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A
true
name
Neon
forest
,
rain
sizzling
across
hot
pavement
.
The
smell
of
frying
food
.
A
girl
’
s
hands
locked
across
the
small
of
his
back
,
in
the
sweating
darkness
of
a
portside
coffin
.
But
all
of
this
receding
,
as
the
cityscape
recedes
:
city
as
Chiba
,
as
the
ranked
data
of
Tessier
-
Ashpool
S
.
A
.
,
as
the
roads
and
crossroads
scribed
on
the
face
of
a
microchip
,
the
sweatstained
pattern
on
a
folded
,
knotted
scarf
.
.
.
Waking
to
a
voice
that
was
music
,
the
platinum
terminal
piping
melodically
,
endlessly
,
speaking
of
numbered
Swiss
accounts
,
of
payment
to
be
made
to
Zion
via
a
Bahamian
orbital
bank
,
of
passports
and
passages
,
and
of
deep
and
basic
changes
to
be
effected
in
the
memory
of
Turing
.
Turing
.
He
remembered
stenciled
flesh
beneath
a
projected
sky
,
spun
beyond
an
iron
railing
.
He
remembered
Desiderata
Street
.
And
the
voice
sang
on
,
piping
him
back
into
the
dark
,
but
it
was
his
own
darkness
,
pulse
and
blood
,
the
one
where
he
’
d
always
slept
,
behind
his
eyes
and
no
other
’
s
.
And
he
woke
again
,
thinking
he
dreamed
,
to
a
wide
white
smile
framed
with
gold
incisors
,
Aerol
strapping
him
into
a
g
-
web
in
Babylon
Rocker
.
And
then
the
long
pulse
of
Zion
dub
.
She
was
gone
.
He
felt
it
when
he
opened
the
door
of
their
suite
at
the
Hyatt
.
Black
futons
,
the
pine
floor
polished
to
a
dull
gloss
,
the
paper
screens
arranged
with
a
care
bred
over
centuries
.
She
was
gone
.
There
was
a
note
on
the
black
lacquer
bar
cabinet
beside
the
door
,
a
single
sheet
of
stationery
,
folded
once
,
weighted
with
the
shuriken
.
He
slid
it
from
beneath
the
nine
-
pointed
star
and
opened
it
.
