Cyberpunk

seemed slightly embarrassed, as if she had just been told the price of something she could not afford.
    “This is going to be a war zone soon,” Stennie said.
    “Yeah, let’s fade.” Janet towed Stennie to the stairs, swerving around the three boys lugging Our Lady of the Bathtub out to the firing range.
    “Wait.” I blocked Tree. “You’re here, so you have to destroy something. Get with the program.”
    “I have to?” She seemed doubtful. “Oh, all right—but no animals.”
    A hail of antique Coke bottles crashed around Happy as she directed traffic at the dwindling swag heap. “Hey, people, please be very careful where you throw things.” Her amplified voice blasted us as we approached. The first floor was a graveyard of broken glass and piano bones and bloody feathers. Most of the good stuff was already gone.
    “Any records left?” I said.
    Happy wobbled closer to me. “What?” She seemed punchy, as if stunned by the success of her own party.
    “The box I gave you. From Stennie.” She pointed; I spotted it under some cages and grabbed it. Tree and the others were on the stairs. Outside I could hear the crackle of small-arms fire. I caught up.
    “Sir! Mr. Dinosaur, please.” The press still lurked on the upper balcony. “Matsuo Shikibu, Japanese telelink NHK. Could I speak with you for a moment?”
    “Excuse me, but this jack and I have some unfinished business.” I handed Stennie the records and cut in front. He swayed and lashed his tail upward to counterbalance their weight.
    “Remember me?” I bowed to Shikibu.
    “My apologies if I offended . . .”
    “Hey, Matsuo—can I call you Matsuo? This is your first smash party, right? Please, eyes on me. I want to explain why I was rude before. Help you understand the local customs. You see, we’re kind of self-conscious here in the US. We don’t like it when someone just watches while we play. You either join in or you’re not one of us.”
    My little speech drew a crowd. “What’s he talking about?” said Janet. She was shushed.
    “So if you drop by our party and don’t have fun, people resent you,” I told him. “No one came here today to put on a show. This is who we are. What we believe in.”
    “Yeah!” Stennie was cheerleading for the extreme Mr. Boy of old. “Tell him.” Too bad he did not realize it was his final appearance. What was Mr. Boy without his Comrade? “Make him feel some pain.”
    I snatched an album from the top of the stack, slipped the record out, and held it close to Shikibu’s microcam eyes. “What does this say?”
    He craned his neck to read the label. “John Coltrane, Giant Steps .”
    “Very good.” I grasped the record with both hands and raised it over my head for all to see. “We’re not picky, Matsuo. We welcome everyone. Therefore today it is my honor to initiate you—and the home audience back on NHK. If you’re still watching, you’re part of this too.” I broke the record over his head.
    He yelped and staggered backward and almost tripped over a dead cat. Stone Kinkaid caught him and propped him up. “Congratulations,” said Stennie, as he waved his claws at Japan. “You’re all extremists now.”
    Shikibu gaped at me, his microcam eyes askew. A couple of kids clapped.
    “There’s someone else here who has not yet joined us.” I turned on Tree. “Another spectator.” Her smile faded.
    “You leave her alone,” said Janet. “What are you, crazy?”
    “I’m not going to touch her.” I held up empty hands. “No, I just want her to ruin something. That’s why you came, isn’t it, Tree? To get a taste?” I rifled through the box until I found what I wanted. “How about this?” I thrust it at her.
    “Oh, yeah,” said Stennie, “I meant to tell you . . .”
    She took the record and scoped it briefly. When she glanced up at me, I almost lost my nerve.
    “Matsuo Shikibu, meet Treemonisha Joplin.” I clasped my hands behind my back so no one could see me tremble. “The great-great-great-granddaughter of the famous American composer, Scott Joplin. Yes, Japan, we’re all celebrities here in New Canaan. Now please observe.” I read the record for him. “ Piano
    Rags by Scott Joplin, Volume III. Who knows, this might be the last copy. We can only hope. So, what are you waiting for, Tree? You don’t want to be a Joplin anymore? Just wait until your folks get a peek at this. We’ll even send GD a copy. Go ahead, enjoy.”
    “Smash it!” The kids around us