From: dwilliam@jabba.ess.harris.com (Dave Williams)
Subject: REPOST: Crude 1
Date: 23 Mar 93 00:41:53 GMT
Crude.1
Let me introduce myself. I'm Terry Whitesides, a name that leaves much
to be desired in the circles I run in. Call me TW, everyone else does.
I'm a hardware artist. (Or, if you listen to some people, a fumble-fingered
block of jello with no clue as to which side of a soldering iron is the
handle. - But they deserved what they got, anyway.) My claim to fame?
Look over on the stage, down amongst Blackjack's equipment. See the grey
box connected to the other two units? That's Joe. He's an AI of sorts,
drives the images of Danny and Floyd. He's been there for about two years
now, on loan to Blackjack. I'm inclined to leave him there, too. You see,
he's the real reason I'm not living the life of a suit, to match my normal
name. But this is a long story. Have Ratz pull you a beer, and I'll see
if I can explain.
Well, first of all, this story takes place a few years back. The
Chatsubo was open, and Ratz had already taken to annoying customers
with the whines and squeaks from his prosthetic arm as he swabbed the
bar down. As a matter of fact, the sound of that arm was probably the
siren song that drew me into the Chat in the first place. You see,
I like crude. Crude as in the lowest-tech piece of junk that gets the
job done. Crude as in using a paper-tape punch for data communications.
Your data can't be grabbed by a virus when it's a deck of punched cards.
I specialized in using the crudest stuff I could find to carry out
runs for people. They seemed to get a kick out of watching me using
old computers like the kids used to use in the 80's and 90's to take
out the big guys. I dunno, some people are strange. The only problem
was that my good old crude methods were getting old. I just couldn't keep
up anymore. I'd decided to switch up to some of the older brand-new stuff
and see how things went with junk that was only 5 to 10 years behind the
state of the art. That's when my troubles started.
The Chatsubo had already gotten a reputation as a place where things
were done. Something about the dark atmosphere of the place, the greasy
tables and battle-scarred bar itself, sorta attracted the kinds of people
you need to find when you need things. I'd gotten a strange reputation
as a data runner and interceptor, guaranteed to get the job done in as
arcane a way as possible. Like I said, they got a kick out of it. Who
was I to complain when I relieved them of their creds? Well, anyway, I was
sitting at the bar, drinking a Killian's Red. (Crude? maybe, maybe not
- most disagree, ever since the economic crash that made the American
market, including the beer refineries, into so much wasteland. I give
'em credit, though - the taste isn't that far away from the old days.)
Ratz hates me for it, but he finds the stuff somewhere. Hell, he may
have been brewing it himself for all I know. He could for what I pay
him for the stuff.
She didn't get a second glance from the chatsubo patrons when she came
in - just another semi-dangerous looking patron. You know the type. Grey
jacket, probably hiding some sort of gun, jeans, etc. I would have taken
a clue from the rest of the Chat and ignored her, too, if I had known what
was going to happen. She seemed disapointed that no one was bothering to
keep an eye on her. She strode across the bar and plopped down on the next
barstool. She snuck a peek or two at me while she tried to wave down Ratz,
who was busy loading glasses into the display behind the bar. She wasn't
getting anywhere, so I tapped my beer bottle, which is the quickest thing
to get Ratz's attention. "Ratz, you got a customer." He gave me the old
evil eye untill he noticed the girl.
"Be right with you, missy." He racked a few more glasses, then picked
up one to polish as he ambled over.
"Ummm, Mister Ratz, I'd like a vodka, please." Mister Ratz? What the
hell was this? Ratz looked suprised, too. He almost dropped the glass.
"Missy, I don't know where you been, but nobody calls anybody Mister
here in the Chat. You might get hurt talking like that."
"Oh, but I was told that this was the place to come to hire a computer
tech." She must not have looked closely at the surroundings, I suppose.
I was trying to wave Ratz off, since I really didn't need a job working
for this sort of employer - hell, she'd probably get my head blown off
by casually mentioning my name to security as a contact she was expecting.
Some people just don't work in the biz world, doncha know? It was too
late. Ratz pointed at me with that damned claw and said "TW here's the
man you want. He's a real pro, he is."
I started to tell her I was strictly low-tech, and that she should go
find some starving college kids to hack some code up for her, when she
slid a cred stick over that read 20,000.
"Thirty more when we finish."
Geez, I thought - 50K buys a big pile of spare parts for the junk I
carry around.
---------------------------------------------
Where am I headed with this? Who knows? Want to get your character
in on the prehistory of the Chat? Excellent time, if you want.
TW's mine, and so on, so don't use him without getting me by the
throat first. (although this is a story that has already happened, I
haven't *made* it all up yet. I'm going to get more confused before
I'm done, you bet.)
--
Dave Williams | "What time is it?" "9:00AM"
dwilliam@jabba.ess.harris.com | "What day?" "Monday"
"Huh? What? Could you repeat the question?" | "Go away. Try me Tuesday"
<mumble mumble> opinions <mumble mumble> mine <mumble mumble mumble>
Crude.2
What's gone before:
TW, a chatsubo regular, is spotted by a completely clueless looking
blonde who wants to hire a "computer tech". She offers 50K nuyen for
a job, 20K up front...
-----
I quickly pocketed the credstick, making sure no one was able to scan
the readout. I't be just my luck to be rolled as soon as I left, just
because I was sloppy. I indicated a convienient booth, so we could avoid
the pick-ups of the various heavies who would love to get the inside track
on whatever the blonde was up to.
"OK, you've got a 'tech' - what's the job?"
She flipped out a pile of glossies, which looked like stills of various
buildings. "Are you familiar with Weston LaRue?" The still was a long-
range shot of a nondescript-looking office complex, could be any of a
number of the Sprawl's business districts.
"Nope, if you've seen one suit warren, you've seen 'em all." She looked
disapointed, and flipped for another glossy in the pile. It was a map of
the business district in question. One of the buildings was circled with
a red marker.
"This building is their main computer center. We want some of the access
codes they've got stored somewhere here."
"Access codes? Ya gotta be kidding me, chummer. Why don't you just
hire some of these hot-shot 'Data Cowboys' to crack their system?" The
grimace that passed over her face seemed to indicate that the idea had
occured to them.
"We tried that. Didn't work. Their computers are apparently not
connected to something called the matrix, or something. They said we'd
have to send in a 'meat' force." 'Yeah', I thought. 'Dead meat, more
likely.' Most of the heavy high-tech'ers had consolidated their information
transactions into one big network a few years back. Those that hadn't
still relied on old-fashioned techniques, with heavy security to back the
paper trail up. She continued "The raid shouldn't be too difficult. The
security is run by a group named Slessenger's security or something. I
hear they're pretty bad."
The feelings of unease that had been crawling around in the back of my
skull started running around in the back of my skull. This setup just
didn't sound right. Fifty thousand to take down some access codes guarded
by a batch of clowns with lame guns? Slessenger's was famous for not
paying enough to keep reasonable people up front. Must be some mighty fine
access codes, maybe in the wrong hands or something.
She handed me a small card. "Here's the project name you're looking
for, and a contact to call when you get 'em out. Don't bother calling
if you can't complete." She slid out of the booth. "Good luck."
I watched her recede through the crowd. I idily flipped through the
stack of glossies. "Looks like I need to call in a few favors."
************
Outside the Chatsubo, the blonde woman glared back at the door of the
bar. "Stupid fucking boob. Geez, the shitheads I have to ..." A tan
sedan pulled up, the thunks of it's doorlocks a subtle reminder that this
was the Sprawl, where no one is safe. The blonde slid into the car, and
slamed the door on the cold mist drifting down out of the grey sky.
"Well, Tara, how'd it go?" the driver asks.
"Kingston, my instincts were right on." She drew a pair of mirrorshades
out of the car's glove compartment and slid them on. The suitcoat was
tossed into the backseat, to be replaced with a black leather jacket. "I
found the most pathetic jerk-off of a wannabe cowboy to make the run for us."
"Are you sure he's not going to be able to crack WLR's security? Being
able to be alive down here is a sign of at least some ability."
"Hey, trust me, darling." Tara smirks. "He's gonna fail miserably."
The sound of laughter drifted behind the car as it slid off into the night.
-----
TW belongs to me (dwilliam@jabba.ess.harris.com),
Tara and Kingston are Lyndon Fletcher's (etllnfr@deep-thought.ericsson.se)
Please don't use these characters without grabbing me around the neck with
a really good stranglehold first.
