The window is almost too grungy to see through, but she sees something black walking past it. Hiro.
About ten seconds later, her wristwatch goes off. She punches the emergency exit. The bell rings. The bars are trickier than she thought—good thing it’s not a real fire—but eventually she gets them open. She throws her plank outside onto the parking lot, drags her body through just as she hears the rear door being unlocked. By the time the three-ringer has found that all-important light switch, she is banking a sharp turn into the front lot—which has turned into a jeek festival!
Every jeek in Southern Cal is here, it seems, driving their giant, wrecked taxicabs with alien livestock in the back seat, reeking of incense and sloshing neon-hued Air-wicks! They have set up a giant eight-tubed hookah on the trunk of one of the cabs and are slurping up great mountain-man lungfuls of choking smoke.
And they’re all staring at Hiro Protagonist, who is just staring back at them. Everyone in the parking lot looks completely astounded.
He must have made his approach from the rear—didn’t realize that the front lot was full of jeeks. Whatever he was planning isn’t going to work. The plan is screwed.
The manager comes running around from the back of the Buy ’n’ Fly, sounding a bloodcurdling Taxilinga tocsin. He’s got missile lock on Y.T.’s ass.
But the jeeks around the hookah don’t care about Y.T. They’ve got missile lock on Hiro. They carefully hang the ornate silver nozzles on a rack built into the neck of the mega-bong. Then they start moving toward him, reaching into the folds of their robes, the inner pockets of their windbreakers.
Y.T. is distracted by a sharp hissing noise. Her eyes glance back at Hiro, and she sees that he has withdrawn a three-foot, curved sword from a scabbard, which she did not notice before. He has dropped into a squat. The blade of the sword glitters painfully under the killer security lights of the Buy ’n’ Fly.
How sweet!
It would be an understatement to say that the hookah boys are taken aback. But they are not scared so much as they are confused. Almost undoubtedly, most of them have guns. So why is this guy trying to bother them with a sword?
She remembers that one of the multiple professions on Hiro’s business card is Greatest sword fighter in the world. Can he really take out a whole clan of armed jeeks?
The manager’s hand clenches her upper arm—like this is really going to stop her. She reaches across her body with the other hand and lets him have it with a brief squirt of Liquid Knuckles. He makes a muffled, distant grunt, his head snaps back, he lets go of her arm and staggers back wildly until he sprawls against another taxi, jamming the heels of both hands into his eye sockets.
Wait a sec. There’s nobody in that particular taxi. But she can see a two-foot-long macramé keychain dangling from the ignition.
She tosses her plank through the window of the taxi, dives in after it (she’s small, opening the door is optional), climbs in behind the driver’s seat, sinking into a deep nest of wooden beads and air fresheners, grinds the motor, and takes off. Backward. Headed for the rear parking lot. The car was pointed outward, in taxicab style, ready for a quick getaway, which would be fine if she were by herself—but there is Hiro to think of. The radio is screaming, alive with hollered bursts of Taxilinga. She backs all the way around behind the Buy ’n’ Fly. The back lot is strangely quiet and empty.
She shifts into drive and blasts back the way she came. The jeeks haven’t quite had time to react, were expecting her to come out the other way. She screams it to a halt right next to Hiro, who has already had the presence of mind to put his sword back in its scabbard. He dives in the passenger-side window. Then she stops paying attention to him. She’s got other stuff to look at, such as whether she’s going to get broadsided as she pulls out onto the road.
She doesn’t get broadsided, though a car has to squeal around her. She guns it out onto the highway. It responds as only an ancient taxicab will.
The only problem being that half a dozen other ancient taxicabs are now following them.
Something is pressing against Y.T.’s left thigh. She looks down. It is a remarkably huge revolver in a net bag hanging on the door panel.
She has to find someplace to pull into. If she could find a Nova Sicilia franchulate, that would do it—the Mafia owes her one. Or a New South Africa, which she hates. But the New South Africans hate jeeks even more.
Scratch that; Hiro is black, or at least part black. Can’t take him into New South Africa. And because Y.T. is a Cauc, they can’t go to Metazania.
“Mr. Lee’s Greater Hong Kong,” Hiro says. “Half mile ahead on the right.”
“Nice thinking—but they won’t let you in with your swords, will they?”
“Yes,” he says, “because I’m a citizen.”
Then she sees it. The sign stands out because it is a rare one. Don’t see many of these. It is a green-and-blue sign, soothing and calm in a glare-torn franchise ghetto. It says:
MR. LEE’S GREATER HONG KONG
Explosive noise from in back. Her head smacks into the whiplash arrestor. Another taxi rear-ended them.
And she screams into the parking lot of Mr. Lee’s doing seventy-five. The security system doesn’t even have time to rez her visa and drop the STD, so it’s Severe Tire Damage all the way, those bald radials are left behind on the spikes. Sparking along on four naked rims, she shrieks to a stop on the lawngrid, which doubles as carbon dioxide-eating turf and impervious parking lot.
She and Hiro climb out of the car.
Hiro is grinning wildly, pinioned in the crossfire of a dozen red laser beams scanning him from every direction at once. The Hong Kong robot security system is checking him out. Her, too; she looks down to see the lasers scribbling across her chest.