Y.T. has been to some unusual places in her career. She has the visas of some three dozen countries laminated onto her chest. And on top of the real countries she has picked up and/or delivered to such charming little vacation spots as the Terminal Island Sacrifice Zone and the encampment in Griffith Park. But the weirdest1 job of all is this new one: someone wants her to deliver some stuff to the United States of America. Says so right there on the job order.
It's not much of a delivery, just a legal-size envelope.
"You sure you don't just want to mail this?" she asks the guy when she picks it up. It's one of these creepy office parks out in the Burbs. Like a Burbclave for worthless businesses that have offices and phones and stuff but don't actually seem to do anything.
It's a sarcastic2 question, of course. The mail doesn't work, except in Fedland. All the mailboxes have been unbolted and used to decorate the apartments of nostalgia3 freaks. But it's also kind of a joke, because the destination is, in fact, a building in the middle of Fedland. So the joke is: If you want to deal with the Feds, why not use their fucked-up mail system? Aren't you afraid that by dealing4 with anything as incredibly cool as a Kourier you will be tainted5 in their eyes?
"Well, uh, the mail doesn't come out here, does it?" the guy says.
No point in describing the office. No point in even allowing the office to even register on her eyeballs and take up valuable memory space in her brain. Fluorescent6 lights and partitions with carpet glued to them. I prefer my carpet on the floor, thank you. A color scheme. Ergonomic shit. Chicks with lipstick7. Xerox8 smell. Everything's pretty new, she figures.
The legal envelope is resting on the guy's desk. Not much point in describing him, either. Traces of a southern or Texan accent. The bottom edge of the envelope is parallel to the edge of the desk, one-quarter inch away from it, perfectly9 centered between the left and right sides. Like he had a doctor come in here and put it on the desk with tweezers10. It is addressed to: ROOM 968A, MAIL STOP MS-1569835, BUILDING LA-6, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
"You want a return address on this?" she says.
"That's not necessary."
"If I can't deliver it, there's no way I can get it back to you, because these places all look the same to me."
"It's not important," he says. "When do you think you'll get it there?"
"Two hours max."
"Why so long?"
"Customs, man. The Feds haven't modernized11 their system like everyone else." Which is why most Kouriers will do anything to avoid delivering to Fedland. But it's a slow day today, Y.T. hasn't been called in to do any secret missions for the Mafia yet, and maybe she can catch Mom on her lunch break.
"And your name is?"
"We don't give out our names."
"I need to know who's delivering this."
"Why? You said it wasn't important."
The guy gets really flustered12. "Okay," he says. "Forget it. Just deliver it, please."
Okay, be that way, she mentally says. She mentally says a number of other things, too. The man is an obvious pervert14. It's so plain, so open: "And your name is?" Give me a break, man.
Names are unimportant. Everyone knows Kouriers are interchangeable parts. It's just that some happen to be a lot faster and better.
So she skates out of the office. It's all very anonymous15. No Corporate16 logos anywhere. So as she's waiting for the elevator, she calls RadiKS, tries to find out who initiated17 this call.
The answer comes back a few minutes later, as she's riding out of the office park, pooned onto a nice Mercedes: Rife18 Advanced Research Enterprises. RARE. One of these high-tech19 outfits20. Probably trying to get a government contract. Probably trying to sell sphygmomanometers to the Feds or something like that. Oh well, she just delivers 'em. She gets the impression that this Mercedes is sandbagging -- driving real slow so she'll poon something else -- so she poons something else, an outgoing delivery truck. Judging from the way it's riding high on its springs, it must be empty, so it'll probably move along pretty fast.
Ten seconds later, predictably, the Mercedes blasts by in the left lane, so she poons that and rides it nice and hard for a couple of miles.
Getting into Fedland is a drag. Most Fedsters drive tiny, plastic and aluminum21 cars that are hard to poon. But eventually she nails one, a little jellybean with glued-on windows and a three-cylinder engine, and that takes her up to the United States border.
