In Singapore they hung people, right in the mall, for that. Her father didn’t like it and he said that was one of the reasons he never invited her there. They put it on television, too, so that it was really hard to avoid seeing it, and he didn’t want her to see it. Now she wondered how far Singapore was from Tokyo? She wished she could go there and keep her eyes closed until she was in her father’s apartment, and never turn the tv on, just be there with him and smell his shaving smell and put her face against his scratchy wool shirt, except she guessed you didn’t wear those in Singapore because it was hot there. She’d keep her eyes closed anyway, and listen to him talk about his work, about the arbitrage engines shuttling back and forth through the world’s markets like invisible dragons, fast as light, shaving fragments of advantage for traders like her father…

Masahiko turned, accidentally knocking her bag aside, as the train stopped at a station—not theirs. A woman with a yellow shopping bag said something in Japanese. Masahiko took Chia’s wrist and pulled her toward the open door.

“This isn’t where we get off—”

“Come! Come!” Out onto the platform. A different smell here; something chemical and sharp. The walls not so clean, somehow. A broken tile in the ceramic ceiling.

“What’s the matter? Why are we getting off?”

He pulled her into the corner formed by the tiled wall and a huge vending machine. “Someone is at the restaurant, waiting for you.” He looked down at her wrist, as if amazed to find that he was holding it, and instantly released her.

“How do you know?”

“Walled City. There have been inquiries, in the last hour.”

“Who?”

“Russians.”

“Russians?”

“There are many from the Kombinat here, since the earthquake. They forge relationships with the gumi.”

“What’s gumi?”

“Mafia, you call it Yakuza. My father has arrangement with local gumi. Necessary, in order to operate restaurant. Gumi representatives spoke about you to my father.”

“Your neighborhood mafia is Russian?” Behind his head, on the side of the machine, the animated logo of something called Apple Shires.

“No. Yamaguchi-gumi franchise. My father knows these men. They tell my father Russians ask about you, and this is not good. They cannot guarantee usual safety. Russians not reliable.”

“I don’t know any Russians,” Chia said.

“We go now.”

“Where?”

He led her along the crowded platform, its pavement wet from hundreds of furled umbrellas. It must be raining now, she thought. Toward an escalator.

“When Walled City saw attention was being paid to our addresses, my sister’s and mine, a friend was sent to remove my computer…”

“Why?”

“Because I have responsibility. For Walled City. Distributed processing.”

“You’ve got a MUD in your computer?”

“Walled City is not anywhere,” he said, as they stepped onto the escalator. “My friend has my computer. And he knows about men who are waiting for you.”

Masahiko said his friend was called Gomi Boy.

He was very small, and wore an enormous, balloon-bottomed pair of padded fatigue pants covered with at least a dozen pockets. These were held up with three-inch-wide Day-Glo orange suspenders, over a ratty cotton sweater with the cuffs rolled back. His shoes were pink, and looked like the shoes babies wore, but bigger. He was perched on an angular aluminum chair now and the baby shoes didn’t quite touch the floor. His hair looked as though it had been sculpted with a spatula, gleaming swirls and dips, like your hand might stick there if you touched it. It was the way they painted J.D. Shapely’s hair on those murals in Pioneer Square, and Chia knew from school that that had something to do with that whole Elvis thing, though she couldn’t remember exactly what.

He was talking with Masahiko in Japanese, over the crashing sound-surf of this gaming arcade. Chia wished she was wearing a translator, but she’d have to open her bag, find one, turn the Sandbenders on. And Gomi Boy looked like he’d be just as happy knowing she couldn’t understand him.

He was drinking a can of something called Pocari Sweat, and smoking a cigarette. Chia watched the blue smoke settling out in layers in the air, lit by the glare of the games. There was cancer in that, and they’d arrest you in Seattle if you did it. Gomi Boy’s cigarette looked like it had been made in a factory: a perfect white tube with a brown tip he put to his lips. Chia had seen those in old movies; sometimes, the ones they hadn’t gone through yet to digitally erase them, but the only other cigarettes she’d seen were the twisted-up paper ones they sold on the street in Seattle, or you could buy a little baggie of the tobacco stuff and the white squares of paper to roll it up in. Meshbacks in school did it.

The rain was still coming down. Through the arcade’s streaming window she could make out another arcade, across the street, one of the ones with the machines the silver balls poured through. The neon and the rain and the silver balls ran all together, and she wondered what Masahiko and Gomi Boy were talking about.

Gomi Boy had Masahiko’s computer in a plaid plastic carry-bag with quilted pink International Biohazard symbols on the sides. It was sitting on the little table beside the can of Pocari Sweat. What was a Pocari? She imagined a kind of wild pig, with bristles, turned-up tusks, like she’d seen on the Nature Channel.

Gomi Boy sucked on his cigarette, making the end glow. He squinted through the smoke at Masahiko and said something. Masahiko shrugged. There was a fresh mini-can of microwaved espresso in front of him, and Chia had another Coke Lite. In Tokyo there was nowhere to sit down unless you bought something, and it was quicker to buy a drink than something to eat. And it cost less. Except she wasn’t paying for these. Gomi Boy was, because he and Masahiko didn’t want her to use Kelsey’s cashcard.

Gomi Boy spoke again. “He wishes to talk with you,” Masahiko said.

Chia bent over, unzipped her bag, found the ear-clips. She only had the two, so she handed one to Gomi Boy, put the other on herself, and hit power. He put his on. “I am from Walled City,” he said. “You understand?”

“A MUD, right? Multi user domain.”

“Not in the sense you mean, but approximately, yes. Why are you in Tokyo?”

“To gather information about Rez’s plan to marry the idoru, Rei Toei.”

Gomi Boy nodded. Being an otaku was about caring a lot about information; he understood being a fan. “Do you have dealings with the Combine?” Chia knew he had said Kombinat, and the translator had covered it. He meant that mafia government in Russia.

“No,” Chia said.

“And you came to be at Masahiko’s because…”

“Mitsuko’s the social secretary of the Tokyo chapter of the Lo/Rez group I belong to in Seattle.”

“How many times did you port, from the restaurant?”

“Three times.” The Silke-Marie Kolb outfit. The meeting. Zona Rosa. “I paid for presentation software, Mitsuko and I did the meeting, I linked home.”

“You paid for the software with your cashcard?”

“Yes.” She looked from Gomi Boy to Masahiko. Between and behind them, the rain. The endless racketing cascade of the little silver balls, through the glass across the street. Players hunched there on integral stools, manipulating the flood of metal. Masahiko’s expression told her nothing at all.

“Masahiko’s computer maintains certain aspects of Walled City,” Gomi Boy said. “Contingency plans were in place for its removal to safety. When it became obvious that both Masahiko’s and his sister’s user addresses were attracting unusual attention, I was sent to secure his machine. We frequently exchange hardware. I am a dealer in second-hand equipment. That is why I am called Gomi Boy. I have my own keys to Masahiko’s room. His father knows I am allowed to enter. His father does not care. I came and took the computer. Nearby is a small civic recreation area. The restaurant is visible from it. Seeing Oakland Overbombers, I crossed the street and spoke with them.”