The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.
"It’s not like I’m using," Case heard someone say, as he shouldered his way through the crowd around the door of the Chat. "It’s like my body’s developed this massive drug deficiency." It was a Sprawl voice and a Sprawl joke.
The Japanese had already forgotten more neurosurgery than the Chinese had ever known. The black clinics of Chiba were the cutting edge, whole bodies of technique supplanted monthly, and still they couldn’t repair the damage he’d suffered in that Memphis hotel.
In Japan, he’d known with a clenched and absolute certainty, he’d find his cure. In Chiba. Either in a registered clinic or in the shadow land of black medicine. Synonymous with implants, nerve-splicing, and micro bionics, Chiba was a magnet for the Sprawl’s techno criminal subcultures.