The smaller this country gets, the more paranoid they become. Nowadays, the customs people are just impossible. She has to sign a ten-page document -- and they actually make her read it. They say it should take at least half an hour for her just to read the thing.
"But I read it two weeks ago."
"It might have changed," the guard says, "so you have to read it again."
Basically, it just certifies22 that Y.T. is not a terrorist, Communist (whatever that is), homosexual, national-symbol desecrator23, pornography merchant, welfare parasite24, racially insensitive, carrier of any infectious disease, or advocate of any ideology25 tending to impugn26 traditional family values. Most of it is just definitions of all the words used on the first page.
So Y.T. sits in the little room for half an hour, doing housekeeping work -- going over her stuff, changing batteries in all her little devices, cleaning her nails, having her skateboard run its self-maintenance procedures. Then she signs the fucking document and hands it over to the guy. And then she's in Fedland. It's not hard finding the place. Typical Fed building -- a million steps. Like it's built on top of a mountain of steps. Columns. A lot more guys in this one than usual. Chunky guys with slippery hair. Must be some kind of cop building. The guard at the front door is a cop all the way, wants to give her a big hassle about carrying her skateboard into the place. Like they've got a safe place out front to keep skateboards.
The cop guy is completely hard to deal with. But that's okay, so is Y.T.
"Here's the envelope," she says. "You can take it up to the ninth floor yourself on your coffee break. Too bad you have to take the stairs."
"Look," he says, totally exasperated27, "this is EBGOC. This is, like, the headquarters. EBGOC central. You got that? Everything that happens within a mile is being videotaped. People don't spit on the pavement within sight of this building. They don't even say bad words. Nobody's going to steal your skateboard."
"That's even worse. They'll steal it. Then they'll say they didn't steal it, they confiscated29 it. I know you Feds, you're always confiscating30 shit."
The guy sighs. Then his eyes go out of focus and he shuts up for a minute. Y.T. can tell he's getting a message over the little earphone that's plugged into his ear, the mark of the true Fed.
"Go on in," he says. "But you gotta sign."
"Naturally," Y.T. says.
The cop hands her the sign-in sheet, which is actually a notebook computer with an electronic pen. She writes "Y.T." on the screen, it's converted to a digital bitmap, automatically time stamped, and sent off to the big computer at Fed Central. She knows she's not going to make it through the metal detector31 without stripping naked, so she just vaults32 the cop's table -- what's he going to do, shoot her? -- and heads on into the building, skateboard under her arm.
"Hey!" he says, weakly.
"What, you got lots of EBGOC agents in here being mugged and raped33 by female Kouriers?" she says, stomping34 the elevator button ferociously35.
Elevator takes forever. She loses her patience and just climbs the stairs like all the other Feds. The guy is right, it's definitely Cop Central here on the ninth floor. Every creepy guy in sunglasses and slippery hair you've ever seen, they're all here, all with little fleshtone helices of wire trailing down from their ears. There's even some female Feds. They look even scarier than the guys. The things that a woman can do to her hair to make herself look professional -- Jeeezus! Why not just wear a motorcycle helmet? At least then you can take it off.
Except none of the Feds, male or female, is wearing sun-glasses. They look naked without them. Might as well be walking around with no pants on. Seeing these Feds without their mirror specs is like blundering into the boys' locker36 room.
She finds Room 968A easily enough. Most of the floor is just a big pool of desks. All the actual, numbered rooms are around the edges, with frosted glass doors. Each of the creepy guys seems to have a desk of his own, some of them loiter near their desks, the rest of them are doing a lot of hall-jogging and impromptu37 conferencing at other creepy guys' desks. Their white shirts are painfully clean. Not as many shoulder holsters as she would expect; all the gun-carrying Feds are probably out in what used to be Alabama or Chicago trying to confiscate28 back bits of United States territory from what is now a Buy 'n' Fly or a toxic-waste dump.
She goes on into Room 968A. It's an office. Four Fed guys are in here, the same as the others except most of them are a tad older, in their forties and fifties.
