the corpse, noting the discolored tumors on its arms, the leonine welling of the face, all the obvious symptoms of the virus's mock-leprosy. The corpse's limbs were twisted, back arched until the body was bent almost double, fingers splayed, hands turned back on themselves at the wrists in the spastic posture of advanced neuro-syphilis. Jonny forced himself to lean closer and look into the half-opened mouth. Standing up, he momentarily fingered the edge of the soiled apron, thinking that the body did not look much like Random any more.
Jonny did not turn when he heard the footsteps, expecting it to be Zamora or some Committee boy come to take him away. When the steps came to a stop a few meters off, he turned and saw Groucho brushing sand from his English schoolboy jacket. 'He swallowed his tongue,' Jonny told the anarchist.
'I'm sorry,' Groucho said. 'I've seen a lot like this these last few weeks. Gonna to be a lot more, too.'
'You come looking for me?'
Groucho nodded. 'Yeah. I figure I've got a vested interest in you. 'Course, so do lots of people these days.'
Jonny took a drink from his bottle. 'How'd you know I'd be here?'
'Isn't this where you always end up?'
'Yeah. I guess.' Jonny shrugged. 'Kind of shabby little place to run and hide, huh?' He took another drink and threw the empty bottle back toward the bar, listening to it shatter. 'Ice is dead,' he said quickly.
'I heard. I'm sorry, man,' said Groucho. 'So what are you going to do now?'
'I don't know,' Jonny mumbled, crouching down near Random's body. 'Lotta bottles to work through,' he said, gesturing back toward the bar.
'Yeah, always the clear thinker. I knew we could count on you.'
'Just save that shit for your own people, okay?' said Jonny.
Groucho leaned under a nearby table and picked up a small silver bell from the floor; he rang it softly as he spoke. 'I heard you were at the Forest of Incandescent Bliss tonight,' he said. 'What for?'
'There's a cure for the virus. I was supposed to pick it up, only Easy Money blew away the container it was in and now it's gone,' said Jonny. Bending, he touched one of Random's arms, disturbing the flies which rose, droning, into the air.
'Sumi's infected, you know. Gonna die just like Random. Pretty surreal way to go, huh?' Turning, he swung a drunken fist at Groucho, but the anarchist danced out of the way.
'What would your fucking surrealists say about that?' Jonny shouted.
'So you're just going to let her die like that?' Groucho asked. He bent again and came up with a toy switchblade, about the length of his thumb.
'What are you talking about?' Jonny asked.
'I'm saying that if you love her, you're going to take some responsibility.' With his long fingers, Groucho snicked the tiny knife open closed a couple of times. 'Ever since we left the fish farm, I've been thinking how all these little bits, how all the shit that's been floating around you is possibly related. I heard from some people that Conover was the one that was moving that layered virus that got loose. Then, when Zamora picked you up, he starts talking about space men and how he wants to you turn Conover for him. All the time, though, he's planning a raid to take out all the lords and the gangs with them. And this is happening at the same time the city's going balls up from this plague.'
'You think Zamora might have planned all this?'
'I don't know yet,' said the anarchist. 'Doesn't really sound like him, though. A bit subtle.'
Jonny stood, brushed away some flies that had landed on his aviators. 'There was this Arab at the Forest tonight, he was talking about the Alpha Rats. Said something about a war.'
'Well man, we got our own war right here,' Groucho told him.
When he leaned over this time, he was holding a key ring with a plastic Ganesh on top; cheap paste rhinestones glittered in the elephant god's eyes. He dropped the key ring and switchblade into his jacket pocket. 'I wanted to tell you- Zamora's moving on the lords tonight, guess he figures it's a holiday, so half the city'll be blasted. We're moving, too. All the gangs. Viva la revolucion.'
'Jesus,' Jonny said. 'Are you guys ready?'
'Vyctor Vector's waiting out in the van with Man Ray, so we've got the Naginata Sisters and the Funky Gurus, tambien. We're stronger than Zamora realizes,' said Groucho and he smiled.
