who's missing it, he's dead now.'

Something else in those eyes. 'Dead hozi'?' ъydell asked, as the weight at last was taken from his shoulder. 'Hom-icide,' Warbaby said, low and doleful but very clear.

'You're wondering about my name,' Warbaby said from the backseat of his black Ford Patriot.

'I'm wondering where to put the key, Mr. Warbaby,' ъydell said, behind the wheel, surveying the option-laden dash. American cars were the only cars in the world that still bothered to~ physically display the instrumentation. Maybe that was why there weren't very many of them. Like those Harleys with chain-drives.

'My grandmother,' Warbaby rumbled, like a tectonic plate giving up and diving for China, 'was Vietnamese. Grandaddy, a Detroit boy. Army man. Brought her home from Saigon, but then he didn't stick around. My daddy, his son, he changed his name to Warbaby, see? A gesture. Sentiment.'

'Uh-huh,' ъydell said, starting the big Ford and checking out the transmission. Saigon was where rich people went on vacation.

Four-wheel drive. Ceramic armor. Goodyear Streetsweepers you'd need a serious gun to puncture. There was a cardboard air-freshener, shaped like a pine-tree, hanging in front of the heater-vent.

'Now the Lucius part, well, I couldn't tell you.'

'Mr. Warbaby,' ъydell said, looking hack over his shoulder, 'where you want me to drive ~0U to?'

A modem-bleep from the dash.

Freddie, in the plush bucket beside ъydell, whistled. 'Motherfuck,' he said, 'that's nasty.'

ъydell swung back to watch as the fax emerged: a fat man, naked on sheets solid with blood. Pools of it, where the brilliance of the photographer's strobes lay frozen like faint mirages of the sun.

'What's that under his chin?' ъydell asked.

'Cuban necktie,' Freddie said.

'No, man,' ъydell's voice up an octave, 'what is that?'

'Man's tongue,' Freddie said, tearing the image from the slit and passing it back to Warbaby.

ъydell heard the fax rattle in his hand.

'These people,' Warbaby said. 'Terrible.'

Yamazaki sat on a low wooden stool, watching Skinner shave. Skinner sat on the edge of his bed, scraping his face pink with a disposable razor, rinsing the blade in a dented aluminum basin that he cradled between his thighs.

'The razor is old,' Yamazaki said. 'You do not throw it away?'

Skinner looked at him, over the plastic razor. 'Thing is, Scooter, they just don't get any duller, after a while.' He lathered and shaved his upper lip, then paused. Yamazaki had been 'Kawasaki' for the first several visits. Now he was 'Scooter.' The pale old eyes regarded him neutrally, hooded under reddish lids. Yamazaki sensed Skinner's inward laughter.

'I make you laugh?'

'Not today,' Skinner said, dropping the razor into the basin of water, suds and gray whiskers recoiling in a display of surface tension. 'Not like the other day, watching you chase those turds around.'

Yamazaki had spent one entire morning attempting to diagram the sewage-collection arrangements for the group of dwellings he thought of as comprising Skinner's 'neighborhood.' Widespread use of transparent five-inch hose had made this quite exciting, like some game devised for children, as he'd tried to follow the course of a given boliis of waste from one dwelling down past the next. The hoses swoo~d down through the superstructure in graceful random arcs, bundled like ganglia, to meet helow the lower deck in a

 

 

 

 

10 The modern dance

thousand-gallon holding tank. When this was full to capacity, Skinner had explained, a mercury-switch in a float-ball triggered a jet-pump, forcing the accumulated sewage into a three-foot pipe that carried it into the municipal system.

He'd made a note to consider this junction as an interface between the bridge's program and the program of the city, but extracting Skinner's story of the bridge was obviously more important. Convinced that Skinner somehow held the key to the bridge's existential meaning, Yamazaki had abandoned his physical survey of secondary construction in order to spend as much time as possible in the old man's company. Each night, in his borrowed apartment, he would send the day's accumulation of material to Osaka University's Department of Sociology.

Today, climbing to the lift that would carry him to Skinner's room, he had met the girl on her way to work, descending, her shoulder through the frame of her bicycle. She was a courier in the city.

Was it significant that Skinner shared his dwelling with one who earned her living at the archaic intersection of information and geography? The offices the girl rode between were electronically conterminous-in effect, a single desktop, the map of distances obliterated by the seamless and instantaneous nature of communication. Yet this very seamlessness, which had rendered physical mail an expensive novelty, might as easily be viewed as porosity, and as such created the need for the service the girl provided. Physically transporting bits of information about a grid that consisted of little else, she provided a degree of absolute security in the fluid universe of data. With your memo in the girl's bag, you knew precisely where it was; otherwise, your memo was nowhere, perhaps everywhere, in that instant of transit.

