SNOW CRASH

status of skateboarders as an oppressed ethnic group means that by now all of them are escape artists of some degree.

First things first. Y.T. has many a thing hanging off her uniform. The uniform has a hundred pockets, big flat pockets for deliveries and eensy narrow pockets for gear, pockets sewn into sleeves, thighs, shins. The equipment stuck into these multifarious pockets tends to be small, tricky, lightweight pens, markers, penlights, penknives, lock picks, barcode scanners, flares, screwdrivers, Liquid Knuckles, bundy stunners, and lightsticks. A cal. culator is stuck upside-down to her right thigh, doubling as a taxi meter and a stopwatch.

On the other thigh is a personal phone. As the manager is locking the door upstairs, it begins to ring. Y.T. offhooks it with her free hand. It is her mother.

“Hi, Mom. Fine, how are you? I’m at Tracy’s house. Yeah, we went to the Metaverse. We were just fooling around at this arcade on the Street. Pretty bumpin’. Yes, I used a nice avatar. Nab, Tracy’s mom said she’d give me a ride home later. But we might stop off at the Joyride on Victory for a while, okay? Okay, well, sleep tight, Mom. I will. I love you, too. See you later.”

She punches the flash button, killing the chat with Mom and giving her a fresh dial tone in the space of about half a second. “Roadkill,” she says.

The telephone remembers and dials Roadkill’s number.

Roaring sounds. This is the sound of air peeling over the microphone of Roadkill’s personal phone at some terrifying velocity. Also the competing whooshes of many vehicles’ tires on pavement, broken by chuckhole percussion; sounds like the crumbling Ventura.

“Yo, Y.T.,” Roadkill says, ” ‘sup?”

“‘Sup with you?”

“Surfing the Tura. ‘Sup with you?”

“Maxing The Clink.”

“Whoa! Who popped you?”

“MetaCops. Affixed me to the gate of White Columns with a loogie gun.”

“Whoa, how very! When you leaving?”

“Soon. Can you swing by and give me a hand?”

“What do you mean?”