--
Dave Williams | "What time is it?" "9:00AM"
dwilliam@jabba.ess.harris.com | "What day?" "Monday"
"Huh? What? Could you repeat the question?" | "Go away. Try me Tuesday"
<mumble mumble> opinions <mumble mumble> mine <mumble mumble mumble>
Crude (part 3)
What has gone before:
TW, a chatsubo regular, is approached by a completely clueless looking
blonde woman who wants to hire a "computer tech" - the job offers 50K,
20K up front. Tara, the woman, gives TW the details of the job, which
involves making a run on Weston LaRue, a merchant bank.
Tara leaves the chat, and meets Kingston, and they agree that TW's
going to jinx WLR security just fine...
-------------
The night sky over the Sprawl always glowed the same greyish-orange
color, a color made up from the reflected lights of thousands of street
lights and neon billboards. It was a sickly color that slowly ate at the
soul, grinding down the hopes of street people who couldn't hide from the
glare at night. It was a color that always set TW's teeth on edge when he
drove around. Unfortunately, the chatsubo was just far enough away from
his apartment that the old battered van was a necessity. The fact that a
storm front was moving in with some really dark and dangerous-looking clouds
just made the skyglow all the worse, since the clouds were so low. A wind
was starting to blow from the East, and it looked like a mess of a storm
was going to blow in.
Maybe it was the glow, the impending storm, or maybe just paranoia, but
TW couldn't shake the itchy feeling on the back of his neck. It was the
same feeling that always pops up right after the decision to take on a
big run. He'd first felt it when he was a kid, getting ready to filtch
cookies from the corner deli.
"Nerves, just nerves - I'm clean," TW thought to himself as he scanned
the ECM telltales on the van's dashboard for the millionth time since leaving
the chat. "Nobody cares about me, I'm a little mouse. Yeah, right..."
-------------------------
*Ring*
*Ring*
"Hello?"
The woman's voice on the other end of the phone sounded sharp and not a
little upset.
"O'Neil? Is that you?" TW was worried.
"Should have known it was you, Terry. You always ring at fucking
inconvenient times."
"Are you ok."
"No. I was about to wallow in self pity. What do you want?"
"Information."
"Figures."
"What do you know about an outfit called Weston La Rue."
He heard a snort form the other end of the line, "They're a bunch of
losers, Terry. This whole goddamn city are a fucking bunch of losers."
TW was silent. He'd known PT O'Neil for a couple of years and he was
aware of her violent mood swings and her talent for self destruction. He
was also aware that she was the fastest information broker in the city and
that she guaranteed results. In a very real way she couldn't afford to
lose business.
She sighed. Then she spoke, her voice horse and drained, "Look I'm
sorry TW, really. It's just that today... Well it's kind of an anniversary
you know, one of the painful kind....."
He could hear her take a deep breath and when she spoke again there was
a more determined edge to her voice. 'Business as usual', TW thought.
"Ok, ok Weston La Rue. They were the oriental subsidiary of one of
those frightfully proper British merchant banks. Used to be based out in
Hong Kong before all that trouble with the Chinese. When all the Brits
were thrown out they moved here. As far as I know all they do is arrange
loans and things for the British expat community."
"They MUST do something."
"Nothing you'd be interested in."
"What about the parent group?"
O'Neil laughed, "There is no parent group, well not anymore. They went
the way of most London banks when the USE moved all the financial stuff
to Hamburg."
"Can you get me in? Public utility, rodent exterminator anything"
There came a pause on the other end of the line, "Ok Terry, for you
it will cost a thousand plus any flash money I need to put around up front."
Definitely back to normal, TW decided. In fact a thousand wasn't bad
for a job like this. O'Neil had access to some of the best hackers in the
city. Still - it paid to haggle.
"A thousand? I thought you said it would be easy?"
"I did. I didn't say it would be cheap. One hour, usual place."
"Ah, can't we meet anywhere else? You know I hate that place."
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
But the line was dead. Something was very wrong with O'Neil TW decided.
It was just another factor that put his nerves on edge and told him that
despite appearances this run wasn't going to be a picnic
.............................................................
By the time TW arrived at the bar, the stormclouds looked like they
were ready to break. He got out of the van, gingerly wondering if he
should take a raincoat. In the end he decided to risk it and made a run
for the entrance.
"Rick's Cafe American" stood on the fringes of Chiba's main business
district and catered for the middle and upper-middle management of some
of the larger corporations based there. With the exception of its Art Deco
style neon sign the outside of the building could be taken for any of the
industrial units nearby. Inside TW knew from experience the place was
decked out as a perfect reproduction of the nightclub from "Casablanca".
It was the kind of place where only the least tasteful of corporate
yuppies could feel comfortable. TW hated it. Cursing, he pulled up his
collar and ran for the double doors. Inside, he found himself in a small
vestibule that served as a waiting room for patrons. A young couple were
already waiting there.
The man was dressed in a custom tailored Italian suit. He had the
look of a Holostar. His partner, on the other hand, was quite a plain
girl. Her dress, however, was a very expensive silk gown. TW decided she
was slumming. He knew real silk when he saw it, how much that amount cost.
Lover boy just screamed escort. He could have stepped off of the cover
of any of the high fashion magazines. Perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect
manners. TW looked at the girl again. She really was painfully plain.
TW wondered if she could be so desperate that she had to pay for it. He
was still pondering this question when the head waiter arrived.
In keeping with the general theme of the restaurant, the head waiter
was dressed as the police chief from "Casablanca", right down to the
eyepatch. On seeing TW he beckoned slowly. TW stepped forward and the
"police chief" indicated a small table set off to one side near a corner
of the room. The table had one occupant, a woman with black hair who was
watching the other patrons with an erie, detached fascination.
"Madam is expecting you."
He walked over to the table, aware that every eye in the place was
looking at him. He glanced to one side and noticed the astonished stares
of a hundred well dressed corporate smallfry. He felt a shiver pass up
and down his spine. Quickly he turned his attention back to the table to
which he was heading. Philipa O'Neil sat transfixed, staring at the other
diners with frightening intensity. There was something about that look
that could have unnerved the strongest of men. It was a look of sadness,
a look of anger and of longing. It was like staring into the heart of
someone's madness, only to find that it was staring back.
TW paused and Philipa looked up at him. Her face had a pale translucent
quality reminiscent of fine china. Her bone structure and features where
small and delicate and once she could have been considered a great beauty.
Now, however, her face seemed gaunt and drawn, her eyes filled with some
unimaginable pain. "A wraith", TW thought, "She looks like a wraith."
Then he remembered that a wraith was an omen of impending death. He
shivered again.
"Well are you going to stand there all night or are you going to sit
down?" Her voice sounded cracked and drawn.
"Philipa you look.."
"..Like shit?" she asked raising one eyebrow, "That's good because
that's how I feel." She smiled and picked up a half empty bottle of
wine, "As you can see, I've been attempting to rectify that situation."
She poured the red liquid into a glass and pushed it over to him.
"Try some. It's chinese Bordeaux, only the best for our Terry."
She smiled, a horrible look of forced joviality. "Tonight", She said,
"Tonight, is by way of an anniversary. Five years ago this very night I,
Philipa Tanith O'Neil sat on the verge of a great and glorious corporate
career." She pushed the glass towards TW, more insistently this time.
"You're not drinking. What kind of party is it if you're not drinking?"
TW sipped at the wine and looked quickly about the room. Attention
had turned from them to the stage where "Sam and Bogie" where providing
the cabaret.
"I liked my work, I liked my lifestyle, I liked MYSELF. My father
was proud of me. I'd made something of my life, I was a SOMEBODY."
She stopped and thought for a second. "Look at me now...." She peered
at the bottle which was now less than half full then looked around for
a waiter.
"Garson?"
A small nervous looking man with more than a passing resemblance to
Peter Lorre appeared from the shadow's.
"More wine" She said, waving the bottle aloft.
"Is madam sure....."
"Yes damn it. More wine!" She slammed her frail looking fist on the
table. The violent action caused the sleeve of her suit to slide up a
little, revealing the barcode tatooed to her wrist.
"Lorre" peered intensely at the black lines for a moment.
"YES madam," He said very nervously,"I'll get it straight away."
He scurried off at high speed towards the kitchen.
She smiled unpleasantly at the departing waiter, "He's been inside."
TW looked at him, "How can you tell?"
