“The lights are on,” Laney said, removing the eyephones, “but there’s nobody home.” He checked the computer’s clock: he’d spent a little over twenty minutes in there.

Blackwell regarded him dourly, settled on an injection-molded crate like a black-draped Buddha, the scars in his eyebrows knitted into new configurations of concern. The three technicians looked carefully blank, hands in the pockets of their matching jackets.

“How’s that, then?” Blackwell asked.

“I’m not sure,” Laney said. “He doesn’t seem to doanything.”

“He doesn’t bloody do anything butdo things,” Blackwell declared, “as you’d know if you were orchestrating his bloody security!”

“Okay,” Laney said, “then where’d he have breakfast?”

Blackwell looked uncomfortable. “In his suite.”

“His suite where?”

“Imperial Hotel.” Blackwell glared at the technicians.

“Which empire, exactly?”

“Here. Bloody Tokyo”

“Here? He’s in Tokyo?”

“You lot,” Blackwell said, “outside,” The brown-haired woman shrugged, inside her nylon jacket, and went kicking through the Styrofoam, head down, the other two following in her wake. When the tarp dropped behind them, Blackwell rose from his crate. “Don’t think you can try me on for size…”

“l’m telling you that I don’t think this is going to work. Your man isn’t inthere.”

“That’s his bloody life.”

“How did he pay for his breakfast?”

“Signed to the suite.”

“Is the suite in his name?”

“Of course not.”

“Say he needs to buy something, during the course of the day?”

“Someone buysit for him, don’t they?”

“And pays with?”

“A card.”

“But not in his name.”

“Right.”

“So if anyone were looking at the transaction data, there’d be no way to connect it directly to him, would there?”

“No.”

“Because you’re doing your job, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then he’s invisible. To me. I can’t see him. He isn’t there. I can’t do what you want to pay me to do. It’s impossible.”

“But what about all the rest of it?”

Laney put the eyephones down on the keyboard. “That isn’t a person. That’s a corporation.”

“But you’ve got it all! His bloody houses! His flats! Where the gardeners put the bloody flowers in the rock wall! All of it!”

“But I don’t know who he is. I can’t make him out against the rest of it. He’s not leaving the traces that make the patterns I need.”

Blackwell sucked in his upper lip and kept it there. Laney heard the dislodged prosthesis click against his teeth.

“I have to get some idea of who he really is,” Laney said.

The lip re-emerged, damp and gleaming. “Christ,” Blackwell said, “that’sa poser.”

“I have to meet him.”

Blackwell wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “His music, then?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully. “Or there’s video—”

“I’ve gotvideo, thanks. It really might help if I could meet him.”

Blackwell touched his ear-stump. “You meet him, you think you’ll be able to get his nodes, nodal, do that thing Yama’s on about?”

“I don’t know,” Laney said. “I can try.”

“Bloody hell,” Blackwell said. He plowed through the Styrofoam, swept the tarp aside with his arm, barked for the waiting technicians, then turned back to Laney. “Sometimes I’d as soon be back with my mates in Jika Jika. Get things sorted, in there, they’d bloody staythat way.” The woman with the brown bangs thrust her head in, past the edge of the tarp. “Collect this business in the van,” Blackwell told her. “Have it ready to use when we need it.”

“We don’t have a van, Keithy,” the woman said.

“Buy one,” Blackwell said.

18. The Otaku

Something rectangular, yielding to the first touch but hard inside, as she tugged it free. Wrapped in a blue and yellow plastic bag from the SeaTac duty-free, crookedly sealed with wrinkled lengths of slick brown tape. Heavy. Compact.

“Hello.”

Chia very nearly falling backward, where she crouched above her open bag, at the voice and the sight of this boy, who in that first instant she takes to be an older girl, side-parted hair falling past her shoulders.

“I am Masahiko.” No translator. He wore a dark, oversized tunic, vaguely military, buttoned to its high, banded collar, loose around his neck. Old gray sweatpants bagging at the knees. Grubby-looking white paper slippers.

“Mitsuko made tea,” indicating the tray, the stoneware pot, two cups. “But you were ported.”

“Is she here?” Chia pushed the thing back down into her bag.

“She went out,” Masahiko said. “May I look at your computer?”

“Computer?” Chia stood, confused.

“It is Sandbenders, yes?”

She poured some of the tea, which was still steaming. “Sure. You want tea?”

“No,” Masahiko said. “I drink coffee only.” He squatted on the tatami, beside the low table, and ran an admiring fingertip along the edge of the Sandbenders’ cast aluminum. “Beautiful. I have seen a small disk player by the same maker. It is a cult, yes?”

“A commune. Tribal people. In Oregon.”

The boy’s black hair was long and glossy and smoothly brushed, but Chia saw there was a bit of noodle caught in it, the thin, kinky kind that came in instant ramen bowls.

“I’m sorry I was ported when Mitsuko came back. She’ll think I was rude.”

“You are from Seattle.” Not a question.

“You’re her brother?”

“Yes. Why are you here?” His eyes large and dark, his face long and pale.

“Your sister and I are both into Lo/Rez.”

“You have come because he wants to marry Rei Toei?”

Hot tea dribbled down Chia’s chin. “She told you that?”

“Yes,” Masahiko said. “In Walled City, some people worked on her design.” He was lost in his study of her Sandbenders, turning it over in his hands. His fingers were long and pale, the nails badly chewed.

“Where’s that?”

“Netside,” he said, flipping the weight of his hair back, over one shoulder.

“What do they say about her?”

“Original concept. Almost radical.” He stroked the keys. “This is very beautiful

“You learned English here?”

“In Walled City.”

Chia tried another sip of tea, then put the cup down. “You have any coffee?”

“In my room,” he said.

Masahiko’s room, at the bottom of a short flight of concrete stairs, to the rear of the restaurant’s kitchen, had probably been a storage closet. It was a boy-nightmare, the sort of environment Chia knew from the brothers of friends, its floor and ledgelike bed long vanished beneath unwashed clothes, ramen-wrappers, Japanese magazines with wrinkled covers. A tower of empty foam ramen bowls in one corner, their hologram labels winking from beyond a single cone of halogen. A desk or table forming a second, higher ledge, cut from some recycled material that looked as though it had been laminated from shredded juice cartons. His computer there, a featureless black cube. A shallower shelf of the juice-carton board supported a pale blue microwave, unopened ramen bowls, and half a dozen tiny steel cans of coffee.

One of these, freshly microwaved, was hot in Chia’s hand. The coffee was strong, sugary, thickly creamed. She sat beside him on the lumpy bed ledge, a padded jacket wadded up behind her for a cushion.

It smelled faintly of boy, of ramen, and of coffee. Though he seemed very clean, now that she was this close, and she had a vague idea that Japanese people generally were. Didn’t they love to bathe? The thought made her want a shower.

“I like this very much.” Reaching to touch the Sandbenders again, which he’d brought from upstairs and placed on the work surface, in front of his black cube, sweeping aside a litter of plastic spoons, pens, nameless bits of metal and plastic.