“Welcome to Mr. Lee’s Greater Hong Kong, Mr. Protagonist,” the security system says through a P.A. speaker. “And welcome to your guest, Ms. Y.T.”
The other taxis have stopped in formation along the curb. Several of them overshot the Hong Kong franchise and had to back up a block or so. A barrage of doors thunking shut. Some of them don’t bother, just leave the engines running and the doors wide open. Three jeeks linger on the sidewalk, eyeing the tire shreds impaled on spikes: long streaks of neoprene sprouting steel and fiberglass hairs, like ruined toupees. One of them has a revolver in his hand, pointed straight down at the sidewalk.
Four more jeeks run up to join them. Y.T. counts two more revolvers and a pump shotgun. Any more of these guys and they’ll be able to form a government.
They step carefully over the spikes and onto the lush Hong Kong lawngrid. As they do, the lasers appear once more. The jeeks turn all red and grainy for a second.
Then something different happens. Lights come on. The security system wants better illumination on these people.
Hong Kong franchulates are famous for their lawngrids—whoever heard of a lawn you could park on?—and for their antennas. They all look like NASA research facilities with their antennas. Some of them are satellite uplinks, pointed at the sky. But some of them, tiny little antennas, are pointed at the ground, at the lawngrid.
Y.T. does not really get this, but these small antennas are millimeter-wave radar transceivers. Like any other radar, they are good at picking up metallic objects. Unlike the radar in an air traffic control center, they can rez fine details. The rez of a system is only as fine as its wavelength; since the wavelength of this radar is about a millimeter, it can see the fillings in your teeth, the grommets in your Converse hightops, the rivets in your Levi’s. It can calculate the value of your pocket change.
Seeing guns is not a problem. This thing can even tell if the guns are loaded, and with what sort of ammunition. That is an important function, because guns are illegal in Mr. Lee’s Greater Hong Kong.
Chapter Eleven
It doesn’t seem polite to hang around and gawk over the fact that Da5id’s computer crashed. A lot of the younger hackers are doing just that, as a way of showing all the other hackers how knowledgeable they are. Hiro shrugs it off and turns back in the direction of the Rock Star Quadrant. He still wants to see Sushi K’s hairdo.
But his path is being blocked by the Nipponese man—the neo-traditional. The guy with the swords. He’s facing off against Hiro, about two sword-lengths apart, and it doesn’t look like he intends to move.
Hiro does the polite thing. He bows at the waist, straightens up.
The businessman does the much less polite thing. He looks Hiro rather carefully up and down, then returns the bow. Sort of.
“These—” the businessman says. “Very nice.”
“Thank you, sir. Please feel free to converse in Nipponese if you prefer.”
“This is what your avatar wears. You do not carry such weapons in Reality,” the businessman says. In English.
“I’m sorry to be difficult, but in fact, I do carry such weapons in Reality,” Hiro says.
“Exactly like these?”
“Exactly.”
“These are ancient weapons, then,” the businessman says.
“Yes, I believe they are.”
“How did you come to be in possession of such important family heirlooms from Nippon?” the businessman says.
Hiro knows the subtext here: What do you use those swords for, boy, slicing watermelon?
“They are now my family heirlooms,” Hiro says. “My father won them.”
“Won them? Gambling?”
“Single combat. It was a struggle between my father and a Nipponese officer. The story is quite complicated.”
“Please excuse me if I have misinterpreted your story,” the businessman says, “but I was under the impression that men of your race were not allowed to fight during that war.”
“Your impression is correct,” Hiro says. “My father was a truck driver.”
“Then how did he come to be in hand-to-hand combat with a Nipponese officer?”
“The incident took place outside a prisoner-of-war camp,” Hiro says. “My father and another prisoner tried to escape. They were pursued by a number of Nipponese soldiers and the officer who owned these swords.”
“Your story is very difficult to believe,” the businessman says, “because your father could not have survived such an escape long enough to pass the swords on to his son. Nippon is an island nation. There is nowhere he could have escaped to.”
“This happened very late in the war,” Hiro says, “and this camp was just outside of Nagasaki.”
The businessman chokes, reddens, nearly loses it. His left hand reaches up to grip the scabbard of his sword. Hiro looks around; suddenly they are in the center of an open circle of people some ten yards across.
“Do you think that the manner in which you came to possess these swords was honorable?” the businessman says.
“If I did not, I would long since have returned them,” Hiro says.
“Then you will not object to losing them in the same fashion,” the businessman says.
“Nor will you object to losing yours,” Hiro says.
The businessman reaches across his body with his right hand, grips the handle of his sword just below the guard, draws it out, snaps it forward so it’s pointing at Hiro, then places his left hand on the grip just below the right.
Hiro does the same.