Brasyl Read Online Free PDF Page B

minutes for the Brooklin
Bandeira to close in, to narrow the circle of possibility down to
machine-pistol range. Edson's been checking his custom-fit rearview
cameras for oil-slick-black segurança hunting bikes. He could
get away from them on the Yam, take it places their big bulky
machines could not, but not Gerson, flogging the ako engine on that
shitty little putt-putt. Edson can hardly believe he once rode that
thing. Gantry cameras read his license plate; hurtling satellites
debit his account. They don't make it easy for legitimate men of
business.
    And there it is, looming out of the traffic, the barquentine of the
quantumeiros: a big forty-tonner standing at a steady hundred in the
outside lane. The cab is pimped with Fleshbeck Crew—style
cherubim and a battery of airhorns on the roof chromed and sweet as
the trumpets of archangels. Cook/Chill Meal Solutions , says
the trail. Fine cover. No cop is ever going to stop and search bad
cuisine. Edson weaves Gerson into the truck's slipstream. A touch on
the I-shades calls up the address Mr. Smiles gave him. The truck
flashes its hazard lights in acknowledgment and sways into the slow
lane, drops to seventy sixty fifty forty. The back shutter rolls up,
a middle-aged guy in a Black Metal muscle top swings from a chain and
manages to smoke at the same time. He beckons them close, closer. The
loading ramp extends, lowers. Steel hits road. Sparks shower around
the brothers Oliveira. Black Metal beckons them again: Come on, come
on, on the ramp. Sparks peel away round Edson as he lines up the run.
He's a businessman, not a stunt-rider. Edson edges forward: the
concentration pill gives him micro-accelerations and relative
velocities. Wheel on wheel off wheel on wheel off, wheel on; then
Edson throttles hard, surges forward, and brakes and declutches
simultaneously.
    Smoking metalhead applauds.
    Thirty seconds later Gerson skids to a halt on the platform, pale and
shaking. Edson tries to imagine what the commuters on the São
Caetano rodovia make of a male with a pink handbag around his neck
driving onto the back of a moving truck. Probably reckons it's the
telenovelas and are looking round for the flittercams: Hey! We're
on A World Somewhere, we really are!
    Death Metal raises the ramp and pulls the shutter down with a
clatter.
    Recessed mood-lights flood on. Edson feels his eyes widen behind his
wraparound I-shades: The rear of the container is docking space; the
forward twothirds is split-level business accommodation. The lower
floor-reception-is Karma Cafe kitsch, all shag rugs, leather
beanbags, inflatable chairs, and zebra-skin sofas on spindly legs.
There a battery of rollscreens tuned to sports and news channels, a
complex coffee engine with attendant barista and lowlaid bossa nova.
Upstairs is the office, a transparent cube of plastic, harshly
neon-lit to the downbeat downlighting of the club below. The cube is
stacked ceiling-high with server farms, wiring alleys, and tanks
conspicuuously marked liquid nitrogen. Edson makes out a figure
moving among the racked boxes, a glimpse of swinging red hair. Heaven
and clubland are connected by a spiral staircase of glowing blue
plastic.
    A floppy-haired queen in a good suit and shiny shirt unfolds from a
sofa.
    He has pointy pirate shoes, immaculately polished.
    "So this is the handbag?" The bicha turns it over in his
hands. "I suppose it was going to happen sooner or later as
quantum technology gets cheaper. It would have been a lot simpler
just to have thrown it away."
    "My brother can make money out of this."
    The truck accelerates; the seguranças have a fix on the arfid
and are runnning them out of road.
    "We can certainly blank this for you. It's not the most
up-to-date model. Fia." You can fall in love with someone for
their shoes. These are gold jacaré-skin wedge heels, strappy
at the ankle. They descend the top rum of the spiral staircase. Above
them, slim ankles, good calves not too full, Capri-cut