She pulled the sleeve up, revealing the whole tatoo. "You get to be
able to read these things on sight." The tatoo was actually comprised of
three distinct barcodes, one above the other. "This top one's your serial
number, the other two say what you've done." She pointed to the second
row. "This says I'm in for espionage and four counts of murder. Being
able to read them at a glance is a useful survival aid... You don't
want to upset the wrong people."
"What's the final one?"
She smiled. "Tell you later."
A different waiter arrived with two bottles of wine. "Complements of
the manager, madam." He said, then left very quickly.
TW watched him go. Then he turned back to her and spoke very sharply.
"This is all about jail isn't it? That's what all this big scene is
about, isn't it? You wallowing in self pity."
She smiled weakly. "Well, I did warn you when you rang."
"Why are you doing this? Ok, so you were a corporate high flier once
then you end up in jail. So what? You've got a good life, a nice place
and a rep some people would kill for. Why don't you just forget it and
get on with living your life. You could start by loosing that Tatoo."
She looked at him. Her eyes were full of anger with that personal
madness just below the surface. However when she spoke her voice was calm
with a detached coldness that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
"You really can't understand can you? I really liked my life. I felt
sure of myself. I was in control. I liked the parties and the lifestyle
and above all, I liked myself. Then it all fell apart. She sipped some
wine. "You've never worked on a road gang, have you Terry? No, of course
not. Well, let me tell you all about it. You get maybe two hundred people -
that's men and women, Terry, the authorities don't want to appear sexist -
and you get them to build a road that no one really needs with their bare
hands. You have no idea just how squalid it is, how demeaning and soul
destroying. The smart ones just lay down and die, only those too stubborn
or too stupid go on."
She flashed him that disturbing little smile again.
"Know what kept me going? Not faith, not inner strength. Just anger,
mad insane anger. I used to stay awake at night just planning what I'd do
to the bitch who put me there. Every rock I broke had her face; I used to
break rocks real well."
"Well now I'm out and I did what you said and started over, but you know
all that stuff on the street isn't my life. I can tell because I don't feel
good about myself anymore. I look in the mirror and see a stranger and I
don't think she likes herself either. I hate what I've become. I have this
bottle of sleeping pills on the top of my wardrobe. Sometimes I hate myself
so much I start to think that maybe I should just take them all and go to
sleep for good."
She looked up at him. "That's why I keep the tatoo. That's why I come
here. When I get that bad I come here to remind myself that someone stole
my life and that makes me angry. Then I look at this tatoo and remember
three long years of hell, and then I get real angry."
She looked beseechingly at him, "The anger's all I have left Terry."
TW drove her home. When they had left the restaurant she had wept
solidly for over an hour, now she slept drunk and exhausted in the back
of the van. Throughout their meeting she had made no mention of Weston
LaRue or any of the preparations he had asked her to make. Instead, she
had babbled on about a girl called Vivien and the price she must pay. TW
had known for sometime that PT had been sent to a US Federal jail for a
crime she claimed she didn't commit, he just hadn't realised how much it
had affected her. Now he cursed his bad fortune that she should choose
this time to break down.
TW backed the van almost up to the doors of her building. The rain was
now torrential and showed no signs of stopping. He carefully lifted the
sleeping woman from the back of the van and went inside. After a lot of
maneuvering, he finally got her inside and placed her on the bed. He was
about to leave when he noticed an envelope with his name on it pinned to
the door.
The envelope was heavy and well packed. He opened it carefully. Inside
was a note which read:
Dear Terry,
I apologise for my behavior today, it's something that I
sincerely hope you will never have to understand. I have no idea how
badly gone I'll be by the time you meet me so consider this note a "fail
safe" in case I forget to mention something.
I haven't been able to find anything on WLR that would explain anyone's
interest. The only thing that may be important is that for historical
reasons they are one of the few western-owned companies able to "write
business" on the Tokyo stock exchange. This means that they can create
or float new companies without the help of the Japs. I don't know if this
helps any.
Your way in is as a janitor. I found out that the buildings are managed
by Osaka commercial and had Wench browse their system. Turns out they just
hired some new guys last week and one of them was due to replace the regular
guy at WLR tonight. I rang him up and told him he won't be needed and Wench
managed to copy an ID card for you. I may be able to put him off for one
more day if you don't get it all tonight. Wench says that WLR has no Matrix
link so from here on you're solo.
This one's on the house, ok? I needed someone tonight and I appreciate it.
Destroy this letter. Your friend
Philipa.
Wench was perhaps the most thorough of the local hackers and as well as
the forged id there was a small list of service access codes for the internal
doors. TW began to feel better about the run. He glanced down at PT as she
slept fitfully. He smiled. PT O'Neil, totally dependable even in the middle
of a nervous breakdown.
He wondered if he should take the bottle of pills from the top of the
wardrobe. He glanced down and watched her as she slept then looked back
at the note. He had a feeling she was going to be all right.
.............................................................
TW's apartment was a testament to the principle of organised chaos.
Although it looked like a dump to the casual observer, TW prided himself
that he could find anything at a moments notice using his patented filing
system. At the moment the room was in a worse state than usual as a large
computer rack lay disembowelled near the table. TW gingerly picked up a PCB
from the floor and stuck it into the rack. He connected a couple of old
ribbon cables and powered up. The console of the old machine flickered
into fitful life.
TW waited a moment and then hit the console with a practiced slam. The
screen flicked and became steady. He turned towards a large couch crammed
into a corner. The encounter with O'Neil had left him tired and he wasn't
sure that it would be safe to make the run tonight. Still, any delay
increased the risk of discovery. He glanced out the single dirty window of
the apartment at the water pouring down from the ugly grey mass of the storm.
"On the other hand, no security idiot in the world is going to be expecting
chummers like me to be out on a night like this."
TW paused to collect his thoughts and started murmuring softly, talking
himself through the preparation for the run.
"I'm a cleaning guy for tonight, huh? Easy enough, I can empty trash
while stealing data. Gotta look the part." TW scratched around in the
pile of clothes laying behind the couch until he found a pair of blue
coveralls.
"Yeah, here we are - mister janitor attire."
TW collected a rotting hunk of gear from the garage and plugged it into
a handy terminal. "You better work better than the damn main computer over
there." A savage kick added another dent to the front panel of the big
computer console. After a few attempts, the deck rattled and groaned, then
started clacking as it punched holes into a strip of yellow paper feeding
into it from a small bin. "Yep, all's OK. You hold together and keep
punching that tape, and you're gonna make me rich. You're so crude you
don't even look like computer equipment anymore." TW ripped the strip
of paper off of the back of the punch, and dropped it on a pile of similar-
looking discards.
----------
The downpour from the storm had let off as TW was preparing the gear,
but it looked like the clouds had just taken a break to churn themselves
up for another outburst. They were collecting into a large central mass
that flickered with the lightning playing between gaps in the cloud. TW
kept a wary eye out as he climbed into his van and headed out on the run
to WLR. A light sprinkle started falling again as the van groaned up the
expressway entrance. The windshield wipers screeched on the glass as
they smudged the rapidly building rain back and forth on the windshield.
TW sat hunched over the steering wheel, as if he could see better if he
was closer to the glass. "What a crummy night. I must be nuts, making
a run in this weather..."
Despite the rain pouring out of the sky, the trip to the office complex
was uneventful. TW waved at the guard at the front gate as he pulled in.
"Whatcha here for?" the guard grunted out over a mouthful of doughnut
and coffee.
"Janitor. I'm supposed to clean ummm, lessee - " TW looked at one of
the glossies the girl at the Chat had given him. "yeah, building 14. I'm
new here, replacing someone."
"Lucky you. 14's the big tower over that way." The guard indicated
a pile of concrete and steel. "Service entrance in the back, loading dock."
"Thanks, chummer." TW drove over to the building and pulled around to
the back, looking for the loading dock. It was a mammoth affair, set up
to hold several freight lifts. The building must have once been a warehouse
or manufacturing center or something, TW thought. You don't need a loading
dock that size for computer equipment.
Sure enough, the inside of the building was a maze of little hallways
that had been thrown together into the structure of the warehouse. TW was
amazed that anyone got work done in this type of place. Sterile white
walls, a few posters proclaiming that company security depended on the
suits keeping stuff hidden, computers logged out, etc. Yeah right. TW
was willing to bet that he'd find quite a few systems sitting right where
the suit had left it when the five o'clock whistle blew. A sudden torrent
of rain outside the loading dock drummed on the roof of the warehouse,
a sound that TW might have enjoyed in better circumstances.