"Got a delivery for this room," Y.T. says.
"You're Y.T.?" says the head Fed, who's sitting behind the desk.
"You're not supposed to know my name," Y.T. says. "How did you know my name?"
"I recognized you," the head Fed says. "I know your mother." Y.T. does not believe him. But these Feds have all kinds of ways of finding out stuff.
"Do you have any relatives in Afghanistan?" she says.
The guys all look back and forth38 at each other, like, did you understand the chick? But it's not a sentence that is intended to be understood. Actually, Y.T. has all kinds of voice recognition ware39 in her coverall and in her plank40. When she says, "Do you have any relatives in Afghanistan?" that's like a code phrase, it tells all of her spook gear to get ready, shake itself down, check itself out, prick41 up its electronic ears.
"You want this envelope or not?" she says.
"I'll take it," the head Fed says, standing42 up and holding out one hand.
Y.T. walks into the middle of the room and hands him the envelope. But instead of taking it, he lunges out at the last minute and grabs her forearm.
She sees an open handcuff in his other hand. He brings it out and snaps it down on her wrist so it tightens44 and locks shut over the cuff43 of her coverall.
"I'm sorry to do this, Y.T., but I have to place you under arrest," he's saying.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Y.T. is saying. She's holding her free arm back away from the desk so he can't cuff her wrists together, but one of the other Feds grabs her by the free wrist, so now she's stretched out like a tightrope45 between the two big Feds.
"You guys are dead," she says.
All the guys smile, like they enjoy a chick with some spunk46.
"You guys are dead," she says a second time.
This is the key phrase that all of her ware is waiting to hear. When she says it the second time, all the self-defense stuff comes on, which means that among other things, a few thousand volts47 of radio-frequency electrical power suddenly flood through the outsides of her cuffs48.
The head Fed behind the desk blurts49 out a grunt50 from way down in his stomach. He flies back away from her, his entire right side jerking spastically, trips over his own chair, and sprawls51 back into the wall, smacking52 his head on the marble windowsill. The jerk who's yanking on her other arm stretches out like he's on an invisible rack, accidentally slapping one of the other guys in the face, giving that guy a nice dose of juice to the head. Both of them hit the floor like a sack of rabid cats. There's only one of these guys left, and he's reaching under his jacket for something. She takes one step toward him, swings her arm around, and the end of the loose manacle strokes him in the neck. Just a caress53, but it might as well be a two-handed blow from Satan's electric ax handle. That funky54 juice runs all up and down his spine55, and suddenly, he's sprawled56 across a couple of shitty old wooden chairs and his pistol is rotating on the floor like the spinner in a children's game.
She flexes57 her wrist in a particular way, and the bundy stunner drops down her sleeve and into her hand. The manacle swinging from the other hand will have a similar effect on that side. She also pulls out the can of Liquid Knuckles59, pops the lid, sets the spray nozzle on wide angle.
One of the Fed creeps is nice enough to open the office door for her. He comes into the room with his gun already drawn60, backed up by half a dozen other guys who've flocked here from the office pool, and she just lets them have it with the Liquid Knuckles. Whoosh61, it's like bug62 spray. The sound of bodies hitting the floor is like a bass63 drum roll. She finds that her skateboard has no problem rolling across their prone64 bodies, and then she's out into the office pool. These guys are converging65 from all sides, there's an incredible number of them, she just keeps holding that button down, pointed66 straight ahead, digging at the floor with her foot, building up speed. The Liquid Knuckles acts like a chemical flying wedge, she's skating out of there on a carpet of bodies. Some of the Feds are agile67 enough to dart68 in from behind and try to get her that way, but she's ready with the bundy stunner, which turns their nervous systems into coils of hot barbed wire for a few minutes but isn't supposed to have any other effects.
