manufacturing, taking their low margins and hard sell to Europe
and the Americas, where consumption had become a way of life.
Everywhere Gonzales traveled, it seemed, he found them: cadres
armed with technical and scientific prowess and fueled by
persistent ambition.
They formed the steel core of much of the world's prosperity.
The United States and the dragons lived in uneasy symbiosis: the
Asians had a hundred ways of making sure the American economy
didn't just roll over and die and take the prime North American
consumer market with it. Whether Japanese, Koreans, Taiwanese,
Hong Kong Chinese-Canadiansthey bought some corporations and
merged with others, and Americans ended up working for General
Motors Fanuc, Chrysler Mitsubishi, or Daewoo-DEC, and with their
paychecks they bought Japanese memexes, Korean autos, Malaysian
robotics.
Shutter blades cranked open with a quick scream of metal, and
Gonzales stepped inside. An Egyptian guard in a white headdress,
blue-and-white checked headband, and gray U.N. drag cross-checked
his i.d., gave a quick, meaningless smileteeth white and perfect
under a black moustacheand waved him on.
Southeast Asian Faction Customs waited in the form of a small
Thai woman in a brown uniform with indecipherable scrawls across
yellow badges. Her features were pleasant and impassive; she wore
her black hair pulled tightly back and held with a clear plastic
comb. She stood behind a gray metal table; on the floor next to
it was a two-meter high general purpose scanner, its controls,
screens, and read-outs hidden under a black cloth hood. Dirty
green walls wore erratically-spaced signs in a dozen languages,
detailing in small type the many categories of contraband.
The woman motioned for him to sit in the upright chair in
front of the table, then for him to put his clothes bag and cases
on the table.
She spoke, and the translator box at her waist echoed in
clear, neuter machine English: 'Your person has been scanned and
cleared.' She put the soft brown bag into the mouth of the
scanner, and the machine vetted the bag with a quiet beep. The
woman slid it back to Gonzales.
She spoke again, and the translator said, 'Please open these
cases' as she pointed toward the two shock-cases. For each,
Gonzales screened the access panel with his left hand and tapped
in the entry codes with his right. The case lids lifted with a
soft sigh. Inside the cases, monitor and diagnostic lights
flashed above rows of memory modules, heavy solids of black
plastic the size of a small safety deposit box.
Gonzales saw she was holding a copy of the Data Declaration
Form the memex had filled out in Myanmar and transmitted to both
Myanmar and Thai governments. She looked into one of the cases
and pointed to a row of red-tagged and sealed memory modules.
The translator's words followed behind hers and said, 'These
modules we must hold to verify that they contain no contraband
information.'
'Myanmar customs did so. These are SenTrax corporate
records.'
'Perhaps they are. We have not cleared them.'
'If you wish, I will give you the access protocols. I have
nothing to hide, but the modules are important to my work.'
She smiled. 'I do not have proper equipment. They must be
examined by authorities in the city.' The translator's tones
accurately reflected her lack of concern.
Gonzales sensed the onset of severe bureaucratic
intransigence. For whatever occult reasons, this woman had
decided to fuck him around, and the harder he pushed, the worse
things would be. Give it up, then. He said, 'I assume they will
be returned to me as soon as possible.'
'Certainly. After careful examination. Though it is
unlikely that the examination can be completed before your
departure.' She slid the case off her desk and to the floor
behind it. She was smiling again, a satisfied bureaucrat's smile.
She turned back to her console, Gonzales's case already a thing of
the past. She looked up to see him still standing there and said,
'How else can I help you?'
#
The machine-world began to disperse, turning to fog, and as
it did, banks of low-watt incandescents lit up around the room's
perimeter, and the patterns of console lights went through a
series of rapid permutations as Gonzales was brought to a waking
state. The room's lights had been full up for an hour when the
desynching series was complete and the egg began to split.
Inside the egg Gonzales lay pale, nude, near-comatose,
machine-connected: a new millennium Snow White. A flesh-colored
catheter led from his water-shrunken genitals, transparent iv
feeds from both forearms. White sealant and anti-irritant paste
had clotted around the tubes from throat and mouth. The sharp
ozone smell of the paste was all over him.
An autogurney had rolled next to the egg, and its hands,
shining chrome claws, began disconnecting tubes and leads. Then
it worked with hands and black flexible arms the thickness of a
stout rope to lift Gonzales from the egg and onto its own surface.
Gonzales woke up in his own bedroom and began to whimper.
'It's okay,' the memex whispered through the room's speaker.
'It's okay.'
Some time later Gonzales awoke again, lay in gloom and
considered his condition. Some nausea, legs weak, but no apparent
loss of gross motor control, no immediate parapsychological
effects (disorientations, amnesias, synesthesias)
Gonzales got up and went to the bathroom, stood amid white
tile, polished aluminum and mirrors and said, 'Warm shower.'
Water hissed, and the shower stall door swung open. The water ran
down his skin and the sweat and paste rolled off his body.