The janitor cart was sitting in a small alcove not too far from the van.
It was a matter of moments to load the paper-tape punch onto the cart, and
cover it with rags and other cleaning drek. "OK, here goes" TW thought
as he headed for the obvious entrance.
There was a guard sitting behind a desk in the entrance atrium. He
glanced up from the paper he was reading, and grunted in surprise.
"You the new guy? Yeah? George finally pissed someone off good, huh?"
"Yeah, I'm the new clean guy."
"Well, make sure that you don't screw up like George did. Better get
here on time without smelling like a brewery. Lesse your ID, please." TW
handed over the ID badge to be swiped through the guard's reader. 'Well,
now we find out just how good PT's hackers are', TW thought to himself.
The card reader blinked a green light.
"OK - offices are all yours. Have fun cleaning, huh?" The guard
was already buried in his paper, his job done.
"Sure. No problem." TW headed the cart down the hall toward the warren
of offices. The trash cans in the offices were filled with bureaucratic
toxic waste - forms filled out in triplicate, pink "originator's copy" forms,
the junk that the corporate world runs on. After a few offices worth of trash,
TW had a nice pile of trash collected in the cart's bin. It'd be no problem
to hide paper tape in this stuff.
A few more turns, and there was the computer center. Big door, leaded
glass, armoured lock plate, the whole nine yards. The door had one of
those keypad locks, which were so easy if you knew the combination.
"Alright Wench, you passed the first test. You up to the next one?"
TW punched the first sequence from PT's list into the keypad. It must
not have been the right one, because the keypad buzzed a universal computer
buzz that indicated negative success. TW wasn't suprised, since he had five
codes to try. It would have been nice if Wench could have pointed out
which codes went with which doors.
"No problem - let's just try this one..." This time the buzz was a
bit more negative sounding, if that is possible from a simple piezo
element. Now the keypad had a row of red LEDs lit up, looking ominously
like a grinning skull face to TW. A cold sweat broke out on TW's forehead.
He was standing just outside of his destination, locked out. As a matter of
fact, he could see a system console on the other side of the room. It
even looked like it was logged in, for pete's sake.
"Calm, calm - easy, now. Don't panic. You've still got three codes
here." TW tried to wipe the cold sweat from his brow, but only succeeded
in causing a chill to run through his body. "OK, number three's a charm.
Code is 13-6-98."
*beep*, *beep*, *beep*, *beep*, *beep*
*CLICK*
"Whew." The LEDs on the keypad went out, to be replaced by a non-
threatening looking green one. One push, and the door swung open on
quiet hinges. "I owe you one, Wench." TW pulled the janitor cart
in after himself, and surveyed the systems in the computer center.
TW couldn't believe the machines sitting there. Old stuff, terrible.
"Geeze, no wonder these people don't have net access. Who'd want to,
with this crap?" The old system hummed along to itself, though.
"Whatever works, I guess." TW mumbled as he sat down at the console.
It was displaying some sysadmin stuff that the operator had left running.
"I absolutely cannot believe my luck. This is ridiculous." A few quick
cable hacks, and a tap later, TW had the paper punch machine rattling away
beside the console, dumping the dataset that had the codes. The paper tape
exiting the punch rolled out of the back of the machine and collected in a
tangled mess there.
The rattle of the punch hammers sounded like a large crew of jackhammers
to TW. He kept glancing back out the door, expecting the guard from the
entrance to come running in, demanding to know what the noise was about.
The rattle of the hammers stretched on and on, and TW's heart started pounding
in a rhythm with them. The tape kept on rolling and rolling out, collecting
in a big mass on the floor.
"Come on, hurry up, dammit!" The rattle continued, the loud hiss of
the tape sliding through the rollers sounding like a jet plane exhaust
to TW. After an eternity, the paper punch finished, and ground to a
halt. The sudden absence of noise caught TW by surprise, since he had
been watching the hallway for the guard. It looked like the thing had
completed, and dumped the entire dataset in fine form.
TW collected up the pile of paper tape and wrestled it into the trashbin
of the cart. With some of the other trash in the bin, it looked like
typical office trash. "What's that mister? Valuable data? Nope, just
paper trash to re-cycle here..." TW chuckled to himself.
The offices were just as much a maze going out as they were going in.
"Lessee - left turn, right turn, long hall - what?" the expected long hall
was nothing but a meeting room. "Uh oh. This should have been the way out."
He headed back toward the computer center. "OK, think carefully big guy -
I passed a meeting room, a john, and some stupid lab on the way in. Look
for those." Mild panic begin building as TW found a lab, but it was radically
different from the one he remembered.
TW was lost, confused, turned around, and plain befuddled. He sat down
on the cart edge to try and get his bearings. Of course, the supervisor
that was looking for "the new guy" surprised the hell out of TW when he
rounded the corner behind him.
"Alright, wise guy - you wanna tell me what the hell you're doing here
with your ass planted like some couch potato? This isn't a lazy-boy,
you know." He kicked the cart, sending TW tumbling. "Get up. This is
your work inspection. I better find no dust or anything in these offices
or it will be your ass, mister."
"Oh shit" thought TW. "This idiot is going to bust my ass for not
cleaning offices. Great."
"Ummm, sir, I - Ummm, I haven't gotten to these offices yet."
"What did you say, boy? Haven't gotten to these yet? What the fuck
have you been doing for the last hour and a half, sitting on your ass
out there in the hallway? Smoking out in the warehouse? What?"
"Well, I kinda got lost in this place, and was trying to find my way
back out to the loading bay, since I forgot the mop and stuff when I
came in." TW lied. He was sweating so much it started running down
the back of his neck.
The supervisor rolled his eyes. "I don't believe this stupid... - here,
I'll *show* you where you are." He walked down the hall two doors, and
opened a third that led back out to the loading dock where TW's van was
parked. "There. Go get the damn mop and get the fucking floor cleaned
in there. I've got to go check up on another goof-off on the other side
of the building." He turned back down the hallway, shouting behind himself
"And those offices better be squeaky clean when I get back in an hour or
so..."
"Yeah, right. Good riddance." TW mumbled as he slid the cart out and
into the loading dock, and started laughing as he loaded the thing into
the van. This was the perfect cover. New guy gets lost in the offices,
fumbles around, the supervisor harrasses him, so he leaves. Hey perfect.
The rain was sweeping down in a absolute downpour as TW pulled the van
out of the loading dock. The van's creaky old windshield wipers weren't
even close to being able to cope. "Just great. Stupid rainstorm." After
a few wrong turns, TW finally found the front gate again. The guard
inside the booth just waved at him, not wanting to get wet. TW started
laughing again as he pulled out onto the road and headed for the chat.
"Well, I'm laughing all the way to the bank, I suppose, since there's
30K new ones waiting for me there. Heh heh heh."
********************
At that moment Kingston was picking his way gingerly through the
downtown traffic. The rain was intense, almost overcoming the wipers on
his car and creating a dirty watery haze through which he had difficulty
seeing. He left the main highway and headed down towards the Strip,
Chiba's red light district. Here Geisha girls and traditional Japanese
tea houses sat uneasily next to modern western sex palaces and it was
said that anything could be bought for a few NuYen. The streets here
were narrow and usually choked with people, but tonight in the middle of
the worst storm in living memory there was not a working girl or
panhandler in sight.
Kingston pulled into a side alley at the end of which was a simple
metal barrier in front of a downramp. Leaning through the window
Kingston punched out an entry code and the barrier rose. The ramp was
old, its concrete surface pitted and discoloured. Kingston drove down
through the large puddle of water that had collected at the bottom.
Kingston locked the car and walked quickly to a nearby door and raced
up the stairs. At the top, his progress was blocked by a mediterranean-
looking muscle boy in a diner jacket. On seeing that the visitor was
Kingston, the bouncer stepped to one side with a grunt. Kingston nodded
then headed down a short corridor to a fire exit. Pausing to raise the
collar of his raincoat, he pushed the door open and stepped outside.