He found her attractive, Skinner's girl, in an odd, foreign way, with her hard white legs and her militant, upthrust tail of dark hair.

'Dreamin', Scooter?' Skinner set the basin aside, his hands trembling slightly, and settled his shoulders against musty-looking pillows. The white-painted plywood wall creaked faintly.

'No, Skinner-san. But you promised you would tell me about the first night, when you decided to take the bridge...' His tone was mild, his words deliberately chosen to irritate, to spur his subject to speech. He activated the notebook's recording function.

'We didn't decide anything. I told you that...'

'But somehow it happened.'

'Shit happens. Happened that night. No signals, no leader, no architects. You think it was politics. That particular dance, boy, that's over.'

'But you have said that the people were "ready."'

'But not for anything. That's what you can't seem to get, can you? Like the bridge was here, but I'm not saying it was waiting. See the difference?'

'I think'

'You think shit.' The notebook sometimes had trouble with Skinner's idioms. In addition, he tended to slur. An expert system in Osaka had suggested he might have sustained a degree of neural damage, perhaps as the result of using street drugs, or of one or more minor strokes. But Yamazaki believed Skinner had simply been too long in proximity to whatever strange attractor had permitted the bridge to become what it had become. 'Nobody,' Skinner said, speaking slowly and deliberately at first, as if for emphasis, 'was using this bridge for anything. After the Little Grande came through, understand?'

Yamazaki nodded, watching the characters of Skinner's translated speech scroll down the notebook.

'Earthquake fucked it good, Scooter. The tunnel on Treasure caved in. Always been unstahle there . . . First they were gonna rebuild, they said, bottom up, hut they flat-out didn't have the money. So they put chain link, razor-wire, concrete up at both ends. Then the Germans came in, maybe two years later, sold 'em on nanomech, how to build the new tunnel. Be cheap, carry cars and a mag-lev. And nobody believed how fast they could do it, once they got it legislated past the Greens. Sure, those Green biotech lobbies, they made 'em actually grow the sections out in Nevada. Like pumpkins, Scooter. Then they hauled 'em out here under bulk-lifters and sank 'em in the Bay. Hooked 'em up. Little tiny machines crawling around in there, hard as diamonds; tied it all together tight, and bam, there's your tunnel. Bridge just sat there.'

Yamazaki held his breath, expecting Skinner to lose the thread, as he so often had before-often, Yamazaki suspected, deliberately.

'This one woman, she kept saying plant the whole thing with ivy, Virginia creeper . . . Somebody else, they said tear it down before another quake did it for 'em. But there it was. In the cities, lot of people, no place to go. Cardboard towns in the park, if you were lucky, and they'd brought those drip-pipes down from Portland, put 'em around the buildings. Leaks enough water on the ground, you don't want to lay there. That's a mean town, Portland. Invented that there...' He coughed. 'But that one night, people just came. All kinds of stories, after, how it happened. Pissing down rain, too. No body's idea of riot weather.'

Yamazaki imagined the two spans of the deserted bridge in the downpour, the crowds accumulating. He watched as they climbed the wire fences, the barricades, in such numbers that the chain link twisted, fell. They had climbed the towers, then, more than thirty falling to their deaths. But when the dawn came, survivors clung there, news helicopters circling them in the gray light like patient dragonflies. He had seen this many times, watching the tapes in Osaka. But Skinner had been there.

'Maybe a thousand people, this end. Another thousand in Oakland. And we just started running. Cops falling back, and what were they protecting, anyway? Mainly the crowd-orders they had, keep people from getting together in the street. They had their choppers up in the rain, shining lights on us. Just made it easier. I had this pair of pointy boots on. ъan up to that 'link, it was maybe fifteen feet tall. Just kicked my toes in there and started climbing. Climb a fence like that easy, boots got a point. Up, man, I was up that thing like I was flying. Coils of razor at the top, but people behind me were pushing up anything; hunks of two-by-four, coats, sleeping-bags. To lay across the wire. And I felt like . . . weightless . . .'

Yamazaki felt that he was somehow close, very close, to the heart of the thing.

