On the other thigh is a personal phone. As the manager is locking the door upstairs, it begins to ring. Y.T. offhooks it with her free hand. It is her mother.
“Hi, Mom. Fine, how are you? I’m at Tracy’s house. Yeah, we went to the Metaverse. We were just fooling around at this arcade on the Street. Pretty bumpin’. Yes, I used a nice avatar. Nah, Tracy’s mom said she’d give me a ride home later. But we might stop off at the Joyride on Victory for a while, okay? Okay, well, sleep tight, Mom. I will. I love you, too. See you later.”
She punches the flash button, killing the chat with Mom and giving her a fresh dial tone in the space of about half a second. “Roadkill,” she says.
The telephone remembers and dials Roadkill’s number.
Roaring sounds. This is the sound of air peeling over the microphone of Roadkill’s personal phone at some terrifying velocity. Also the competing whooshes of many vehicles’ tires on pavement, broken by chuckhole percussion; sounds like the crumbling Ventura.
“Yo, Y.T.,” Roadkill says, “’sup?”
“’Sup with you?”
“Surfing the Tura. ’Sup with you?”
“Maxing The Clink.”
“Whoa! Who popped you?”
“MetaCops. Affixed me to the gate of White Columns with a loogie gun.”
“Whoa, how very! When you leaving?”
“Soon. Can you swing by and give me a hand?”
“What do you mean?”
Men. “You know, give me a hand. You’re my boyfriend,” she says, speaking very simply and plainly. “If I get popped, you’re supposed to come around and help bust me out.” Isn’t everyone supposed to know this stuff? Don’t parents teach their kids anything anymore?
“Well, uh, where are you?”
“Buy ’n’ Fly number 501,762.”
“I’m on my way to Bernie with a super-ultra.”
As in San Bernardino. As in super-ultra-high-priority delivery. As in, you’re out of luck.
“Okay, thanks for nothing.”
“Sorry.”
“Surfing safety,” Y.T. says, in the traditional sarcastic sign off.
“Keep breathing,” Roadkill says. The roaring noise snaps off.
What a jerk. Next date, he’s really going to have to grovel. But in the meantime, there’s one other person who owes her one. The only problem is that he might be a spaz. But it’s worth a try.
“Hello?” he says into his personal phone. He’s breathing hard and a couple of sirens are dueling in the background.
“Hiro Protagonist?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Y.T. Where are you?”
“In the parking lot of a Safeway on Oahu,” he says. And he’s telling the truth; in the background she can hear the shopping carts performing their clashy, anal copulations.
“I’m kind of busy now, Whitey—but what can I do for you?”
“It’s Y.T.,” she says, “and you can help bust me out of The Clink.” She gives him the details.
“How long ago did he put you there?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Okay, the three-ring binder for Clink franchises states that the manager is supposed to check on the detainee half an hour after admission.”
“How do you know this stuff?” she says accusingly.
“Use your imagination. As soon as the manager pulls his half-hour check, wait for another five minutes, and then make your move. I’ll try to give you a hand. Okay?”
“Got it.”
At half an hour on the dot, she hears the back door being unlocked. The lights come on. Her Knight Visions save her from wracking eyeball pains. The manager thunks down a couple of steps, glares at her, glares at her for rather a long time. The manager, clearly, is tempted. That momentary glimpse of flesh has been ricocheting around in his brain for half an hour. He is wracking his mind with vast cosmological dilemmas. Y.T. hopes that he does not try anything, because the dentata’s effects can be unpredictable.
“Make up your fucking mind,” she says.
It works. This fresh burst of culture shock rattles the jeek out of his ethical conundrum. He gives Y.T. a disapproving glower—she, after all, forced him to be attracted to her, forced him to get horny, made his head swim—she didn’t have to get arrested, did she?—and so on top of everything else he’s angry with her. As if he has a right to be.
This is the gender that invented the polio vaccine?
He turns, goes back up the steps, kills the light, locks the door.
She notes the time, sets her alarm watch for five minutes from now—the only North American who actually knows how to set the alarm on her digital wristwatch—pulls her shiv kit from one of the narrow pockets on her sleeve. She also hauls out a lightstick and snaps it so she can see ’sup. She finds one piece of narrow, flat spring steel, slides it up into the manacle’s innards, depresses the spring-loaded pawl. The cuff, formerly a one-way ratchet that could only get tighter, springs loose from the cold-water pipe.
She could take it off her wrist, but she has decided she likes the look of it. She cuffs the loose manacle onto her wrist, right next to the other one, forming a double bracelet. The kind of thing her mom used to do, back when she was a punk.
The steel door is locked, but Buy ’n’ Fly safety regs mandate an emergency exit from the basement in case of fire. Here, it’s a basement window with mondo bars and a big red multilingual fire alarm bolted onto it. The red looks black in the green glow of the lightstick. She reads the instructions that are in English, runs through it once or twice in her mind, then waits for the alarm to go off. She whiles away the time by reading the instructions in all the other languages, wondering which is which. It all looks like Taxilinga to Y.T.