The cold and rain hit him like a physical blow and for a second he
staggered backwards. Tara's apartment was still several blocks from here
and though he knew that the club was the safest place to leave the car,
he was tempted to risk parking it nearer on this occasion. Gritting his
teeth, he pressed on. Kingston had never considered himself to be
particularly emotional, he prided himself on his clear head and cool
decisions. Recently, however, the twin evils of fear and desire had
been playing havoc with his reserve. Now as he made his way down the
rain soaked alley, his mind was in turmoil. He had descended into a
paranoid nightmare world where all his misdeeds where known. A world
where every secretaries whisper was about him, where his every word and
gesture betrayed him to colleagues and friends. He felt that everyone
must know what he and Tara were planning and every moment he waited in
agony for the police to arrest him. He had tried to tell himself that
he was foolish, that he should get a grip on himself. Then just an hour
ago he had been told that a special task force was being sent from
America to review their operation. This was all the confirmation he
needed. They knew everything and his fate was sealed.
Kingston was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't see the girl
till he was right on top of her. She had been squatting at the end of the
alley underneath an overhanging section of building. She had obviously
seen him, for she had thrown back the hood of her raincoat and stepped
out in front of him.
"Mista?"
Kingston looked down. Before him was a young oriental girl of maybe
fourteen or fifteen. Her face was small and delicate with an earnest
expression, her short black hair damp and stuck down. She was wearing a
clear plastic raincoat which extended to just above the knee and a pair
of cheap plastic sandals. The rain had left a slick glittering pattern of
water on the coat and perspiration had produced a thin opaque film on
the inside. When he had lived in New York Kingston had developed a kind
of blindness to the street people and beggars which had served him well
in the orient. However, once they talked to him he had no defence.
"Mista?" The girl asked again. Seeing she had his attention she continued.
"You want me Mista?" She asked as she pulled the coat tightly across
her body to reveal her nakedness underneath.
"You like?" She asked hopefully. "Special rate tonight Mista, only fifty."
Kingston looked embarrassed. His voice had left him and all he could do
was shake his head. The girl looked disappointed and shivered.
"You sure?"
Kingston managed to clear his throat. "Err yes. Look why don't you go
inside - you must be freezing."
A frightened look spread over the girl's face and she shook her head
quickly. "No. Not without money."
Kingston just stared at her. Finally the meaning of this sentence dawned
upon him. "You mean they won't let you inside without a customer?"
The girl looked at the street and just nodded then she looked up at him
beseechingly. Kingston had a vision of absolution, a method to pay off fate
and his guilt. He reached into his pocket and withdrew some crumpled notes.
"Fifty you say?"
The girl nodded eagerly.
"Well look, take this money and tell whoever that I've gone to buy a
carton of cigarettes and will be back later. ok?"
"You not come?"
"No, I have to go somewhere."
"You don't like me?"
"Look, I like you ok. I like you very much it's just that I'm busy right
now." He paused and tried another tack, "Look, it's on account. I'll see
you about it some other time."
The girl needed no further prompting. Quickly she grabbed the notes he
offered and dashed across the street to a seedy looking hotel. In the
doorway she was stopped by a tall brutal looking man. She spoke to him
for a moment, showed him the money and indicated Kingston. The man
stepped aside and the girl darted gratefully inside. The man nodded at
Kingston, who nodded in reply then the man went inside.
Kingston didn't know what value fate placed on the saving of a freezing
whore on a Tokyo street, but he felt better than he had in weeks.
Tara's apartment was on the top floor of a decaying tenement a few
blocks away. The place was tacky and run down but as Kingston approached
it his heart raced. Since he had met Tara a few short months ago, his
life had been turned upside down. He was captivated by her beauty, her
passion and his desire. He still couldn't believe what they were
planning. The fear of discovery burned in his gut like a red hot poker,
but he had to confess that she was worth it. He felt he would willingly
die for a single smile.
He pressed the doorbell. There was a pause while, he supposed, she
checked through the peephole. Then the door opened and Tara stood there
dressed in a silken housecoat with a towel in her hair.
"Come in," she said,"I wasn't expecting you for hours."
As he stepped inside, his heart started racing faster.
Suddenly, she grabbed the sides of his face and kissed him.
"It's so good to see you, lover. I've missed you so...." She saw
the look on his face and stopped.
"They're on to us." He said.
"They?"
"Head office. I was told today that they're sending a team of
experts to oversee the project."
She sat down on a battered settee. "That doesn't mean they know
about us. You told me yourself that the project's behind schedule,
perhaps they want to speed things up?"
"Makes no real difference. If they oversee the project, then they
will handle the security on the data transfer.
She shook her head. "I don't think so. They have no reason to
suspect you and they can't oversee everything...."
"Think of the money." she said, then kissed him.
"Think of our plans." She kissed him again.
"A moments risk for a lifetime's pleasure."
By now Kingston was aroused. He placed his arms around her, but
she pushed him away.
"Hey, this is your birthday remember? I've got you a present."
"What is it?" Kingston asked.
She smiled, "Wait here, it will take me a few minutes to get it ready..."
She left him and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
"What do we do if these people do interfere?"
Tara's voice came through the door. "Don't worry - they won't.
In a couple of days our friend from the bar will make his move. When he
screws up, your trouble shooters will be having too good a time tearing
strips out of Weston LaRue to worry about us."
"Suppose he doesn't. Fail that is?"
She giggled, "Back home I used to hang out in a bar called "The
Gentleman Loser". It's a hackers joint where all the talented freelances
meet. There were always these kids hanging about, wanabe cowboys there
to soak up the atmosphere and look tough. They all had these big stories
of how they where responsible for kicking some Zaibatsu's butt. In truth
they have enough difficulty breaking out of their own front door. Our
guy's almost a textbook case. Your trouble is you worry too much."
"Well I'm finished. Want to come in and see?"
Kingston opened the door. Inside the room was sparsely lit by a number
of small irregularly spaced lamps. He peered inside. Tara was stood in the
middle of the room - a vision in black and white. Kingston stepped closer,
his breath already horse as his eyes drank in every detail. Tara stood
with shoulders back and legs slightly parted. Her breasts where thrown out
a little and held in place by a shiny black bra in a material he didn't
recognise. Though as slick and black as rubber, it seemed to be finer and
more supple. Getting nearer he realised that behind her back her arms
where encased in long gloves of the same material. She wore a black
garter belt and hose and on her feet where 3 inch black high heels. Her
blond hair fell freely about her shoulders. She pouted and for the first
time Kingston realised that there were three patches of red in the
otherwise monochrome ensemble. The first patch was her lips, they
were large and ruby red against the paleness of her makeup. Below them
was the second, a large red ribbon was tied around her neck, the bow
offset to one side. Kingston's eyes panned down to the final patch.
Tara was wearing no panties. Instead using some more of the two inch red
ribbon she had fashioned herself a kind of G string. The ribbon wound a
tortuous course down through her nether lips, then back and round,
terminating in a large scarlet bow just below her navel.
"Well, what do you think? I wracked my brains trying to think what to
give you. Then I suddenly thought I'd give you something really important,
something you could really USE."
She emphasized the last word by thrusting her chest our further. Her
nipples where now little buttons pressed hard against the shiny black
fabric. For some reason, Kingston thought of the little whore in the
alleyway. Then he was caught up by his own excitement.
She looked at him coyly. "Well," She purred, "Aren't you going to unwrap
me?"
She thrust her pelvis out. With trembling hands Kingston reached for the
bow. He tugged and the knot came apart. As he continued to pull the ribbon
free, he became aware that most of it's length had to pass between her nether
lips. She started moaning and bucking the ribbon, the air was full of her
scent and the ribbon damp with her passion. When the last of the ribbon had
pulled through, she suddenly pushed forwards. Kingston smelt her perfume,
felt her nipples pressing into his chest. He felt the slick smoothness of
her gloves as her arms encircled his neck.
Then she kissed him, and his world exploded............
-----------------
The chat was buzzing at the normal level of hypertension when TW got
there. The rain dripping off of the overcoat he had put on joined with
the other crud tracked in by other chatsubo patrons to form a sticky mess
just inside the door. TW had traded the janitor outfit for a battered
pair of jeans and a tee-shirt, along with the soaked overcoat. With some
boots and a gun, he looked the part of the normal chatsubo patron.
"Ratz - lemme use your phone."
"No calls of long distance, or you pay me big" Ratz grunted before
he slid the phone over to TW. "You mess with my phone bill, I mess with
you."
TW dialed the number Tara had given him.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
*click*
"Hello, you have reached Systech voicemail! Systech is happy to provide
you with service for any business needs! Call our..." the voice droned on
for awhile, advertising some lame software. Eventually, it got to the good
part. "Please state the name of the party you wish to send mail too at the
beep."
*beeeeeeeeep*
"Tara"
"Party recognized. There is no outgoing message for this party. Would
you like to leave a message?"
"Yeah, tell her that I've got..."
