“You don’t?”
“We don’t. It’s a brand-new model. Nobody has them.”
“You sure? Because you ordered one.”
“We did?”
“Yeah. A month ago.” Suddenly the guy cranes his neck, looks over Scott’s shoulder down the boulevard. “Well, speak of the devil. Here it comes.”
A Yamaha semi is pulling into the truck entrance with a new shipment of motorcycles in the back.
“It’s on that truck,” the guy says. “If you can give me one of your cards, I’ll jot down the vehicle identification number on back so you can pull it off the truck for me.”
“This was a special order made by Mr. Norman?”
“He claimed he was just ordering it as a display model, you know. But it sort of has my name on it.”
“Yes, sir. I understand totally.”
Sure enough, the bike comes off the truck, just as the guy described it, right down to color scheme (black) and vehicle ID number. It’s a beautiful bike. It draws a crowd just sitting on the parking lot—the other salesmen actually put down their coffee cups and take their feet off their desks to go outside and look at it. It looks like a black land torpedo. Two-wheel drive, natch. The wheels are so advanced they’re not even wheels—they look like giant, heavy-duty versions of the smartwheels that high-speed skateboards use, independently telescoping spokes with fat traction pads on the ends. Dangling out over the front, in the nose cone of the motorcycle, is the sensor package that monitors road conditions, decides where to place each spoke as it rolls forward, how much to extend it, and how to rotate the footpad for maximum traction. It’s all controlled by a bios—a Built-In Operating System—an onboard computer with a flat-panel screen built into the top of the fuel tank.
They say that this baby will do a hundred and twenty miles per hour on rubble. The bios patches itself into the CIC weather net so that it knows when it’s about to run into precip. The aerodynamic cowling is totally flexible, calculates its own most efficient shape for the current speed and wind conditions, changes its curves accordingly, wraps around you like a nymphomaniacal gymnast.
Scott figures this guy is going to waltz off with this thing for dealer invoice, being a friend and confidant of Mr. Norman. And it’s not an easy thing for any red-blooded salesman to write out a contract to sell a sexy beast like this one at dealer invoice. He hesitates for a minute. Wonders what’s going to happen to him if this is all some kind of mistake.
The guy’s watching him intently, seems to sense his nervousness, almost as if he can hear Scott’s heart beating. So at the last minute he eases up, gets magnanimous—Scott loves these big-spender types—decides to throw in a few hundred Kongbucks over invoice, just so Scott can pull in a meager commission on the deal. A tip, basically.
Then—icing on the cake—the guy goes nuts in the Cycle Shop. Totally berserk. Buys a complete outfit. Everything. Top of the line. A full black coverall that swaddles everything from toes to neck in breathable, bulletproof fabric, with armorgel pads in all the right places and airbags around the neck. Even safety fanatics don’t bother with a helmet when they’re wearing one of these babies.
So once he’s figured out how to attach his swords on the outside of his coverall, he’s on his way.
“I gotta say this,” Scott says as the guy is sitting on his new bike, getting his swords adjusted, doing something incredibly unauthorized to the bios, “you look like one bad motherfucker.”
“Thanks, I guess.” He twists the throttle up once and Scott feels, but does not hear, the power of the engine. This baby is so efficient it doesn’t waste power by making noise. “Say hi to your brand-new niece,” the guy says, and then lets go the clutch. The spokes flex and gather themselves and the bike springs forward out of the lot, seeming to jump off its electric paws. He cuts right across the parking lot of the neighboring NeoAquarian Temple franchise and pulls out onto the road. About half a second later, the guy with the swords is a dot on the horizon. Then he’s gone. Northbound.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Until a man is twenty-five, he still thinks, every so often, that under the right circumstances he could be the baddest motherfucker in the world. If I moved to a martialarts monastery in China and studied real hard for ten years. If my family was wiped out by Colombian drug dealers and I swore myself to revenge. If I got a fatal disease, had one year to live, devoted it to wiping out street crime. If I just dropped out and devoted my life to being bad.
Hiro used to feel that way, too, but then he ran into Raven. In a way, this is liberating. He no longer has to worry about trying to be the baddest motherfucker in the world. The position is taken. The crowning touch, the one thing that really puts true world-class badmother-fuckerdom totally out of reach, of course, is the hydrogen bomb. If it wasn’t for the hydrogen bomb, a man could still aspire. Maybe find Raven’s Achilles’ heel. Sneak up, get a drop, slip a mickey, pull a fast one. But Raven’s nuclear umbrella kind of puts the world title out of reach.
Which is okay. Sometimes it’s all right just to be a little bad. To know your limitations. Make do with what you’ve got.
Once he maneuvers his way onto the freeway, aimed up into the mountains, he goggles into his office. Earth is still there, zoomed in tight on the Raft. Hiro contemplates it, superimposed in ghostly hues on his view of the highway, as he rides toward Oregon at a hundred and forty miles per hour.