Y T Quotes

Y.T. is maxing at a Mom's Truck Stop on 405, waiting for her ride. Not that she would ever be caught dead at a Mom's Truck Stop. If, like, a semi ran her over with all eighteen of its wheels in front of a Mom's Truck Stop, she would drag herself down the shoulder of the highway using her eyelid muscles until she reached a Snooze 'n' Cruise full of horny derelicts rather than go into a Mom's Truck Stop. ~ Neal Stephenson

Better take her uniform -- all that gear," the second MetaCop suggests, not
unlewdly.
The manager looks at Y.T., trying not to let his gaze travel sinfully up and
down her body. For thousands of years his people have survived on alertness:
waiting for Mongols to come galloping over the horizon, waiting for repeat
offenders to swing sawed-off shotguns across their check-out counters. His
alertness right now is palpable and painful; he's like a goblet of hot
nitroglycerin. The added question of sexual misconduct makes it even worse. To
him it's no joke.
Y.T. shrugs, trying to think of something unnerving and wacky. At this point,
she is supposed to squeal and shrink, wriggle and whine, swoon and beg. They
are threatening to take her clothes. How awful. But she does not get upset
because she knows that they are expecting her to.
A Kourier has to establish space on the pavement. Predictable law-abiding
behavior lulls drivers. They mentally assign you to a little box in the lane,
assume you will stay there, can't handle it when you leave that little box.
Y.T. is not fond of boxes. Y.T. establishes her space on the pavement by
zagging mightily from lane to lane, establishing a precedent of scary
randomness. Keeps people on their toes, makes them react to her, instead of the
other way round. Now these men are trying to put her in a box, make her follow
rules.
She unzips her cover ~ Neal Stephenson

You're from where?"
"Lay'en. It's near Salt Lake City."
"Spell that for me."
"Um, that would be S-A-L-T-"
"No, the other one. The city you're from."
"Oh. L-A-Y-T-O-N."
"Ah-Lay-ton."
That's what I said."
"No you didn't. You just said, 'Lay'en.'"
"So I did. But just go ahead and pronounce 'aluminum' for me, Mr. British Man. How are you going to defend that piece of insanity? Why don't you spell it and count syllables and see if your al-um-in-ium makes sense whatsoever?"
He bowed his head. "Touché... ~ Shannon Hale

Hiro and Y.T. have eaten a lot of junk food together in different joints all
over L.A. -- doughnuts, burritos, pizza, sushi, you name it -- and all Y.T. ever
talks about is her mother and the terrible job that she has with the Feds. The
regimentation. The lie-detector tests. The fact that for all the work she
does, she really has no idea what it is that the government is really working
on.
It's always been a mystery to Hiro, too, but then, that's how the government is.
It was invented to do stuff that private enterprise doesn't bother with, which
means that there's probably no reason for it; you never know what they're doing
or why. Hackers have traditionally looked upon the government's coding
sweatshops with horror and just tried to forget that all of that shit ever
existed.
But they have thousands of programmers. The programmers work twelve hours a day
out of some twisted sense of personal loyalty. Their software-engineering
techniques, while cruel and ugly, are very sophisticated. They must have been
up to something. ~ Neal Stephenson

Y.T. is bored. She gets on her plank. The wheels blossom and become circular.
She guides a tight wobbly course around the cars, coasts down into the street.
The spotlight follows her for a moment, maybe picking up some stock footage.
Videotape is cheap. You never know when something will be useful, so you might
as well videotape it.
People make their living that way -- people in the intel business. People like
Hiro Protagonist. They just know stuff, or they just go around and videotape
stuff. They put it in the Library. When people want to know the particular
things that they know or watch their videotapes, they pay them money and check
it out of the Library, or just buy it outright. This is a weird racket, but
Y.T. likes the idea of it. Usually, the CIC won't pay any attention to a
Kourier. But apparently Hiro has a deal with them. Maybe she can make a deal
with Hiro. Because Y.T. knows a lot of interesting little things.
One little thing she knows is that the Mafia owes her a favor. ~ Neal Stephenson

In the parking lot of a Safeway on Oahu," he says. And he's telling the truth;
in the background she can hear the shopping carts performing their clashy, anal
copulations.
"I'm kind of busy now, Whitey -- but what can I do for you?"
"It's Y.T., " she says, "and you can help bust me out of The Clink." She gives
him the details.
"How long ago did he put you there?"
"Ten minutes."
"Okay, the three-ring binder for Clink franchises states that the manager is
supposed to check on the detainee half an hour after admission."
"How do you know this stuff?" she says accusingly.
"Use your imagination. As soon as the manager pulls his halfhour check, wait
for another five minutes, and then make your move. I'll try to give you a hand.
Okay?"
"Got it. ~ Neal Stephenson

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?"
Men. "You know, give me a hand. You're my boyfriend," she says, speaking very
simply and plainly. "If I get popped, you're supposed to come around and help
bust me out." Isn't everyone supposed to know this stuff? Don't parents teach
their kids anything anymore?
"Well, uh, where are you?"
"Buy 'n' Fly number 501,762."
"I'm on my way to Bernie with a super-ultra."
As in San Bernardino. As in super-ultra-high-priority delivery. As in, you're
out of luck.
"Okay, thanks for nothing."
"Awwww," he begins.
"Surfing safety," Y.T. says, in the traditional sarcastic sign off.
"Keep breathing," Roadkill says. The roaring noise snaps off.
What a jerk. Next date, he's really going to have to grovel. But in the
meantime, there's one other person who owes her one. The only problem is that
he might be a spaz. But it's worth a try. ~ Neal Stephenson

Ever think of introducing yourself?" Y.T. says.
"Nah," he says, "people always forget names. You can just think of me as that one guy, y'know? ~ Neal Stephenson

The manager
thunks down a couple of steps, glares at her, glares at her for rather a long
time. The manager, clearly, is tempted. That momentary glimpse of flesh has
been ricocheting around in his brain for half an hour. He is wracking his mind
with vast cosmological dilemmas. Y.T., hopes that he does not try anything,
because the dentata's effects can be unpredictable.
"Make up your fucking mind," she says.
It works. This fresh burst of culture shock rattles the jeek out of his ethical
conundrum. He gives Y.T. a disapproving glower -- she, after all, forced him to
be attracted to her, forced him to get horny, made his head swim -- she didn't
have to get arrested, did she? -- and so on top of everything else he's angry
with her. As if he has a right to be.
This is the gender that invented the polio vaccine? ~ Neal Stephenson