"I will record at the beep."
*beeeeeeep* stupid machine.
"I've got it. You owe me 30. You meet me at the chat before Friday,
and we'll talk. I'll sell the shit to someone else after that."
Hanging up the phone, TW started dreaming of the junk he was going to buy.
"Yo, Ratz - Lemme have a cool one over here..."
--
Dave Williams | "What time is it?" "9:00AM"
dwilliam@jabba.ess.harris.com | "What day?" "Monday"
"Huh? What? Could you repeat the question?" | "Go away. Try me Tuesday"
<mumble mumble> opinions <mumble mumble> mine <mumble mumble mumble>
Crude part 4 (van? what van?)
------------
Late night Chatsubo - REALLY late night, when the idea of night is
starting to make the gritty slide into the bleary-eyed fuzz of early
morning. Biz at the Chatsubo had wound down, the hackers out on the
net in search of ice to burn, street samuri out cleaning the knives
of the nights crusted leftovers. A body lays slumped over a booth
table, numerous discarded beer bottles making a poor pillow.
"Come on buddy, closing time - let's roll outa here before I gotta
roll you out." From behind the bar where he was finishing up the
cleaning, Ratz guaffed at the bouncer.
"Leave that one, Kurtz, he's had quite a night - I'll get him before
I lock up, right?"
"Fine. He's all yours. I'll be in at nine tomorrow, then." Kurtz
herded a few of the other Chatsubo deritus out of the bar on his way out.
The rattle and clink of glasses continued for awhile, then Ratz shoved
the load into the cleaner. The hum of the ancient sanitizer disturbed
the sleeping figure.
"Huh? What? Owwww!" TW sat up and rubbed his aching head. He
wished he hadn't, as the full effect of a night of carousing hit him
straight between the eyes. He slumped back onto the table, dislodging
a few beer bottles. "Owwwww..."
"Here, technist, drink this - it is my own specialty." Ratz set the
glass of murky liquid down in front of TW.
"Go away."
"It will help, trust me."
"Leave me alone. I want to suffer by myself."
"You can't stay here, TW. I've got to get home. Drink this. Grump
about your life later."
TW eyed the glass warily. "This is gonna hurt, isn't it?"
"Would I want you hurting?" Ratz rolled his eyes at the thought.
"I need you awake and walking, so you will walk out without me kicking
you out."
"Some nice guy you are." TW raised the glass to trembling lips. Sure
enough, the liquid was as evil-tasting as it looked. It did the trick,
though, as TW's headache eased somewhat. His head only felt like it was
stuffed with cotton, rather than molten lead. TW surveyed the collection
of beer bottles scattered over the booth's table. "Wow. I must have had
one hell of a good time."
"Maybe, you could say. Lonny's girls, they sure did enjoy your tips
last night."
"Tips? Great. I probably paid for Lonny's drug bill for a coupla weeks."
TW patted his pockets. "Shit. I didn't leave myself with any pocket
change. Figures."
"You did have the presence of mind to let me hold this for you, at
least." Ratz was holding a credstick in the claw of his prosthetic arm.
"Good thing, too, since several sticky-finger types went over you."
TW picked up the credstick, which to his surprise, read 12K. "Twelve
thousand! Where the hell did I get this kind of... -- waitaminute" the
details of the previous evening's run on Weston LaRue flooded back into
TW's memory. He'd been paid 20K to go get some net codes.
"Holy smoke, Ratz, I made one hell of a run last night. Did that
blonde bimbo catch up with me while I was out?"
"No, unless you mean some of Lonny's..."
"No, no, you know the one - the clueless one - called you 'mister'."
"Nope - haven't seen her since."
"Well, I need to see HER. She's got more cash for me when I deliver."
TW checked his watch. "Yeesh, I better go see about dumping the stuff
to a datacube, and get some sleep."
TW almost collapsed when he stood up, but was able to hang on to the
booth edge enough to keep the Chatsubo from spinning away completely. He
picked his way out of the bar, and around to the Chatsubo's parking lot.
Nothing was in the lot except for a few grimy pieces of fax blowing around.
"Where the hell's my van?"
------------
For a second Tara wondered what had disturbed her. Normally she was
a heavy sleeper capable of easily dozing into the afternoon. She fought
off the last vestiges of sleep and lay looking at the ceiling, wondering
what was wrong. As she had been taught, she monitored her environment.
Kingston's bulk still lay next to her on the bed. The rhythm of his
breathing was quicker than she expected, as if he too had been disturbed.
The room was still dark except for the occasional flash of light coming
from the neon signs and video billboards outside. The sound of the hustle
and bustle in the street had diminished. Tara glanced at the illuminated
display of the clock by her bedside and was shocked to discover that it
was 5am. She struggled to drag herself upright, only to discover Kingston's
arm across her chest. Kingston moaned and tossed fitfully. Then Tara
heard the doorbell. Kingston grumbled some more and Tara took the
opportunity to slip beneath his arm. As quickly as she dared, she slipped
out of the bed and grabbed a short robe of a silky material from the
bedpost. As she walked to the door she glanced furtively back at the bed.
Kingston lay naked on the silken sheets, his body sprawled out as
if he was attempting to cover the entire bed. His breathing was even
quicker than it had been, but he was still in a deep sleep. She carefully
pulled the door closed, and was rewarded with a quiet click as it latched.
Tara frowned as she tiptoed toward the apartments main entranceway. Who
would be attempting to contact her here? She paused at a small set of
shelves beside the door. There was a hidden gun taped underneath the
bottom shelf. Tara eyed the door and made a quick decision. She reached
under the shelf and tugged loose a small ceramic handgun. The grip and
barrel of the gun were adorned with the duct tape that had secured it to
the bottom of the shelf. Tara clicked the safety off and jammed the gun
into the pocket of her robe, despite the fact that it was not well concealed
in the flimsy material of the robe. The weight of the gun bumping against
Tara's thigh as she reached for the door reminded her that she was half
naked. She paused to wrap the robe more tightly around herself before
peeping through the spyhole.
A Japanese man paced impatiently outside the door. He seemed young,
in his early or middle twenties. His face was plastic smooth, his hair
styled according to the latest holofashion. He wore a reasonable Chinese
copy of a Georgi Vastalavich suit. Its royal blue crispness sat ill at
ease with his dayglow bopboots, however. At regular periods he would look
at the door and chew thoughtfully on his gum. At length he started towards
the door his hand reaching out to knock...
Tara yanked open the door and seized the man by the arm, pinning him
in the doorframe. She shoved the muzzle of the gun against his temple.
"Hey, what...?" Tara clamped her hand over his mouth. His eyes
widened and he looked startled. With the gun, she indicated the bedroom
door. He nodded once and she released him.
"Hey babe, hang loose..."
"Shut the fuck up." She hissed. "I have company." She glanced
quickly across the room to the door of the bedroom. She felt sure she
could hear Kingston moving on the other side of the door. She looked
back to find Shicuru looking down her cleavage.
He saw her scowl. "Hey babe, just admiring the view."
She stepped back, pulling the robe tighter around her body, hiding her
breasts and the shiny bra. Shicuru, seizing his chance, entered the living
room and immediately headed for the drinks cabinet. Tara started to
follow but a more pronounced noise issued from the bedroom. With a look
of panic, she ditched the gun on the small shelf unit and as quickly and
quietly as she dared, closed the apartments door.
Shicuru started to say something, but her fevered gesturing persuaded
him to stay quiet. Tara tiptoed over to the bedroom door. Slowly, she
opened it. Kingston was stirring and moaning in his sleep. Tara crossed
to the vanity and opened a large ornate makeup case. Inside were lipsticks,
blushers and tubes of foundation makeup attached to little boards. She
hurriedly moved the upper layers to one side and selected a tube of
foundation from the bottom of the case. Pausing to check she had the right
one by the flickering light of the window, she squeezed about an inch of
the contents on to her gloved fingers.
"Tara?"
She froze, silhouetted by the light of the window.
"What... What's going on???", Kingston struggled to sit up. "What
time...?"
Tara moved the blinds apart. "A couple of drunks, darling, that's all."
She turned towards him. She held her free hand out of Kingston's view as
she spread the makeup over the surface of the glove. She released the
blind and stepped towards the bed. "I suppose it's only natural, this is
a bad neighborhood after all."
Kingston glanced again at the clock. "Why didn't you wake me?"
