Count Zero (Sprawl, #2)

by William Gibson

“I thought you already said it’s not a religion.” Beauvoir removed his eyeglass frames and sighted down one of the earpieces. “That wasn’t what I said. I said you didn’t have to worry about it, is all, whether it’s a religion or not. It’s just a structure. Lets you an’ me discuss some things that are happening, otherwise we might not have words for it, concepts—” “But you talk like these, whatchacallem, lows, are—” “Loa,” Beauvoir corrected, tossing his glasses down on the table. He sighed, dug one of the Chinese cigarettes from Two-a-Day’s pack, and lit it with the pewter skull. “Plural’s same as the singular.” He inhaled deeply, blew out twin streams of smoke through arched nostrils. “You think religion, what are you thinking about, exactly?” “Well, my mother’s sister, she’s a Scientologist, real orthodox, you know? And there’s this woman across the hall, she’s Catholic. My old lady”—he paused, the food gone tasteless in his mouth—“she’d put these holograms up in my room sometimes, Jesus or Hubbard or some shit. I guess I think about that.” “Vodou isn’t like that,” Beauvoir said. “It isn’t concerned with notions of salvation and transcendence. What it’s about is getting things done. You follow me? In our system, there are many gods, spirits. Part of one big family, with all the virtues, all the vices. There’s a ritual tradition of communal manifestation, understand? Vodou says, there’s God, sure, Gran Met, but He’s big, too big and too far away to worry Himself if your a...