'I jumped. Don't know who jumped first, but I just jumped. Out. Hit pavement. People yelling. They'd crashed the barriers on the Oakland side, by then. Those were lower. We could see their lights as they ran out on the cantilever. The police 'copters and these red highway flares some of the people had. They ran toward Treasure. Nobody out there since the Navy people left ... We ran too. Met up somewhere in the middle and this cheer went up . . .' Skinner's eyes were unfocused, distant. 'After that, they were singing, hymns and shit. Just milling around, singing. Crazy. Me and some others, we were stoked. And we could see the cops, too, coming from both ends. Fuck that.'

Yamazaki swallowed. 'And then?'

'We started climbing. The towers. ъungs they welded on those suckers, see, so painters could get up there. We were climbing. Television had their own 'copters out by then, Scooter. We were making it to world news and we didn't know it. Guess you don't. Wouldn't've give a shit anyway. Just climbing. But that was going out live. Was gonna make it hard for the cops, later. And, man, people were falling off. ~ in front of me had black tape wrapped 'round his shoes, kept the soles on. lape all wet, coming loose, his feet kept slipping. ъight in front of my face. His foot kept coming back off the rung and I'd get his heel in my eye, I didn't watch it

Near to the top and both of 'em come off at once.' Skinner fell silent, as if listening to some distant sound. Yamazaki held his breath.

'How you learn to climb, up here,' Skinner said, 'the first thing is, you don't look down. Second thing is, you keep one hand and one foot on the bridge all the time. This guy, he didn't know that. And those shoes of his. He just went off, backward.

Never made a sound. Sort of. . . graceful.'

Yamazaki shivered.

'But I kept climbing. ъain had quit, light was coming. Stayed.'

'How did you feel?' Yamazaki asked. Skinner blinked. 'Feel?'

'What did you do then?'

'I saw the city.'

 

 

Yamazaki rode Skinner's lift down to where stairs began, its yellow upright cup like a piece of picnicware discarded by a giant. All around him, now, the rattle of an evening's commerce, and from a darkened doorway came the slap of cards, a woman's laughter, voices raised in Spanish. Sunset pink as wine, through sheets of plastic that snapped like sails in a breeze scented with frying foods, woodsmoke, a sweet oily drift of cannabis. Boys in ragged leather crouched above a game whose counters were painted pebbles.

Yamazaki stopped. He stood very still, one hand on a wooden railing daubed with hyphens of aerosol silver. Skinner's story seemed to radiate out, through the thousand things, the unwashed smiles and the smoke of cooking, like concentric rings of sound from some secret bell, pitched too iow for the foreign, wishful ear.

We are come not only past the century's closing, he thought, the millennium's turning, but to the end of something else. Era? Paradigm? Everywhere, the signs of closure.

Modernity was ending.

Here, on the bridge, it long since had.

He would walk toward Oakland now, feeling for the new thing's strange heart.

 

 

 

 

11 Pulling tags

Tuesday, she just wasn't on. Couldn't proj. No focus. Bunny Malatesta, the dispatcher, could feel it, his voice a buzz in her ear.

'Chev, don't take this the wrong way, but you got like the monthlies or something?'

'Fuck off, Bunny.'

'Hey, I just mean you're not your usual ball of fire today. All I mean.'

'Gimme a tag.'

'655 Mo, fifteenth, reception.'

Picked up, made it to 555 Cali, fifty-first floor. Pulled her tag and back down. The day gone gray after morning's promise.

'456 Montgomery, thirty-third, reception, go freight.'

Pausing, her hand in the bike's recognition-loop. 'How come?'

'Says messengers carvin' graffiti in the passenger elevators. Go freight or they'll toss you, be denied access, at which point Allied terminates your employment.'

She remembered seeing ъinger's emblem carved into the inspection plate in one of 456's passenger elevators. Fucking ъinger. He'd defaced more elevators than anyone in history. Carried around a regular toolkit to do it with.

456 sent her to i EC with a carton wider than she was supposed to accept, hut that was what racks and bungles were for, and why give the cage-drivers the trade? lunny buzzed her on her way out and gave her ~o Beale, the cafeteria on the second floor. She guessed that would be a woman's purse, done up in a plastic bag from the kitchen, and she was right. Brown, sort of lizardskin, with a couple of green sprouts stuck in the corners of the bag. Women left their purses, remembered, called up, got the manager to send for a messenger. Good for a tip, usually. ъinger and some of the others would open them up, go through the contents, find drugs sometimes. She wouldn't do that. She thought about the sunglasses.