She sat on the bed. "You have to go to work, lover. Besides," she
said smiling, "I like to watch you sleep..." She moved towards him across
the bed. "...watch you breathe..." She placed her arms around his neck,
her breasts pushed flat against his chest as she used her weight to force
him down. He lay on his back and she straddled him, and started to slowly
massage his shoulders. "...makes me realize how lucky I am."
She felt his arousal. He grabbed the flimsy material of the gown and
tried to pull her down across his body. His erection slapped against her
leg. She fought back as she continued spreading the "makeup" across his
skin as quickly as possible.
"Shushhh, lover," She whispered. "We have to go to sleep now.
You have a big day tomorrow."
Kingston seemed suddenly dazed. He tried to keep his mind focused on
Tara but he suddenly found that he was so tired. His consciousness slipped
away, like grains of sand through his fingers...
Tara watched as his eyes started drooping. Glancing down, she could
see that he was no longer excited and that his breathing was becoming
slower. She slid off him and lay still for a moment with one leg and
arm draped across him. To Shicuru, watching through the crack between the
slightly open bedroom door and its frame, it seemed a peaceful expression
of love between two people. Suddenly, Tara sat up turned on the light.
She blinked for a moment then quickly raised each of Kingston's eyelids
in turn. Apparently satisfied, she climbed off of the bed and started
walking towards the bedroom door.
Her face and body language, which seconds before had expressed love
and concern, now had a look of cold detachment as if the figure on the
bed were no more than a side of meat. Shicuru shuddered as he hurried
back towards the drinks cabinet.
Tara was in the process of removing her right glove as she walked back
into the living room. She was rolling it down her arm so that it was turned
inside out. Shicuru noticed that although the outside was slick and shiny,
the insides where of fine micropore rubber like the finest surgical gloves.
Remembering her look as she had left the bed, Shicuru shuddered again.
"Hey, don't change for my benefit." He said as he eyed up as much of
her outfit as the robe allowed. "Besides, I hear the hooker look is in
this year." He had hoped that she would rise to the jibe, get angry, upset.
Anger was an emotion Johnny knew only too well. He had been angry all his
life.
Tara was completely unaffected. She turned on him with the same
emotionless look she had in the bedroom.
"Why are you here, Shicuru? I thought I made it clear that the target
would be present tonight. You could have crashed the whole operation."
Shicuru smiled. He remembered her scene with Kingston and decided that
this icemaiden act was just to phase him. He grinned back at Tara as he
unwrapped a new stick of gum and stuck it in his mouth. Two could play at
these games.
"How's the 'target'" He asked while still smiling widely.
Tara had removed the other glove and was in the process of fixing
herself a drink. Shicuru fancied Tara popped a pill just before she
downed the glass in one gulp.
"I've dealt with him," She said. The coldness in her voice was
unchanged. Despite his better knowledge, it was starting to freeze
Shicuru's blood. He glanced over at the shelves where Tara had ditched
the gun in her haste to reach Kingston. His mind, trained on the battlefield
of L.A's streets, did the calculations and decided she couldn't reach it
before he could stop her. Glancing back at her he then did a similar
calculation again. Tara was young, healthy and he decided, very fit. She
had a compact dancers frame with little fat but also very little dense
muscle. It would take an impressive martial arts skill to give her the
advantage she needed and he knew she didn't have it. He smiled again.
"You still haven't answered the question. What is a stupid heap of
shit like you doing here risking nine months of careful work?" The voice
was even more cold and distant. Shicuru decided that this time the
truth may have more impact than any of the inventive lies he could think
of.
"Your guy made his move. He's got the stuff, wants to do the exchange."
"What?" In an instant her mask cracked. Confusion and disbelief spread
across her face. His early life on the streets had taught Johnny to grab
his chances where he could. He pounced.
"Made the call a few hours back. Said you should contact him to arrange
delivery."
"A few hours??" Disbelief and anger. Johnny was liking this better
and better. Maybe the icemaiden could be cracked, after all.
Johnny frowned. "Yeah. Sorry about that - we didn't bother monitoring the
voice mail last night as YOU said it would be too early. Alice Tyler, who
set it up, checked this morning to see if everything was still up after
last night's big blow."
"He must think we are stupid or something. I only hired him this morning.
No one can do a job that fast."
"I can name at least three guys who could."
"Bullshit! Look, I've worked with some of the best jocks and hackers
in the biz back in the states..."
"Ah! Back in the States? Wise up, bitch. Compared to Chiba the States
is a tech backwater. There's more Newtech on one Chiba street corner than
in half the research labs in the Union! Tech theft isn't work for amateurs.
This kind of work needs specialists. Somebody like a Faceman, a Sneaker,
maybe a Creeper. Any of those guys, given enough juice could lift your
codes in a couple of hours flat." Tara looked stunned at his outburst, her
lower lip trembling slightly. "By the way," He added, "Those coupla hours
includes the lunch break."
"He's stitching us." She finally managed to say. "He knows that we
only want access codes. Little asshole's made some up and hopes we won't
find out 'till it's too late." Shicuru shook his head. "Not fucking likely.
Round here a guy lives 'n dies by his rep. He stitches you up and he can
kiss other work goodbye."
She turned on him. "Look, he was just a sad little scumbucket, ok?
Sat drinking his life away in a seedy little downtown bar. What's he care
if he never works again? 50K is more than he can earn in a lifetime!"
"Fifty kay?"
"I gave him twenty up front. If he didn't run or escaped WLR's security
I could get the stuff back anyway. If the plan went ok and he was picked up,
well no one is going to believe he was paid twenty big ones to rip off the
stupid little codes we sent him after." She stopped, her mind obviously
racing. Shicuru decided to break in again, to deny her the time she needed.
"So who did you hire?"
"Kingston took me to some hackers hangout. I'm supposed to be an
innocent in these matters, remember? How's an erotic dancer supposed to
know where to hire a console jock?
"Where?"
"Downtown someplace. I think it was called the teacup or something
similar."
"The Chatsubo?" Shicuru felt an uncomfortable feeling run down his spine.
"Look, did the barkeep have a mechanical arm?"
She nodded silently as she attempted to remember TW's face. A face which
at the time she believed she wouldn't need to ever see again.
Shicuru laughed. He couldn't believe this woman, couldn't believe her
stupidity, couldn't believe that moments before she had worried him so.
"Chatsubo's where most of the talented characters hang out. It hasn't
been open long but already it's the place I'd go if I was hiring. This guy?"
"I think someone called him TW."
Shicuru gave a twisted smile. "Terry Whitesides. He's what's known on
the streets as a Maverick. It means he's good at enough stuff to be in a
class of his own. I'd count him as one of the three guys I mentioned."
Tara looked up. Her earlier confidence and bluster had gone. Now she
looked like a pathetic child. "Could you find him for me?? Please, it
could be very important."
She looked so weak, so pathetic as she stood there begging for his help.
In all the pacing and shouting of the last few minutes, her robe had started
to come open again revealing the "Hooker" outfit underneath. Johnny wondered
lazily which one he preferred, the haughty sex kitten she'd been when he
arrived or the pathetic little supplicant standing in front of him now.
He decided to let her dangle, see just how pathetic she could get.
"Can't help you. TW's got more contacts than the phone company. If I
sniff around he's gonna know."
She drew closer. "Please?" She pressed herself against him, "My
principle is going to be very displeased if this falls through."
"What's the matter babe? Afraid you're going to loose that nice little
corporate job you've got?" Seeing a worried look flash across her face, he
pulled her towards him., "Hey, don't worry. Just make sure they let you
keep the hooker outfit. There's always an opening on the strip for corporate
castoffs."
Her eyes flashed with anger. She stepped back and started swinging a
hand at his face. He intercepted the slap easily, allowing her forward motion
to propel her into him.
He twisted Tara's wrist up to pin one arm behind her, then seized her
other wrist and pinned her left arm also. She struggled. Her body, so
close to his, writhed and twisted. Shicuru found he was getting quite
excited.
"That's quite a temper you have there babe. If you had as much juice
to back it up I'd be in real trouble." Tara stopped struggling and just
glared at him.
"Use your head. TW doesn't know there's anything wrong. He expects
you to turn up at the Chat to pay him off. He has to meet you 'cos he
wants the money. If me an' my guys start looking for him he'll just head
underground. The way he knows this city, finding him could take a loooong
time. Gedit?"
She nodded slowly. Shicuru felt her go limp in his grasp. She seemed
utterly dejected. Triump welled up in his heart. He'd cracked the ice
maiden. He dropped her wrists, releasing her.
