When he wakes up, it’s the middle of the day and he is all dried out from the sun, and birds are circling overhead, trying to decide whether he’s dead or alive. Hiro climbs down from the roof of the turret and, throwing caution to the wind, drinks three glasses of L.A. tap water. He gets some bacon out of Da5id’s fridge and throws it in the microwave. Most of General Jim’s people have left, and there is only a token guard of soldiers down on the road. Hiro locks all the doors that look out on the hillside, because he can’t stop thinking about Raven. Then he sits at the kitchen table and goggles in.
The Black Sun is mostly full of Asians, including a lot of people from the Bombay film industry, glaring at each other, stroking their black mustaches, trying to figure out what kind of hyperviolent action film will play in Persepolis next year. It is nighttime there. Hiro is one of the few Americans in the joint.
Along the back wall of the bar is a row of private rooms, ranging from little tête-à-têtes to big conference rooms where a bunch of avatars can gather and have a meeting. Juanita is waiting for Hiro in one of the smaller ones. Her avatar just looks like Juanita. It is an honest representation, with no effort made to hide the early suggestions of crow’s-feet at the corners of her big black eyes. Her glossy hair is so well resolved that Hiro can see individual strands refracting the light into tiny rainbows.
“I’m at Da5id’s house. Where are you?” Hiro says.
“In an airplane—so I may break up,” Juanita says.
“You on your way here?”
“To Oregon, actually.”
“Portland?”
“Astoria.”
“Why on earth would you go to Astoria, Oregon, at a time like this?”
Juanita takes a deep breath, lets it out shakily. “If I told you, we’d get into an argument.”
“What’s the latest word on Da5id?” Hiro says.
“The same.”
“Any diagnosis?”
Juanita sighs, looks tired. “There won’t be any diagnosis,” she says. “It’s a software, not a hardware, problem.”
“Huh?”
“They’re rounding up the usual suspects. CAT scans, NMR scans, PET scans, EEGs. Everything’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with his brain—his hardware.”
“It just happens to be running the wrong program?”
“His software got poisoned. Da5id had a snow crash last night, inside his head.”
“Are you trying to say it’s a psychological problem?”
“It kind of goes beyond those established categories,” Juanita says, “because it’s a new phenomenon. A very old one, actually.”
“Does this thing just happen spontaneously, or what?”
“You tell me,” she says. “You were there last night. Did anything happen after I left?”
“He had a Snow Crash hypercard that he got from Raven outside The Black Sun.”
“Shit. That bastard.”
“Who’s the bastard? Raven or Da5id?”
“Da5id. I tried to warn him.”
“He used it.” Hiro goes on to explain the Brandy with the magic scroll. “Then later he had computer trouble and got bounced.”
“I heard about that part,” she says. “That’s why I called the paramedics.”
“I don’t see the connection between Da5id’s computer having a crash, and you calling an ambulance.”
“The Brandy’s scroll wasn’t just showing random static. It was flashing up a large amount of digital information, in binary form. That digital information was going straight into Da5id’s optic nerve. Which is part of the brain, incidentally—if you stare into a person’s pupil, you can see the terminal of the brain.”
“Da5id’s not a computer. He can’t read binary code.”
“He’s a hacker. He messes with binary code for a living. That ability is firm-wired into the deep structures of his brain. So he’s susceptible to that form of information. And so are you, homeboy.”
“What kind of information are we talking about?”
“Bad news. A metavirus,” Juanita says. “It’s the atomic bomb of informational warfare—a virus that causes any system to infect itself with new viruses.”
“And that’s what made Da5id sick?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t I get sick?”
“Too far away. Your eyes couldn’t resolve the bitmap. It has to be right up in your face.”
“I’ll think about that one,” Hiro says. “But I have another question. Raven also distributes another drug—in Reality—called, among other things, Snow Crash. What is it?”
“It’s not a drug,” Juanita says. “They make it look like a drug and feel like a drug so that people will want to take it. It’s laced with cocaine and some other stuff.”
“If it’s not a drug, what is it?”
“It’s chemically processed blood serum taken from people who are infected with the metavirus,” Juanita says. “That is, it’s just another way of spreading the infection.”
“Who’s spreading it?”
“L. Bob Rife’s private church. All of those people are infected.”
Hiro puts his head in his hands. He’s not exactly thinking about this; he’s letting it ricochet around in his skull, waiting for it to come to rest. “Wait a minute, Juanita. Make up your mind. This Snow Crash thing—is it a virus, a drug, or a religion?”
Juanita shrugs. “What’s the difference?”
That Juanita is talking this way does not make it any easier for Hiro to get back on his feet in this conversation. “How can you say that? You’re a religious person yourself.”
“Don’t lump all religion together.”