'Besides, amantadine supplies're running pretty thin around here. If the Committee doesn't get you, seems like the virus will. Nobody's got much to lose anymore.'
'What about going to the lords for help?'
'The lords?' Groucho said. 'Are you really that naive? The lords protect themselves. Period. They're no better than Zamora.'
'What are you talking about?' demanded Jonny. 'Not all the lords are sell-outs like Nimble Virtue.'
'Sure they are,' replied Groucho. 'This is big business, Jack. The ultimate fix. The architecture of need.' The anarchist gestured as he spoke, his hands open wide. 'I mean, if you're in the desert, you sell the natives ice water, right? Nimble Virtue, Conover and the rest have a captive market here, and they like it that way. This underground market drives the prices of their goods right through the roof. The lords aren't dealers, they're vampires. They live on pain. And you're as much a part of it as they are.'
Jonny frowned. 'I sold medicine, asshole. People needed me.'
'You're just afraid to face the real issue,' Groucho said. 'By selling Conover's shit you are just another part of the drug organism. And when I say drugs, I mean anything people need, that they'll pay money for. Food, data, booze, medical supplies. People don't need you. They need to be free of this ridiculous cycle of drugs and pain. Free from the Committee and the lords because they're two sides of the same coin. One can't exist without the other. This whole city is built on bones. You're a vampire, too, Jonny. That's what I mean about taking responsibility.'
Jonny walked back to the bar and started sorting through the various bottles. At the back of the bottom shelf he found a half-empty quart of mescal and set it on the bar. The small hallucinogenic worm inside bobbed momentarily to the top of the golden liquor.
Dead fetuses. He saw Nimble Virtue's children floating in alcohol.
Releasing the bottle, Jonny shouted to Groucho: 'If I'm such puke, what the hell are you doing here?'
'I'm here because in the end, I don't think you are one of them,' said Groucho. He came to the bar, still ringing the silver bell in his left hand. 'You're what those old warriors used to call Dragon head-Snake body. You're intelligent; you've got courage and integrity, but you keep sabotaging yourself through fear and stupidity.' The anarchist picked up something the size of a playing card from the bar. When he touched it, the card flashed a series of animated views of Japanese casinos and resorts, spewing hard-sell patter in tinny German. 'Also, I thought you might be able help the revolution. Ice liked you and I wanted to keep her happy. Zamora was interested in you and so was Conover. I thought maybe we could make use of that somewhere along the way.' He looked up at Jonny. 'Revolution's a hard nut. See what happens to us? I guess I was using you, too.'
'If I go back to Conover's, will you go with me?' Jonny asked.
Groucho shook his head. 'There's no time. We've got a lot to set up if we're gonna take on the Committee tonight.'
'Sorry. A silly question.'
'I know where Conover's place is,' Groucho said. 'I'll meet you there later if I can.'
Jonny nodded, took the mescal bottle and set it back on the shelf behind the bar. Removing his mirror shades, he turned to Groucho, making sure the man got a good look at his new eyes. The anarchist raised his eyebrows a fraction of a centimeter, but that was all. 'These exteroceptors are funny,' Jonny said. 'It's like watching a movie or something. Kind of a detached feeling. I don't know what to do anymore.'
'Here,' Groucho said, and handed him the little silver bell. 'For luck. And remember: thought is an illusion.' He touched his chest, 'This is an illusion. Fear, confusion, dread- the worst elements of your life can lead to enlightenment as easily as the best. When the time comes to act, you'll do all right.'
The silhouette of a tall woman was framed in the door of the club. She wore tight leather pants and boots, a racing top crossed by studded leather straps; in her hand was some kind of heavy wooden staff that was almost as tall as she. Her skin shone silver in the street light, a heavy layer of metal-based make-up covering all her exposed skin, except for a band around her eyes. Naginata war paint.
'Groucho, we gotta hit it,' said the woman. 'Hi ya, Jonny.'
'How're you doing, Vyctor?' he called.
