“Yes. Sometimes we would do a little coding. But only some of us.”
“How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know. They move us here when our veins don’t work anymore. We just do things to help spread the Word—drag stuff around, make barricades. But we don’t really spend much time working. Most of the time we sing songs, pray, and tell other people about the Word.”
“You want to leave? I can get you out of here.”
“No,” the woman says, “I’ve never been so happy.”
“How can you say that? You were a big-time hacker. Now you’re kind of a dip, if I may speak frankly.”
“That’s okay, it doesn’t hurt my feelings. I wasn’t really happy when I was a hacker. I never thought about the important things. God. Heaven. The things of the spirit. It’s hard to think about those things in America. You just put them aside. But those are really the important things—not programming computers or making money. Now, that’s all I think about.”
Y.T. has been keeping an eye on the High Priest and his buddy. They keep moving closer, one step at a time. Now they’re close enough that Y.T. can smell their dinner. The woman puts her hand on Y.T.’s shoulder pad.
“I want you to stay here with me. Won’t you come down and have some refreshments? You must be thirsty.”
“Gotta run,” Y.T. says, standing up.
“I really have to object to that,” the High Priest says, stepping forward. He doesn’t say it angrily. Now he’s trying to be like Y.T.’s dad. “That’s not really the right decision for you.”
“What are you, a role model?”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to agree. But let’s go down and sit by the campfire and talk about it.”
“Let’s just get the fuck away from Y.T. before she goes into a self-defense mode,” Y.T. says.
All three Falabalas step back away from her. Very cooperative. The High Priest is holding up his hands, placating her. “I’m sorry if we made you feel threatened,” he says.
“You guys just come on a little weird,” Y.T. says, flipping her goggles back onto infrared.
In the infrared, she can see that the third Falabala, the one who came up here with the High Priest, is holding a small thing in one hand that is unusually warm.
She nails him with her penlight, spotlighting his upper body in a narrow yellow beam. Most of him is dirty and dun colored and reflects little light. But there is a brilliant glossy red thing, a shaft of ruby.
It’s a hypodermic needle. It’s full of red fluid. Under infrared, it shows up warm. It’s fresh blood.
And she doesn’t exactly get it—why these guys would be walking around with a syringe full of fresh blood. But she’s seen enough.
The Liquid Knuckles shoots out of the can in a long narrow neon-green stream, and when it nails the needle man in the face, he jerks his head back like he’s just been axed across the bridge of the nose and falls back without making a sound. Then she gives the High Priest a shot of it for good measure. The woman just stands there, totally, like, appalled.
Y.T. pumps herself up out of the canyon so fast that when she flies out into traffic, she’s going about as fast as it is. As soon as she gets a solid poon on a nocturnal lettuce tanker, she gets on the phone to Mom.
“Mom, listen. No, Mom, never mind the roaring noise. Yes, I am riding my skateboard in traffic. But listen to me for a second, Mom—”
She has to hang up on the old bitch. It’s impossible to talk to her. Then she tries to make a voice linkup with Hiro. That takes a couple of minutes to go through.
“Hello! Hello! Hello!” she’s shouting. Then she hears the honk of a car horn. Coming out of the telephone.
“Hello?”
“It’s Y.T.”
“How are you doing?” This guy always seems a little too laid back in his personal dealings. She doesn’t really want to talk about how she’s doing. She hears another honking horn in the background, behind Hiro’s voice.
“Where the hell are you, Hiro?”
“Walking down a street in L.A.”
“How can you be goggled in if you’re walking down a street?” Then the terrible reality sinks in: “Oh, my God, you didn’t turn into a gargoyle, did you?”
“Well,” Hiro says. He is hesitant, embarrassed, like it hadn’t occurred to him yet that this was what he was doing. “It’s not exactly like being a gargoyle. Remember when you gave me shit about spending all my money on computer stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“I decided I wasn’t spending enough. So I got a belt-pack machine. Smallest ever made. I’m walking down the street with this thing strapped to my belly. It’s really cool.”
“You’re a gargoyle.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like having all this clunky shit strapped all over your body—”
“You’re a gargoyle. Listen, I talked to one of these wholesalers.”
“Yeah?”
“She says she used to be a hacker. She saw something strange on her computer. Then she got sick for a while and joined this cult and ended up on the Raft.”
“The Raft. Do tell.”
“On the Enterprise. They take their blood, Hiro. Suck it out of their bodies. They infect people by injecting them with the blood of sick hackers. And when their veins get all tracked out like a junkie’s, they cut them loose and put them to work on the mainland running the wholesale operation.”
“That’s good,” he says. “That’s good stuff.”
“She says she saw some static on her computer screen and it made her sick. You know anything about that?”
“Yeah. It’s true.”
“It’s true?”
“Yeah. But you don’t have to worry about it. It only affects hackers.”