She's made it about three-quarters of the way across the office when the Liquid Knuckles runs out. But it still works for a second or two because people are afraid of it, keep diving out of the way even though there's nothing coming out. Then a couple of them figure it out, make the mistake of trying to grab her by the wrists. She gets one of them with the bundy stunner and the other with the electric manacle. Then boom through the door and she's out into the stairwell, leaving four dozen casualties in her wake. Serves them right, they didn't even try to arrest her in a gentlemanly way.
To a man on foot, stairs are a hindrance69. But to the smartwheels, they just look like a forty-five-degree angle ramp70. It's a little choppy, especially when she's down to about the second floor and is going way too fast, but it's definitely doable.
A lucky thing: One of the first-floor cops is just opening the stairwell door, no doubt alerted by the symphony of alarm bells and buzzers71 that has begun to merge72 into a solid wall of hysterical73 sound. She blows by the guy; he puts one arm out in an attempt to stop her, sort of belts her across the waist in the process, throws her balance off, but this is a very forgiving skateboard, it's smart enough to slow down for her a little bit when her center of mass gets into the wrong place. Pretty soon it's back under her, she's banking74 radically75 through the elevator lobby, aiming dead center for the arch of the metal detector, through which the bright outdoor light of freedom is shining. Her old buddy76 the cop is up on his feet, and he reacts fast enough to spread-eagle himself across the metal detector. Y.T. acts like she's heading right for him, then kicks the board sideways at the last minute, punches one of the toe switches, coils her legs underneath77 her, and jumps into the air. She flies right over his little table while the plank is rolling underneath it, and a second later she lands on it, wobbles once, gets her balance back. She's in the lobby, headed for the doors.
It's an old building. Most of the doors are metal. But there's a couple of revolving78 doors, too, just big sheets of glass.
Early thrashers used to inadvertently skate into walls of glass from time to time, which was a problem. It turned into a bigger problem when the whole Kourier thing got started and thrashers started spending a lot more time trying to go fast through office-type environments where glass walls are considered quite the concept. Which is why on an expensive skateboard, like this one definitely is, you can get, as an extra added safety feature, the RadiKS Narrow Cone79 Tuned80 Shock Wave Projector81. It works on real short notice, which is good, but you can only use it once (it draws its power from an explosive charge), and then you have to take your plank into the shop to have it replaced.
It's an emergency thing. Strictly82 a panic button. But that's cool. Y.T. makes sure she's aimed directly at the glass revolving doors, then hits the appropriate toe switch.
It's -- my God -- like you stretched a tarp across a stadium to turn it into a giant tom-tom and then crashed a 747 into it. She can feel her internal organs move several inches. Her heart trades places with her liver. The bottoms of her feet feel numb13 and tingly. And she's not even standing in the path of the shock wave.
The safety glass in the revolving doors doesn't just crack and fall to the floor, like she imagined it would. It is blown out of its moorings. It gushes83 out of the building and down the front steps. She follows, an instant later.
The ridiculous cascade84 of white marble steps on the front of the building just gives her more ramp time. By the time she reaches the sidewalk, she's easily got enough speed to coast all the way to Mexico. As she's swinging out across the broad avenue, aiming her crosshairs at the customs post a quarter mile away, which she is going to have to jump over, something tells her to look up.
Because after all, the building she just escaped from is towering above her, many stories full of Fed creeps, and all the alarms are going off. Most of the windows can't be opened, all they can do is look out. But there are people on the roof. Mostly the roof is a forest of antennas85. If it's a forest, these guys are the creepy little gnomes86 who live in the trees. They are ready for action, they have their sunglasses on, they have weapons, they're all looking at her.
But only one guy's taking aim. And the thing he's aiming at her is huge. The barrel is the size of a baseball bat. She can see the muzzle87 flash poke88 out of it, wreathed in a sudden doughnut of white smoke. It's not pointed right at her; it's aimed in front of her.
The stun58 bunny lands on the street, dead ahead, bounces up in the air, and detonates at an altitude of twenty feet.
