“Not that kind of demon,” huffs the Judging Demon.
“What kind, then?” Richard’s thinking, yeah, he could probably take this thing. It doesn’t even have horns.
“A purpose-built slave,” it says acidly. “Maxwell’s, UNIX, what have you. Give me your papers.”
Richard does. “They say I’m a heretic. Dissenter.” He pitches low. “Freedom fighter. Understand?”
It nods, then lifts him up davinciwise and removes his flesh. At one point, Richard screams so hard that he vomits a tiny wooden man.
“There you are,” says the Judging Demon. “Sticking around this time?”
“We all got jobs,” it mutters, wiping away bile.
In the streetcleaner cockpit she gets a lot of incurious stares–by 0400, the waking few are already deep in internal monologue. Nairobi ignores them. She’s not interested in humanoid waste.
One dig in the streetcleaner’s filter trap yields two bookcases’ worth of quasilegal tech: decks and smartguns, goggles and blades. And fingers. A lot of exotically-modified fingers. Most of it cleans up just fine.
Nairobi never tries the goods herself; supplying the pale and slender corporate raiders makes her feel important enough. She’s a crucial part of the ecosystem. The street, after all, finds its own users for things.
There exists a tendency, of anyone born before roughly 1983, to perceive the computer as a static thing. It’s an entity, a beige box, at the least a container with value. Pass that ragged edge and they understand that the computer is a disposable access point to ephemeral markers of value: your Top Eight, your email, your flist and your icon collection. Your Facebook. Your away message. Your place in the world.
So what’s the next step? Rashid thinks he might know. He dreams of them sometimes, all in their tremendous gerbil balls, faces and handles flickering surfacewise in laser light.
“You’ve never done it before, have you?” Seven’s grinning, but South doesn’t make excuses.
“You can talk to me about this or you can play kid-brother games,” he says. “Your pick.”
Seven nods. “You’re right. Okay, honestly? It’s going to be awkward the first time and she won’t want to talk about it. It’ll be over very quickly, and any joke you crack will make you look like a twelve-year-old. All you can do is relax and be… professional.”
The next day South and Rebecca make out for twenty-two takes. They’re all good takes, every single one.
They meet in the writers’ room after lunch to break it.
“I’ll go first,” says Ron, and strips down to his cutoffs and sandals before opening the cage. The story scrambles out on awkward legs; Ron dodges, too nimbly for his size, and gets an arm around its jaws. (Keeping them closed is easy; keeping them open will cost you a hand.)
“Little help?” he gasps as it bucks, tail lashing.
“Current events!”
“Dream episode.”
“Role reversal?”
“A chicken!”
“Maybe,” says Kandyse thoughtfully, “if we gave it another story…”
Everyone stares in pity. “Go ahead,” sighs Ron, releasing it, “eat her.”
“People tend to confuse me,” sighs the woman next to you. Shit. What was her name? Not Helen Hunt. Laura… Laura Dern?
“I mean, not that they make me confused,” she laughs, “although they do. They mix me up with other, more well-known actresses.” Linney. Somebody Linney. Stretched out, lazy, toes hidden in the sheets. “And secretly? I use that to my advantage.”
Lean up on your elbow to look at her. Her straight razor is already dipping for your throat.
“Who will they arrest this time?” she muses, washing your lifeblood from her hands. “God, I hope it’s Streep.”