The computer guy rotates the case around in his hand a few times, just to get a feel for it. Then he slides it into a large open-ended cylinder that is resting on the top of a table. The walls of the cylinder are a couple of inches thick. Frost appears to be growing on this thing. Mystery gases continuously slide off of it, like teaspoons of milk dropped into turbulent water. The gases plunge out across the table and drop to the floor, where they make a little carpet of fog that flows and blooms around their shoes. When the computer guy has it in place, he yanks his hand back from the cold.
Then he puts on a pair of computer goggles.
That’s all there is to it. He just sits there for a few minutes. Y.T. is not a computer person, but she knows that somewhere behind the cabinets and doors in the back of this truck there is a big computer doing a lot of things right now.
“It’s like a CAT scanner,” the man with the glass eye says, using the same hushed tone of voice as a sports-caster in a golfing tournament. “But it reads everything, you know,” he says, rotating his hands impatiently in all-encompassing circles.
“How much does it cost?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s it called?”
“Doesn’t really have a name yet.”
“Well, who makes it?”
“We made the goddamn thing,” the man with the glass eye says. “Just, like in the last couple weeks.”
“What for?”
“You’re asking too many questions. Look. You’re a cute kid. I mean, you’re a hell of a chick. You’re a knockout. But don’t go thinking you’re too important at this stage.”
At this stage. Hmm.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hiro is in his 20-by-30 at the U-Stor-It. He is spending a little time in Reality, as per the suggestion of his partner. The door is open so that ocean breezes and jet exhaust can blow through. All the furniture—the futons, the cargo pallet, the experimental cinderblock furniture—has been pushed up against the walls. He is holding a one-meter-long piece of heavy rebar with tape wrapped around one end to make a handle. The rebar approximates a katana, but it is very much heavier. He calls it redneck katana.
He is in the kendo stance, barefoot. He should be wearing voluminous ankle-length culottes and a heavy indigo tunic, which is the traditional uniform, but instead he is wearing jockey shorts. Sweat is running down his smoothly muscled cappuccino back and exploring his cleavage. Blisters the size of green grapes are forming on the ball of his left foot. Hiro’s heart and lungs are well developed, and he has been blessed with unusually quick reflexes, but he is not intrinsically strong, the way his father was. Even if he were intrinsically strong, working with the redneck katana would be very difficult.
He is full of adrenaline, his nerves are shot, and his mind is cluttered up with free-floating anxiety—floating around on an ocean of generalized terror.
He is shuffling back and forth down the thirty-foot axis of the room. From time to time he will accelerate, raise the redneck katana up over his head until it is pointed backward, then bring it swiftly down, snapping his wrists at the last moment so that it comes to a stop in midair. Then he says, “Next!”
Theoretically. In fact, the redneck katana is difficult to stop once it gets moving. But it’s good exercise. His forearms look like bundles of steel cables. Almost. Well, they will soon, anyway.
The Nipponese don’t go in for this nonsense about follow-through. If you strike a man on the top of his head with a katana and do not make any effort to stop the blade, it will divide his skull and probably get hung up in his collarbone or his pelvis, and then you will be out there in the middle of the medieval battlefield with a foot on your late opponent’s face, trying to work the blade loose as his best friend comes running up to you with a certain vengeful gleam in his eye. So the plan is to snap the blade to a full stop just after the impact, maybe crease his brainpan an inch or two, then whip it out and look for another samurai, hence: “Next!”
He has been thinking about what happened earlier tonight with Raven, which pretty much rules out sleep, and this is why he is practicing with the redneck katana at three in the morning.
He knows he was totally unprepared. The spear just came at him. He slapped at it with the blade. He happened to slap it at the right time, and it missed him. But he did this almost absentmindedly.
Maybe that’s how great warriors do it. Carelessly, not wracking their minds with the consequences.
Maybe he’s flattering himself.
The sound of a helicopter has been getting louder for some minutes now. Even though Hiro lives right next to the airport, this is unusual. They’re not supposed to fly right near LAX, it raises evident safety questions.
It doesn’t stop getting louder until it is very loud, and at that point, the helicopter is hovering a few feet above the parking lot, right out in front of Hiro and Vitaly’s 20-by-30. It’s a nice one, a corporate jet chopper, dark green, with subdued markings. Hiro suspects that in brighter light, he would be able to make out the logo of a defense contractor, most likely General Jim’s Defense System.
A pale-faced white man with a very high forehead-cum-bald spot jumps out of the chopper, looking a lot more athletic than his face and general demeanor would lead you to expect, and jogs across the parking lot directly toward Hiro. This is the kind of guy Hiro remembers from when his dad was in the Army—not the gristly veterans of legends and movies, just sort of regular thirty-five-year-old guys rattling around in bulky uniforms. He’s a major. His name, sewn onto his BDUs, is Clem.
“Hiro Protagonist?”
“The same.”
“Juanita sent me to pick you up. She said you’d recognize the name.”
“I recognize the name. But I don’t really work for Juanita.”
“She says you do now.”
“Well, that’s nice,” Hiro says. “So I guess it’s kind of urgent?”
“I think that would be a fair assumption,” Major Clem says.
“Can I spare a few minutes? Because I’ve been working out, and I need to run next door.”
Major Clem looks next door. The next logo down the strip is THE REST STOP.