The next quarter of a second: There's no bright flash to blind her, and so she can actually see the shock wave spreading outward in a perfect sphere, hard and palpable as a ball of ice. Where the sphere contacts the street, it makes a circular wave front, making pebbles89 bounce, flipping90 old McDonald's containers that have long been smashed flat, and coaxing91 fine, flourlike dust out of all the tiny crevices92 in the pavement, so that it sweeps across the road toward her like a microscopic93 blizzard94. Above it, the shock wave hangs in the air, rushing toward her at the speed of sound, a lens of air that flattens95 and refracts everything on the other side. She's passing through it.
收听单词发音 |
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weirdest
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| 怪诞的( weird的最高级 )； 神秘而可怕的； 超然的； 古怪的 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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fluorescent
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| adj.荧光的，发出荧光的 | |
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lipstick
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| n.口红，唇膏 | |
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xerox
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| n./v.施乐复印机，静电复印 | |
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perfectly
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tweezers
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modernized
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| 使现代化，使适应现代需要( modernize的过去式和过去分词 )； 现代化，使用现代方法 | |
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flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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pervert
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| n.堕落者，反常者；vt.误用，滥用；使人堕落，使入邪路 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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initiated
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rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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high-tech
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outfits
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| n.全套装备( outfit的名词复数 )；一套服装；集体；组织v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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aluminum
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| n.(aluminium)铝 | |
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certifies
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| （尤指书面）证明( certify的第三人称单数 )； 发证书给…； 证明（某人）患有精神病； 颁发（或授予）专业合格证书 | |
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desecrator
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| 亵渎，玷污； 把（神物）供俗用 | |
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parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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ideology
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| n.意识形态，(政治或社会的)思想意识 | |
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impugn
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| v.指责，对…表示怀疑 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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confiscate
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| v.没收(私人财产)，把…充公 | |
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confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confiscating
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| 没收（confiscate的现在分词形式） | |
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detector
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| n.发觉者，探测器 | |
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vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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raped
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| v.以暴力夺取，强夺( rape的过去式和过去分词 )；强奸 | |
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stomping
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| v.跺脚，践踏，重踏( stomp的现在分词 ) | |
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ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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tightens
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| 收紧( tighten的第三人称单数 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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tightrope
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| n.绷紧的绳索或钢丝 | |
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spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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volts
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| n.（电压单位）伏特( volt的名词复数 ) | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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blurts
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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sprawls
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| n.（城市）杂乱无序拓展的地区( sprawl的名词复数 )；随意扩展；蔓延物v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的第三人称单数 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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52
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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53
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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funky
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| adj.畏缩的，怯懦的，霉臭的；adj.新式的，时髦的 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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57
flexes
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| v.屈曲( flex的第三人称单数 )；弯曲；（为准备大干而）显示实力；摩拳擦掌 | |
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58
stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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59
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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60
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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whoosh
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| v.飞快地移动，呼 | |
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bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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63
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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68
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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ramp
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| n.暴怒，斜坡，坡道；vi.作恐吓姿势，暴怒，加速；vt.加速 | |
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71
buzzers
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| n.门铃( buzzer的名词复数 )；蜂音器（的声音）；发嗡嗡声的东西或人；汽笛 | |
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72
merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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73
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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74
banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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76
buddy
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| n.（美口）密友，伙伴 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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projector
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| n.投影机，放映机，幻灯机 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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gushes
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| n.涌出，迸发( gush的名词复数 )v.喷，涌( gush的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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84
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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antennas
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| [生] 触角，触须（antenna的复数形式） | |
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86
gnomes
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| n.矮子( gnome的名词复数 )；侏儒；（尤指金融市场上搞投机的）银行家；守护神 | |
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87
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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89
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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90
flipping
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| 讨厌之极的 | |
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91
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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92
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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94
blizzard
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| n.暴风雪 | |
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95
flattens
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| 变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的第三人称单数 )； 彻底打败某人，使丢脸； 停止增长（或上升）； （把身体或身体部位）紧贴… | |
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