are higher. Hiro is bulletproof up to his neck, but that just means the New South Africans will all be going for a head shot. And they pride themselves on marksmanship. It is a fetish with them.
“Isn’t there an NSA franchise down the road?” Hiro says.
“Yeah,” says the point man, who has a long, spreading body and short stumpy legs. “It’s heaven. It really is. Ain’t no place on earth like a New South Africa.”
“Well, then if you don’t mind my asking,” Hiro says, “if it’s so damn nice, why don’t y’all go back to your egg sac and hang out there?”
“There is one problem with New South Africa,” the guy says. “Don’t mean to sound unpatriotic, but it’s true.”
“And what is that problem?” Hiro says.
“There’s no niggers, gooks, or kikes there to beat the shit out of.”
“Ah. That is a problem,” Hiro says. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For announcing your intentions—giving me the right to do this.”
Then Hiro cuts his head off.
What else can he do? There are at least twelve of them. They have made a point of blocking the only exit. They have just announced their intentions. And presumably they are all carrying heat. Besides, this kind of thing is going to happen to him about every ten seconds when he’s on the Raft.
The New South African has no idea what’s coming, but he starts to react as Hiro is swinging the katana at his neck, so he is flying backward when the decapitation occurs. That is good, because about half his blood supply comes lofting out the top of his neck. Twin jets, one from each carotid. Hiro doesn’t get a drop on himself.
In the Metaverse, the blade just passes right through, if you swing it quickly enough. Here in Reality, Hiro’s expecting a powerful shock when his blade hits the New South African’s neck, like when you hit a baseball the wrong way, but he hardly feels a thing. It just goes right through and almost swings around and buries itself in the wall. He must have gotten lucky and hit a gap between vertebrae. Hiro’s training comes back to him, oddly. He forgot to squeeze it off, forgot to stop the blade himself, and that’s bad form.
Even though he’s expecting it, he’s startled for a minute. This sort of thing doesn’t happen with avatars. They just fall down. For an astonishingly long time, he just stands there and looks at the guy’s body. Meanwhile, the airborne cloud of blood is seeking its level, dripping from the hung ceiling, spattering down from shelves behind the bar. A wino sitting there nursing a double shot of vodka shakes and shivers, staring into his glass at the galactic swirl of a trillion red cells dying in the ethanol.
Hiro swaps a few long glances with the New South Africans, like everyone in the bar is trying to come to a consensus as to what will happen next. Should they laugh? Take a picture? Run away? Call an ambulance?
He makes his way around toward the exit by running across people’s tables. It is rude, but other patrons scoot back, some of them are quick enough to snatch their beers out of his way, and no one gives him any hassles. The sight of the bare katana inspires everyone to a practically Nipponese level of politeness. There are a couple more New South Africans blocking Hiro’s way out, but not because they want to stop anyone. It’s just where they happen to be standing when they go into shock. Hiro decides, reflexively, not to kill them.
And Hiro is off into the lurid main avenue of the Towne Hall, a tunnel of flickering and pulsating loglo through which black creatures sprint like benighted sperm up the old fallopians, sharp angular things clenched in their hands. They are The Enforcers. They make the average MetaCop look like Ranger Rick.
Gargoyle time. Hiro switches everything on: infrared, millimeter-wave radar, ambient-sound processing. The infrared doesn’t do much in these circumstances, but the radar picks out all the weapons, highlights them in The Enforcers’ hands, identifies them by make, model, and ammunition type. They’re all fully automatic.
But The Enforcers and the New South Africans don’t need radar to see Hiro’s katana with blood and spinal fluid running down the blade.
The music of Vitaly Chernobyl and the Meltdowns is blasting through bad speakers all around him. It is their first single to hit the Billboard charts, entitled “My Heart Is a Smoking Hole in the Ground.” The ambient sound processing cuts it to a more reasonable level, evens out the nasty distortion from the speakers so that he can hear his roommate singing more clearly. Which makes it all particularly surreal. It just goes to show that he’s out of his element. Doesn’t belong here. Lost in the biomass. If there was any justice, he could jump into those speakers and trace up the wires like a digital sylph, follow the grid back to L.A., where he belongs, there on top of the world, where everything comes from, buy Vitaly a drink, crawl into his futon.
He stumbles forward helplessly as something terrible happens to his back. It feels like being massaged with a hundred ballpeen hammers. At the same time, a yellow sputtering light overrides the loglo. A screaming red display flashes up on the goggles informing him that the millimeter-wave radar has noticed a stream of bullets headed in his direction and would you like to know where they came from, sir?