From: s8923108@mackay.mpce.mq.edu.au
Subject: The Cassandra Conundrum
Date: 4 Jul 93 03:55:58 GMT
Lines: 99


Hello!
	Thought you might like to have a read... Any comments, flames,
abuse, constructive criticsm, etc welcome.

	This story is copyright (c) Fredrick Meunier 1991. First published
in the MacquarieCon '92 Handbook.

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                        The Cassandra Complex
                         by Fredrick Meunier

	The sun was high in the sky and bright, and the wind felt good as
it blew through her hair. The readouts in her peripheral vision told her that
she was doing one hundred and ten miles per hour, the engine temperature
was low amber, and her next turn was due in ten minutes on the right. She'd
done a good job on the bike, an old Harley, salvaged and restored, with the
instrumentation and navigation units added as a cheap retrofit.
	The bike growled and kicked as she pumped the throttle, the music
of an old band the only thing keeping her from taking this pile of shit and
riding it straight into oblivion. "You know the day destroys the night, night
divides the day..."
	The turn arrived, and with it a sign, Douglas 10. The towns outline
came into view. A large water tower, lots of small buildings, nothing more
than two stories, lots of dust. Nice place. Close up it looked no better,
streets damn near deserted, except for some old reagan in a rocking chair on a porch.
	As she pulled up the Harley out the front of the town's only motel,
she cut the volume on her audio and slung her bag as she walked inside,
pausing only to spit the dust from her mouth. The floor inside was raw wood,
amber afternoon light spilled in from the large windows, warm and
comforting, a bar ran across the far wall, set in front of a large
mirror, with racks of bottles, dusty glasses and a barman. Late thirties,
dried out and wasted by the sun, threat level: low. Scattered tables and
chairs were the only other furnishings. She caught a glimpse of herself in
the mirror, sun bleached brown hair, tied back with a red bandanna, oversize
mirrorshades above a harsh, wide mouth, with wrinkles just starting to form,
white T, grey glove leather jeans, and cowboy boots.
	"Bottle of Jack and a room" she growled. The bartender's hands
worked slowly as they picked out the bottle from behind the counter, took
out the guest book, placed it on the counter and took a key from a drawer.
	"That'll be twenty seven fifty for the room and ten dollars for the
Jack, sign here" he said, pointing at the page, his accent something that
was a cross between a southern drawl and Aztlan chicano. Noticing the last
guest had booked in five months ago, she watched her hand go through the
motions of signing her name, before pulling out a fifty and watching the
man count out the change.
	The room, number twelve, was as sparse as the bar, thick dust
covered the furniture. The sheets on the bed were the first to go,
thrown into a corner of the closet, her bag took half the bed, and, propped
up on a pillow, she took the other half, one leg on the floor, the other
bent and supporting her drinking arm. She stared at the wall as she took her
first swig.
	Time - 23:59:25. At night the town was silent, save for those few
townsfolk whom now sat in the bar, low conversation covered by Hindi muzak.
She drank a glass of water, washing down the pills that would counteract the
effects of the alcohol, was up and moving, and out the door. Nylon carrybag
stowed in the back, she kicked the Harley to life, guttural roar drowned the
silence as she left behind one more one horse town. She called up a
navigational grid on the lower left of her field of vision, sixty two miles
from waypoint one, eta fifteen minutes, headlights off, image enhancement on
full.
	She arrived with five minutes to spare, pulled the portacomp from
the bag, along with the two and a half foot chickenwire satellite dish. The
system was up and running in four minutes flat, a full minute to spare. She
took a breath and looked at the sky, cloudless, and full of stars, a yellow
moon loomed large near the horizon. Good, she thought, telemetry should be
spot on. The squirt from the satellite lasted a full thirty seconds, on a
five hundred megabit link, that was a lot of information. The brick of
thermite she carried took care of the comp and dish, and within ten minutes,
she was done.
	Time - 06:38:47. She pulled onto the outskirts of Vera Cruz, grit
lined her lungs, the sun had once more become bright, and the ambient
temperature was twenty three degrees. She made her way to the barrio, one of
the seedier districts of town. The building she approached was scarred with
the pockmarks of ages of unrest passed, but the door and it's frame were
new, probably steel. When she knocked on the door a panel slid back to
reveal a pair of bloodshot eyes, "Hey Emil, que pasa?" she said, bolts slid
back, the door opened just enough to allow a hand through, she passed the
card inside, it disappeared, and she felt the weight of a suede bag in her
hand. Looking into the bag she saw the dull glow of uncut diamonds, "Thanks"
she mutters to the closed door.
	Within the next six hours, the diamonds had changed hands at least
sixteen times and she found herself in a phone booth, punching in the last
few numbers of a fund transfer from the account of one Cassandra Samantha
Pidoux to the account of Our Angel of Mercy hospital, Los Angeles. The
transaction approved message came up and she dialled the hospital.
	"I'd like to find out about the condition of Philip Bienaux, room
435. I'm his sister." she said.
	"His condition is stable." the nurse on the other end said after a
pause, but I'm afraid we can't say any more over the phone."
	"Sweedack, thanks." she said as she hung up the phone, You better
fucking live man, you better fucking live.."
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Hope you enjoyed it.
                 Fredrick s8923108@mackay.mpce.mq.edu.au
                          Fredrick_Meunier@arc.apana.org.au (unreliable)

             "In this day and age, only the flesh perishes."