She couldn't get a run today. There was no routing in effect at Allied, but sometimes you'd get a run by accident; pick up here, drop off there, then something here. But it was rare. When you worked for Allied you rode harder. Her record was sixteen tags in a day; like doing forty at a different company.

She took the purse to Fulton at Masonic, got two flyers after the owner checked to see everything was there.

'ъestaurant's supposed to take it to the cops,' Chevette said. 'We don't like to be responsible.' Blank look from the purse-lady, some kind of secretary. Chevette pocketed the fives.

'2.98 Alabama,' Bunny said, as if offering her some pearl of great price. 'Tone those thighs...'

Bust her ass out there to get there, then she'd pick up and do it. But she couldn't get on top of it, today.

The asshole's sunglasses...

'For tactical reasons,' the blonde said, 'we do not currently advocate the use of violence or sorcery against private individuals.'

Chevette had just pumped back from Alabama Street, day's last tag. The woman on the little CNN flatscreen over the door to Bunny's pit wore something black and stretchy pulled over her face, three triangular holes cut in it. Blue letters at the bottom of the screen read FIONA X-SPOKESPEъSON- SOUTH ISLAND LIBEъATION FъONT.

The overlit fluorescent corridor into Allied Messengers smelled of hot styrene, laser printers, abandoned running-shoes, and stale bag lunches, this last tugging Chevette toward memories of some unheated day-care basement in Oregon, winter's colorless light slanting in through high dim windows. But now the street door banged open behind her, a pair of muddy size-eleven neon sneakers came pounding down the stairs, and Samuel Saladin DuPree, his cheeks speckled with crusty gray commas of road-dirt, stood grinning at her, hugely.

'Happy about something, Sammy Sal?'

Allied's best-looking thing on two wheels, no contest whatever, DuPree was six-two of ebon electricity poured over a frame of such elegance and strength that Chevette imagined his bones as polished metal, triple-chromed, a quicksilver armature. Like those old movies with that big guy, the one who went into politics, after he'd got the meat ripped off him. Thinking about Sammy Sal's bones made most girls want him to jump theirs, but not Chevette. He was gay, they were friends, and Chevette wasn't too sure how she felt about all that anyway, lately.

'Fact is,' Sammy Sal said, smearing dirt from his cheek with the back of one long hand, 'I've decided to kill ъinger. And the truth, y'know, it makes you free...'

'Ho,' Chevette said, 'you musta pulled a tag over 456 today.'

'I did, dear, do that thing. All the way up, in a dirty freight elevator. A slow dirty freight elevator. And why?'

'Cause ъinger's 'graved his tag in their brass, Sal, and their rosewood, too?"

'Eggs-ackly, Chevette, honey.' Sammy Sal undid the blue and white bandanna around his neck and wiped his face with it. 'Therefore, his ass dies screaming.' and must begin, now, to systematically sabotage the workplace,' Fiona X said, 'or be hranded an enemy of the human race.'

The door to the dispatch-pit, so thickly stapled with scheds, sub-charts, tattered Muni regs, and faxed complaints that Chevette had no idea what the surface underneath might look like, popped open. Bunny extruded his scarred and unevenly shaven head, turtle-like, blinking in the light of the corridor, and glanced up automatically, his gaze attracted by the tone of Fiona X's sound-bite. His expression blanked at the sight of her mask, the mental channel-zap executed in less time than it had taken him to look her way. 'You,' he said, eyes back on Chevette, 'Chevy. In here.'

'Wait for me, Sammy Sal,' she said.

Bunny Malatesta had been a San Francisco bike messenger for thirty years. Would be still, if his knees and back hadn't given out on him. He was simultaneously the best and the worst thing about messing for Allied. The best because he had a bike-map of the city hung behind his eyes, better than anything a computer could generate. He knew every building, every door, what the security was like. He had the mess game down, Bunny did, and, better still, he knew the lore, all the history, the stories that made you know you were part of something, however crazy it got, that was worth doing. He was a legend himself, Bunny, having Krypto'd the windshields of some seven police cars in the course of his riding career, a record that still stood. But he was the worst for those same reasons and more, because there wasn't any bulishitting him at all. Any other dispatcher, you could cut yourself a little extra slack. But not Bunny. He just knew.

Chevette followed him in. He closed the door behind her. The goggles he used for dispatching dangled around his neck, one padded eyepiece patched with cellophane tape. There were no windows in the room and Bunny kept the lights off when he was working. Half a dozen color monitors were arranged in a semicircle in front of a black