“Are you smart enough to tie that information into YOU ARE HERE?” Hiro says.
“I’ll see what I can do, sir. The formats appear to be reconcilable. Sir?”
“Yes?”
“These blueprints are several years old. Since they were made, the Enterprise has been purchased by a private owner—”
“Who may have made some changes. Gotcha.”
Hiro’s back in Reality.
He finds an open boulevard of water that leads inward to the Core. It has a sort of pedestrian catwalk running along one side of it, pieced together haphazardly, a seemingly endless procession of gangplanks, pontoons, logs, abandoned skiffs, aluminum canoes, oil drums. Anywhere else in the world, it would be an obstacle course; here in the Fifth World, it’s a superhighway.
Hiro takes the boat straight down the middle, not very fast. If he runs into something, the boat might flip. Reason will sink. And Hiro’s strapped onto Reason.
Flipping into gargoyle mode, he can clearly make out a sparse picket line of hemispherical domes running along the edge of the Enterprise’s flight deck. The radar gear thoughtfully identifies these, onscreen, as the radar antennas of Phalanx antimissile guns. Underneath each dome, a multibarreled gun protrudes.
He slows to a near stop and waves the barrel of Reason back and forth for a while until a cross hairs whips across his field of vision. That’s the aiming point. He gets it settled down in the middle, right on one of those Phalanx guns, and jerks the trigger for half a second.
The big dome turns into a fountain of jagged, flaky debris. Underneath it, the gun barrels are still visible, speckled with a few red marks; Hiro lowers the cross hairs a tad and fires another fifty-round burst that cuts the gun loose from its mount. Then its ammunition belt starts to burst sporadically, and Hiro has to look away.
He looks at the next Phalanx gun and finds himself staring straight down its barrels. That’s so scary he jerks the trigger involuntarily and fires a long burst that appears to do nothing at all. Then his view is obscured by something close up; the recoil has pushed him back behind a decrepit yacht tied up along the side of the channel.
He knows what’s going to happen next—the steam makes him easy to find—so he whips out of there. A second later, the yacht gets simply forced under the water by a burst from the big gun. Hiro runs for a few seconds, finds a pontoon where he can steady himself, and opens up again with a long burst; when he’s finished, the edge of the Enterprise has a jagged semicircular bite taken out of it where the Phalanx gun used to be.
He takes to the main channel again and follows it inward until it terminates beneath one of the Core ships, a containership converted into a high-rise apartment complex. A cargo net serves as a ramp from one to the other. It probably serves as a drawbridge also, when undesirables try to clamber up out of the ghetto. Hiro is about as undesirable as anyone can be on the Raft, but they leave the cargo net there for him.
That’s quite all right. He’s staying on the little boat for now. He buzzes down the side of the containership, makes a U-turn around its prow.
The next vessel is a big oil tanker, mostly empty and riding high in the water. Looking up the sheer steel canyon separating the two ships, he sees no handy cargo nets stretched between them. They don’t want thieves or terrorists to come up onto the tanker and drill for oil.
The next ship is the Enterprise.
The two giant vessels, the tanker and the aircraft carrier, ride parallel, anywhere from ten to fifty feet apart, joined by a number of gigantic cables and held apart by huge airbags, like they squished a few blimps between them to keep them from rubbing. The heavy cables aren’t just lashed from one ship to another; they’ve done something clever with weights and pulleys, he suspects, to allow for some slack when rough seas pull the ships opposite ways.
Hiro rides his own little airbag in between them. This gray steel tunnel is quiet and isolated compared to the Raft; except for him, no one has any reason to be here. For a minute, he just wants to sit there and relax.
Which is not too likely, when you think about it. “YOU ARE HERE,” he says.
His view of the Enterprise’s hull—a gently curved expanse of gray steel—turns into a three-dimensional wire frame drawing, showing him all the guts of the ship on the other side.
Down here along the waterline, the Enterprise has a belt of thick antitorpedo armor. It’s not too promising. Farther up, the armor is thinner, and there’s good stuff on the other side of it, actual rooms instead of fuel tanks or ammunition holds.
Hiro chooses a room marked WARDROOM and opens fire.
The hull of the Enterprise is surprisingly tough. Reason doesn’t just blow a crater straight through; it takes a few moments for the burst to penetrate. And then all it does is make a hole about six inches across. The recoil pushed Hiro back against the rusted hull of the oil tanker.
He can’t take the gun with him anyway. He holds the trigger down and just tries to keep it aimed in a consistent direction until all the ammunition is gone. Then he unstraps it from his body and dumps the whole thing overboard. It’ll go to the bottom and mark its position with a column of steam; later, Mr. Lee’s Greater Hong Kong can dispatch one of its environmental direct-action posses to pick it up. Then they can haul Hiro before the Tribunal of Environmental Crimes, if they want to. Right now he doesn’t care.