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Linda
.
Smell
of
burnt
flesh
in
the
shadows
of
the
Chiba
dome
.
Molly
holding
out
a
bag
of
ginger
,
the
plastic
filmed
with
blood
.
Deane
had
had
her
killed
.
Wintermute
.
He
imagined
a
little
micro
whispering
to
the
wreck
of
a
man
named
Corto
,
the
words
flowing
like
a
river
,
the
flat
personality
-
substitute
called
Armitage
accreting
slowly
in
some
darkened
ward
.
.
.
The
Deane
analog
had
said
it
worked
with
givens
,
took
advantage
of
existing
situations
.
But
what
if
Deane
,
the
real
Deane
,
had
ordered
Linda
killed
on
Wintermute
’
s
orders
?
Case
groped
in
the
dark
for
a
cigarette
and
Molly
’
s
lighter
.
There
was
no
reason
to
suspect
Deane
,
he
told
himself
,
lighting
up
.
No
reason
.
Wintermute
could
build
a
kind
of
personality
into
a
shell
.
How
subtle
a
form
could
manipulation
take
?
He
stubbed
the
Yeheyuan
out
in
a
bedside
ashtray
after
his
third
puff
,
rolled
away
from
Molly
,
and
tried
to
sleep
.
The
dream
,
the
memory
,
unreeled
with
the
monotony
of
an
unedited
simstim
tape
.
He
’
d
spent
a
month
,
his
fifteenth
summer
,
in
a
weekly
rates
hotel
,
fifth
floor
,
with
a
girl
called
Marlene
.
The
elevator
hadn
’
t
worked
in
a
decade
.
Roaches
boiled
across
grayish
porcelain
in
the
drain
-
plugged
kitchenette
when
you
flicked
a
lightswitch
.
He
slept
with
Marlene
on
a
striped
mattress
with
no
sheets
.
He
’
d
missed
the
first
wasp
,
when
it
built
its
paperfine
gray
house
on
the
blistered
paint
of
the
windowframe
,
but
soon
the
nest
was
a
fist
-
sized
lump
of
fiber
,
insects
hurtling
out
to
hunt
the
alley
below
like
miniature
copters
buzzing
the
rotting
contents
of
the
dumpsters
.
They
’
d
each
had
a
dozen
beers
,
the
afternoon
a
wasp
stung
Marlene
.
'
Kill
the
fuckers
,
’
she
said
,
her
eyes
dull
with
rage
and
the
still
heat
of
the
room
,
'
burn
’
em
.
’
Drunk
,
Case
rummaged
in
the
sour
closet
for
Rollo
’
s
dragon
.
Rollo
was
Marlene
’
s
previous
-
and
,
Case
suspected
at
the
time
,
still
occasional
-
boyfriend
,
an
enormous
Frisco
biker
with
a
blond
lightning
bolt
bleached
into
his
dark
crewcut
.
The
dragon
was
a
Frisco
flamethrower
,
a
thing
like
a
fat
anglehead
flashlight
.
Case
checked
the
batteries
,
shook
it
to
make
sure
he
had
enough
fuel
,
and
went
to
the
open
window
.
The
hive
began
to
buzz
.
The
air
in
the
Sprawl
was
dead
,
immobile
.
A
wasp
shot
from
the
nest
and
circled
Case
’
s
head
.
Case
pressed
the
ignition
switch
,
counted
three
,
and
pulled
the
trigger
.
The
fuel
,
pumped
up
to
100
psi
,
sprayed
out
past
the
white
-
hot
coil
.
A
five
-
meter
tongue
of
pale
fire
,
the
nest
charring
,
tumbling
.
Across
the
alley
,
someone
cheered
.
'
Shit
!
’
Marlene
behind
him
,
swaying
.
'
Stupid
!
You
didn
’
t
burn
’
em
.
You
just
knocked
it
off
.
They
’
ll
come
up
here
and
kill
us
!
’
Her
voice
sawing
at
his
nerves
,
he
imagined
her
engulfed
in
flame
,
her
bleached
hair
sizzling
a
special
green
.
