buckypaper. Two hundred fifty times harder than steel and ten times lighter. Can’t even see it during the day, unless the sun hits it right. Then it kind of shimmers.”
The guy was a regular encyclopedia.
“There’s two layers… the first was finished about a year ago. When this second, inside skin is finished, the project will be complete. There’s going to be a Joining Ceremony.”
I could just make out the ant-like shapes moving around. “Anybody ever fall?”
“Couple a times. But their safety lines saved ’em.”
“Don’t they… I mean, what about EM?”
“Gotta be close to a surface for it to work. You know, to repel, like two magnets.” He nodded upward again. “Most of the guys up there are Amerindians. Heights don’t faze ’em. They lose their balance about as often as politicians tell the truth.”
“What about birds?”
He looked confused. “They got wings.”
I smiled. “No, I mean, once the fields are activated, won’t this thing act like a giant bug strip?”
The driver grinned and bobbed his head. “Atmosphere, birds, the stuff we want, gets in. They thought of everything with this baby. Biggest construction project since the pyramids.”
A red light winked in the corner of the Plexiglas divider. “News alert,” he explained.
I found the “play” button on the armrest. Images of a violent riot surged onto the plastic. The sight of the combat-geared Surazal security forces made my stomach tighten. Dozens of them waded into a morass of young reborns brandishing signs and placards. “Free and Separate Reborn State!” “We’re Human, Too!” The digital audio was very clear. You could hear the crunch of baton against bone, the muted snaps as limbs gave way.
I hissed. “They’re unarmed.”
“This time,” replied the hackie. “Hard to tell all the factions apart. There’s the Enders. And the Secessionists. And the Cadre. The worst are nasty violent. Blew up a bus last week. Killed thirty people.”
“The Secessionists—they want all the norms out of Necropolis, want to establish their own state?”
The driver laid the meat of his palm onto his horn, objecting to a trucker’s driving skills. “Believe me, I’d oblige ’em if I could.”
“But—you sounded proud, a minute ago. The Blister.”
“An impressive cage is still a cage.” He took in my confusion in his mirror. “Brother, my clan’s been here for six generations. But things is way too fucked up to hang onto tradition. I’d take boring old Cleveland in a heartbeat.”
I couldn’t figure it. The New Yorkers I remembered would never have wanted out. Neither would they have allowed their city to be turned into a resettlement camp. Guess dead people coming back to life was enough to take the starch out of anybody.
We merged into downtown traffic. I watched One Police Plaza and the Courthouse zip by, looking just as I remembered them.
The cab pulled to the curb in front of seven-story Beaux-arts structure with a mansard roof. The vehicle settled, the light in my wrist flashed and I was sixty dollars poorer. “Thirty-One Chambers Street. Department of Records and Information Services.”
I got out, feeling dwarfed by the towering Corinthian columns standing sentinel before the triple-arched entrance.
I turned back to thank the hackie, but he’d already flooded the backseat with pink disinfectant steam and raced away.
***
The main rotunda was still elaborate and huge, with its marble staircase. The mosaic ceiling was still populated by deities and zodiacs. But the Municipal Research Center was now a tiny corner room nestled between a law firm and a juvie clinic called “Forever You.” The Hall of Records looked like an afterthought. Apparently, they’d subleased one of the city’s grandest municipal buildings.
Here, I’d looked through original construction plans for the Brooklyn Bridge, genealogical records from 1795, and the personal papers of Police Commissioner
The guy was a regular encyclopedia.
“There’s two layers… the first was finished about a year ago. When this second, inside skin is finished, the project will be complete. There’s going to be a Joining Ceremony.”
I could just make out the ant-like shapes moving around. “Anybody ever fall?”
“Couple a times. But their safety lines saved ’em.”
“Don’t they… I mean, what about EM?”
“Gotta be close to a surface for it to work. You know, to repel, like two magnets.” He nodded upward again. “Most of the guys up there are Amerindians. Heights don’t faze ’em. They lose their balance about as often as politicians tell the truth.”
“What about birds?”
He looked confused. “They got wings.”
I smiled. “No, I mean, once the fields are activated, won’t this thing act like a giant bug strip?”
The driver grinned and bobbed his head. “Atmosphere, birds, the stuff we want, gets in. They thought of everything with this baby. Biggest construction project since the pyramids.”
A red light winked in the corner of the Plexiglas divider. “News alert,” he explained.
I found the “play” button on the armrest. Images of a violent riot surged onto the plastic. The sight of the combat-geared Surazal security forces made my stomach tighten. Dozens of them waded into a morass of young reborns brandishing signs and placards. “Free and Separate Reborn State!” “We’re Human, Too!” The digital audio was very clear. You could hear the crunch of baton against bone, the muted snaps as limbs gave way.
I hissed. “They’re unarmed.”
“This time,” replied the hackie. “Hard to tell all the factions apart. There’s the Enders. And the Secessionists. And the Cadre. The worst are nasty violent. Blew up a bus last week. Killed thirty people.”
“The Secessionists—they want all the norms out of Necropolis, want to establish their own state?”
The driver laid the meat of his palm onto his horn, objecting to a trucker’s driving skills. “Believe me, I’d oblige ’em if I could.”
“But—you sounded proud, a minute ago. The Blister.”
“An impressive cage is still a cage.” He took in my confusion in his mirror. “Brother, my clan’s been here for six generations. But things is way too fucked up to hang onto tradition. I’d take boring old Cleveland in a heartbeat.”
I couldn’t figure it. The New Yorkers I remembered would never have wanted out. Neither would they have allowed their city to be turned into a resettlement camp. Guess dead people coming back to life was enough to take the starch out of anybody.
We merged into downtown traffic. I watched One Police Plaza and the Courthouse zip by, looking just as I remembered them.
The cab pulled to the curb in front of seven-story Beaux-arts structure with a mansard roof. The vehicle settled, the light in my wrist flashed and I was sixty dollars poorer. “Thirty-One Chambers Street. Department of Records and Information Services.”
I got out, feeling dwarfed by the towering Corinthian columns standing sentinel before the triple-arched entrance.
I turned back to thank the hackie, but he’d already flooded the backseat with pink disinfectant steam and raced away.
***
The main rotunda was still elaborate and huge, with its marble staircase. The mosaic ceiling was still populated by deities and zodiacs. But the Municipal Research Center was now a tiny corner room nestled between a law firm and a juvie clinic called “Forever You.” The Hall of Records looked like an afterthought. Apparently, they’d subleased one of the city’s grandest municipal buildings.
Here, I’d looked through original construction plans for the Brooklyn Bridge, genealogical records from 1795, and the personal papers of Police Commissioner
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