"Well, got to hit the street, babe. People to do and things to see, ya
know." As he walked towards the door he pointed to the gun. "Oh yeah,
I'd hide the gun, ok? It could blow your cover." He smirked as he opened
the door and left. Once the door closed Tara visibly relaxed. She streched
for a bit, then walked over to the door and replaced the security chain. She
paused to replace the gun under the shelf, then fixed another drink.
Next to the couch was a small handbag. She sat down, reached inside
and produced a small cellular phone. She sipped slowly at the drink as she
waited for an answer.
"Hello? Carter? Shicuru was just here. Seems that the guy we picked
made the run..." Tara held the phone away from her ear as it buzzed with
outrage for a bit. "I know, but Shicuru thinks he's legit... Look, I need
a couple of guys as backup when I do the exchange... YES, I'm going through
with it. I have no choice, since he's seen me. We pick him up after the
meet and keep him on ice 'till the job's done." She listened to the phone
for awhile as she sipped at the drink again. "Look Carter, I paid for a
scapegoat, ok? When I pay, I get my moneys worth. He can take the fall
for the whole deal when we tidy up. Posthumously, of course." She smiled,
a cold hard little smile that would have put Shicuru's teeth on edge. "The
guys name's Terry Whitesides. That's not a common name 'specially in Japan,
so you shouldn't have too hard a time finding him. I need a full workup
with psych specs... Well, he must be tricky to do what he's done, being
able to second guess him would be useful. Besides, I like knowing which
buttons to press..."
She sneered and glanced towards the window. "I tested Shicuru's profile
out tonight. As expected he has a strong fear reaction to authority figures...
No, I tried only four, he reacted violently when I appeared weak and was
supplicant when I appeared strong. He's had a standard western upbringing and
reacts well to standard western socio-erotic imagery so I forsee no problems."
She glanced over at the bedroom door. "No, he's almost finished.
Indoctrination and conditioning stages are complete. He'll do anything I
ask." She smiled, "On schedule and in budget - I don't think they'll
complain... Ok, tomorrow. Ciao."
She put the phone down. She retrieved another pair of the black gloves
from a nearby drawer so that their absence would not appear odd to Kingston
when he finally came out from under the drug.
She opened the door and stood for a moment watching Kingston's drugged
sleep. "Soon lover, YOU are going to make ME very, very rich....."
----------------
TW rubbed his eyes, and glanced fitfully around the Chatsubo's parking
lot again. The van was still missing.
"Oh Shit." TW slumped down on the sidewalk. "There's 30K worth of paper
tape in that van. Who the hell would steal that?"
The bar's front door squeaked slightly as it swung open. The sound
electrified TW. "RATZ!!!! Wait! Don't lock up yet!"
"What, you need to abuse your liver more? Go home, technist."
"No, wait. Ratz, someone's stole my van."
"So? Buy yourself another with the money you say you made."
"That's the problem - the stuff I need to deliver is in the van,
where ever the hell it is. Whoever is fronting the money for the dizzy
dame probably won't feel to bad about deep-sixing me if I can't deliver."
"Sounds like trouble, technist. What will holding my front door open
do to fix you up?"
"Lemme use your phone, Ratz. I gotta make a coupla calls."
"Phone. Geez. Maybe I should put up a sign, maybe call this place the
phone booth rather that the little teacup?" Ratz swung the door open.
"Phone's in the normal place, just under the bar."
TW's trembling fingers punched out the comm code on the phone. He was
rewarded with the electronic buzz of TelCom South's ring. "Come on..."
A sleepy voice finally answered. "What?"
"Lansing? TW, man. I need some help."
"TW? What the fuck are you doing calling me at this time of the morning?"
"Sorry - I need some help, man."
"Forget it, man. Last time you asked me for help, I nearly got rolled
three times, and shot at twice."
"No, no, I just need some wheels - someone's ripped off my van, and I
need to get home to pick up some gear to track it down."
"Yeah, and last time you called me, you just needed a processor for an
old machine you were fixing. I still got shot at."
"Look, I'm sorry about that. I told you that already. Just come pick
me up at the Chat, will you? I'm really in a jam here. There's money too
be made, Lansing. Big cash."
"From your old hunk of junk van? This I gotta see. That rattletrap
thing isn't worth the gas I'd use to come get you."
"No, but something IN it is. Just come get me, will you?"
"Yeah, alright. You owe me, man."
"Thanks."
TW hung up the phone, and turned back to Ratz, who was idly poking
at a pile of bar rags stacked behind the bar.
"You know, technist, of all the companies I deal with, I hate the phone
company the most. I move into this place, the payphone doesn't work. I
call them up, and they go 'what phone booth?'" Ratz pointed back at one
of the dark corner of the bar. "You see that thing?" TW squinted his eyes
and tried to resolve the dark shadows of the corner. Here in the Chat, dark
corners were the norm, but this one was a masterpiece. TW took a faltering
step, and slowly became aware of a dark form, a hulking mass of an ancient
wooden phone booth built into the corner of the room. He'd never noticed
it before. It seemed to loom there, almost defying TW's ability to look
directly at it. TW shook his head to clear the strange image from his
head. TW turned to Ratz, who smiled an inscrutable smile. "Erie, isn't
it?" TW nodded. "I found some papers in the back that the previous owner
had used to file a repair request. They were dated two years ago. When
I call them up and give them the report number for that request, they tell
me 'Your request is on file, sir, you should see a repairman within a week.'
Ha. I've been waiting three months now."
"Three months? TWO YEARS?"
"Yeah, something like that. I think they got it out for me. I gotta
let bums like you use MY phone since they won't fix theirs." He poked at
the pile of rags again, but only succeeded in making them fall over into
a more discheveled mass.
--------------------
Lansing wasn't happy when he pulled up to the Chatsubo to pick up
TW. Even at this time of the morning, with the bright sunlight shining
into all the corners, the area still held its own aura of danger. Like
a hidden knife covered with a greasy old rag. TW was waiting outside
the Chatsubo, glancing around occasionally as if he expected to be knifed
at any moment.
"What is it with you and this place, anyway?" Lansing asked by way
of greeting. TW shrugged as he climbed into the passenger seat and
slumped dejectedly there.
"I dunno. Biz maybe. I think it's in my blood. Thanks for the help,
by the way."
"Yeah, no prob." Lansing pulled away and headed for TW's beat-up
apartment complex. "Just as long as I don't get shot at, this time."
"It might come to that before we get done. I gotta find that van,
or I'm a dead man."
A few minutes later, they pulled into one of the generic slums that
the city laughingly called residential zones.
"Pull around to the back, will you? I've got to get some equipment
out of my storage space." TW pointed out a narrow alley. Lansing
grimaced as he navigated through the confining, tunnel-like space. The
rear of the building was a veritable trash-heap. Broken bottles and bits
of scrap metal lay around in a haphazard wreck. A pair of dirty kids
eyed the car warily as they contemplated some complex problem of their
own, apparently having to do with a small pile of aluminum cans. TW
produced a brass key and indicated a heavy door. "Be back in a second.
Keep your eye on those kids. They've been known to attempt car parts
theft with the owner still in the car in question."
"Great, just great." Lansing fumbled around underneath the seat as
TW headed for the storage bin. The reassuring bulk of the heavy pistol
soon put the message across to the watching kids that this was not a
potential job. The standoff held until TW came back with an armload of
various junk.
"OK, here we are. Head back out and drive around for a bit. I hope
I can get a fix." TW plugged a cord into the car's cigarette lighter,
and attached it to some sort of radio receiver. He then stared intently
at the screen as he twisted a control knob and waved an antenna back
and forth.
"What in the world are you doing, anyway. Some kind of techno mumbo-
jumbo rain dance to bring back your rust heap?"
"The van isn't rusty, it just has faded paint. And no, this isn't
some kind of voodoo or anything, it's a tracking receiver for a locator
beacon. I can zero in on the van as long as we get around four miles or
so away from it." Under his breath, TW muttered "And the transmitter
keeps working."
-----------------
TW and Lansing belong to me - dwilliam@jabba.ess.harris.com
all other characters (except Ratz, of course) belong to Lyndon Fletcher
Please don't use them without getting a really good stranglehold around
my neck first.
--
Dave Williams | "What time is it?" "9:00AM"
dwilliam@jabba.ess.harris.com | "What day?" "Monday"
"Huh? What? Could you repeat the question?" | "Go away. Try me Tuesday"
opinions mine
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