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The
walls
here
were
raw
steel
,
striped
with
rough
brown
ribbons
of
epoxy
where
some
kind
of
covering
had
been
ripped
away
.
She
’
d
hidden
from
a
work
crew
,
crouching
,
the
fletcher
cradled
in
her
hands
,
her
suit
steel
-
gray
,
while
the
two
slender
Africans
and
their
balloon
-
tired
workcart
passed
.
The
men
had
shaven
heads
and
wore
orange
coveralls
.
One
was
singing
softly
to
himself
in
a
language
Case
had
never
heard
,
the
tones
and
melody
alien
and
haunting
.
The
head
’
s
speech
,
3Jane
’
s
essay
on
Straylight
,
came
back
to
him
as
she
worked
her
way
deeper
into
the
maze
of
the
place
.
Straylight
was
crazy
,
was
craziness
grown
in
the
resin
concrete
they
’
d
mixed
from
pulverized
lunar
stone
,
grown
in
welded
steel
and
tons
of
knick
-
knacks
,
all
the
bizarre
impedimentia
they
’
d
shipped
up
the
well
to
line
their
winding
nest
.
But
it
wasn
’
t
a
craziness
he
understood
.
Not
like
Armitage
’
s
madness
,
which
he
now
imagined
he
could
understand
;
twist
a
man
far
enough
,
then
twist
him
as
far
back
,
in
the
opposite
direction
,
reverse
and
twist
again
.
The
man
broke
.
Like
breaking
a
length
of
wire
.
And
history
had
done
that
for
Colonel
Corto
.
History
had
already
done
the
really
messy
work
,
when
Wintermute
found
him
,
sifting
him
out
of
all
of
the
war
’
s
ripe
detritus
,
gliding
into
the
man
’
s
flat
gray
field
of
consciousness
like
a
water
spider
crossing
the
face
of
some
stagnant
pool
,
the
first
messages
blinking
across
the
face
of
a
child
’
s
micro
in
a
darkened
room
in
a
French
asylum
.
Wintermute
had
built
Armitage
up
from
scratch
,
with
Corto
’
s
memories
of
Screaming
Fist
as
the
foundation
.
But
Armitage
’
s
'
memories
’
wouldn
’
t
have
been
Corto
’
s
after
a
certain
point
.
Case
doubted
if
Armitage
had
recalled
the
betrayal
,
the
Nightwings
whirling
down
in
flame
.
.
.
Armitage
had
been
a
sort
of
edited
version
of
Corto
,
and
when
the
stress
of
the
run
had
reached
a
certain
point
,
the
Armitage
mechanism
had
crumbled
;
Corto
had
surfaced
,
with
his
guilt
and
his
sick
fury
.
And
now
Corto
-
Armitage
was
dead
,
a
small
frozen
moon
for
Freeside
.
He
thought
of
the
toxin
sacs
.
Old
Ashpool
was
dead
too
,
drilled
through
the
eye
with
Molly
’
s
microscopic
dart
,
deprived
of
whatever
expert
overdose
he
’
d
mixed
for
himself
.
That
was
a
more
puzzling
death
,
Ashpool
’
s
,
the
death
of
a
mad
king
.
And
he
’
d
killed
the
puppet
he
’
d
called
his
daughter
,
the
one
with
3Jane
’
s
face
.
It
seemed
to
Case
,
as
he
rode
Molly
’
s
broadcast
sensory
input
through
the
corridors
of
Straylight
,
that
he
’
d
never
really
thought
of
anyone
like
Ashpool
,
anyone
as
powerful
as
he
imagined
Ashpool
had
been
,
as
human
.
Power
,
in
Case
’
s
world
,
meant
corporate
power
.
The
zaibatsus
,
the
multinationals
that
shaped
the
course
of
human
history
,
had
transcended
old
barriers
.
Viewed
as
organisms
,
they
had
attained
a
kind
of
immortality
.
You
couldn
’
t
kill
a
zaibatsu
by
assassinating
a
dozen
key
executives
;
there
were
others
waiting
to
step
up
the
ladder
,
assume
the
vacated
position
,
access
the
vast
banks
of
corporate
memory
.
But
Tessier
Ashpool
wasn
’
t
like
that
,
and
he
sensed
the
difference
in
the
death
of
its
founder
.
T
-
A
was
an
atavism
,
a
clan
.
He
remembered
the
litter
of
the
old
man
’
s
chamber
,
the
soiled
humanity
of
it
,
the
ragged
spines
of
the
old
audio
disks
in
their
paper
sleeves
.
One
foot
bare
,
the
other
in
a
velvet
slipper
.
The
Braun
plucked
at
the
hood
of
the
Modern
suit
and
Molly
turned
left
,
through
another
archway
.
Wintermute
and
the
nest
.
Phobic
vision
of
the
hatching
wasps
,
time
-
lapse
machine
gun
of
biology
.
But
weren
’
t
the
zaibatsus
more
like
that
,
or
the
Yakuza
,
hives
with
cybernetic
memories
,
vast
single
organisms
,
their
DNA
coded
in
silicon
?
If
Straylight
was
an
expression
of
the
corporate
identity
of
Tessier
-
Ashpool
,
then
T
-
A
was
crazy
as
the
old
man
had
been
.
The
same
ragged
tangle
of
fears
,
the
same
strange
sense
of
aimlessness
.
'
If
they
’
d
turned
into
what
they
wanted
to
.
.
.
’
he
remembered
Molly
saying
.
But
Wintermute
had
told
her
they
hadn
’
t
.
Case
had
always
taken
it
for
granted
that
the
real
bosses
,
the
kingpins
in
a
given
industry
,
would
be
both
more
and
less
than
people
.
He
’
d
seen
it
in
the
men
who
’
d
crippled
him
in
Memphis
,
he
’
d
seen
Wage
affect
the
semblance
of
it
in
Night
City
,
and
it
had
allowed
him
to
accept
Armitage
’
s
flatness
and
lack
of
feeling
.
He
’
d
always
imagined
it
as
a
gradual
and
willing
accommodation
of
the
machine
,
the
system
,
the
parent
organism
.
It
was
the
root
of
street
cool
,
too
,
the
knowing
posture
that
implied
connection
,
invisible
lines
up
to
hidden
levels
of
influence
.
But
what
was
happening
now
,
in
the
corridors
of
Villa
Straylight
?
