For a minute she can’t even speak, she’s so pissed. “My mother is a programmer for the Feds. You asshole. Why didn’t you warn me?”
Half an hour later, she’s there. Doesn’t bother to change back into her WASP disguise this time, just bursts into the house in basic, bad black. Drops her plank on the floor on the way in. Grabs one of Mom’s curios off the shelf—it’s a heavy crystal award—clear plastic, actually—that she got a couple years ago for sucking up to her Fed boss and passing all her polygraph tests—and goes into the den.
Mom’s there. As usual. Working on her computer. But she’s not looking at the screen right now, she’s got some notes on her lap that she’s going through.
Just as Mom is looking up at her, Y.T. winds up and throws the crystal award. It goes right over Mom’s shoulder, glances off the computer table, flies right through the picture tube. Awesome results. Y.T. always wanted to do that. She pauses to admire her work for a few seconds while Mom just flames off all kinds of weird emotion. What are you doing in that uniform? Didn’t I tell you not to ride your skateboard on a real street? You’re not supposed to throw things in the house. That’s my prized possession. Why did you break the computer? Government property. Just what is going on here, anyway?
Y.T. can tell that this is going to continue for a couple of minutes, so she goes to the kitchen, splashes some water on her face, gets a glass of juice, just letting Mom follow her around and ventilate over her shoulder pads.
Finally Mom winds down, defeated by Y.T.’s strategy of silence.
“I just saved your fucking life, Mom,” Y.T. says. “You could at least offer me an Oreo.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“It’s like, if you—people of a certain age—would make some effort to just stay in touch with sort of basic, modern-day events, then your kids wouldn’t have to take these drastic measures.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Earth materializes, rotating majestically in front of his face. Hiro reaches out and grabs it. He twists it around so he’s looking at Oregon. Tells it to get rid of the clouds, and it does, giving him a crystalline view of the mountains and the seashore.
Right out there, a couple of hundred miles off the Oregon coast, is a sort of granulated furuncle growing on the face of the water. Festering is not too strong a word. It’s a couple of hundred miles south of Astoria now, moving south. Which explains why Juanita went to Astoria a couple of days ago: she wanted to get close to the Raft. Why is anyone’s guess.
Hiro looks up, focuses his gaze on Earth, zooms in for a look. As he gets closer, the imagery he’s looking at shifts from the long-range pictures coming in from the geosynchronous satellites to the good stuff being spewed into the CIC computer from a whole fleet of low-flying spy birds. The view he’s looking at is a mosaic of images shot no more than a few hours ago.
It’s several miles across. Its shape constantly changes, but at the time these pictures were shot, it had kind of a fat kidney shape; that is, it is trying to be a V, pointed southward like a flock of geese, but there’s so much noise in the system, it’s so amorphous and disorganized, that a kidney is the closest it can come.
At the center is a pair of enormous vessels: the Enterprise and an oil tanker, lashed together side by side. These two behemoths are walled in by several other major vessels, an assortment of container ships and other freight carriers. The Core.
Everything else is pretty tiny. There is the occasional hijacked yacht or decommissioned fishing trawler. But most of the boats in the Raft are just that: boats. Small pleasure craft, sampans, junks, dhows, dinghys, life rafts, houseboats, makeshift structures built on air-filled oil drums and slabs of styrofoam. A good fifty percent of it isn’t real boat material at all, just a garble of ropes, cables, planks, nets, and other debris tied together on top of whatever kind of flotsam was handy.
And L. Bob Rife is sitting in the middle of it. Hiro doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, and he doesn’t know how Juanita is connected. But it’s time to go there and find out.
Scott Lagerquist is standing right on the edge of Mark Norman’s 24/7 Motorcycle Mall, waiting, when the man with the swords comes into view, striding down the sidewalk. A pedestrian is a peculiar sight in L.A., considerably more peculiar than a man with swords. But a welcome one. Anyone who drives out to a motorcycle dealership already has a car, by definition, so it’s hard to give them a really hard sell. A pedestrian should be cake.
“Scott Wilson Lagerquist!” the guy yells from fifty feet away and closing. “How you doing?”
“Fabulous!” Scott says. A little off guard, maybe. Can’t remember this guy’s name, which is a problem. Where has he seen this guy before?
“It’s great to see you!” Scott says, running forward and pumping the guy’s hand. “I haven’t seen you since, uh—”
“Is Pinky here today?” the guy says.
“Pinky?”
“Yeah. Mark. Mark Norman. Pinky was his nickname back in college. I guess he probably doesn’t like to be called that now that he’s running, what, half a dozen dealerships, three McDonaldses, and a Holiday Inn, huh?”
“I didn’t know that Mr. Norman was into fast food also.”
“Yeah. He’s got three franchises down around Long Beach. Owns them through a limited partnership, actually. Is he here today?”
“No, he’s on vacation.”
“Oh, yeah. In Corsica. The Ajaccio Hyatt. Room 543. That’s right, I completely forgot about that.”
“Well, were you just stopping by to say hi, or—”
“Nah. I was going to buy a motorcycle.”
“Oh. What kind of motorcycle were you looking for?”
“One of the new Yamahas? With the new generation smartwheels?”
Scott grins manfully, trying to put the best face on the awful fact that he is about to reveal. “I know exactly the one you mean. But I’m sorry to tell you that we don’t actually have one in stock today.”