>From: km4j+@andrew.cmu.edu (Kip G. Moore)
Subject: Cyberprose Part 2 (longish)
Date: 14 Dec 90 16:10:08 GMT



     The wet drizzly rain is caressing the windows of the Chatsubo this
stuffy night, unseasonable even for the minimal variations in the Sprawl
weather patterns.  Tonight the dull reflections of the city outside
don't even glow through the window of the bar; and the only light that
the people inside are aware of is the dull orange sodium glow of the
biofluorescent strips clinging to the ceiling.  Tonight, Leadfoot is
still bellying up to the bar, still nursing his Black Russian, still
waiting for an opportunity to get that troublesome wet spot behind his
ears dried.  Up 'til now, nobody has approached him, nobody has even
attempted to talk to him.

     Things don't look like they are about to change, either.  Until the
Dark man strides through the door.

     An extensive hush drapes the babbling dirtboys and glowing
razormaids as the Dark man nimbly crosses the bar to accost Running Wolf
and Argent in their sacred spot of dancing lights.  The Dark man and
Running Wolf exchange words and emotions of dismay, concern, and finally
anger sweep across Running Wolf's carefully controlled visage.  For his
part, Argent looks strained and turns away.  Running Wolf stands erect
at the same time as the cat-eared barmaid addresses him and asks him a
question.  For all to hear, for all to boggle at, for all to recoil in
horror, Running Wolf says in his clear, powerful voice: "Don't worry too
much, Nekoko.  Remember... that's *Li* they've got.  I think they may
find themselves with more of a handful than they bargained for."

     And Running Wolf dashes out the new steel door into the drizzly
mist outside, slamming the door open and dissolving into the night.  The
door's hydraulic hinges close behind him softly, almost in reverence.

     The pall of silence is lifted.  Even Ratz is shaking his head,
stunned that Li has let herself get kidnapped.  "I never would have
believed it," he mutters through yellow teeth.  "Never."  Leadfoot turns
to view the scene inside the bar.  All of the people are in some
attitude of disbelief.  Some people get up and leave hastily, afraid
that ARES' audacity will not stop at making Li disappear; they fear for
their lives.  Others inspect their weapons.  And others, like Leadfoot,
turn towards Ratz for a refill, the last drink they know they'll have
for a while.  The Dark man and Argent are left sitting alone at a table,
alone with their own private demons, trying to be at peace with
themselves.

     Time passes.  The mist/drizzle/rain outside dwindles to a halt,
leaving behind it a mixed smell of rotting garbage, sewer water, and
must.  The bar slowly settles back to its usual attitude of forced
relaxation, but the undertone of concern gives the Chatsubo a
razor-sharp attitude that does not dissipate with the passage of time.

     Argent seems to be intent upon concentrating this attitude and
focusing it into nervous energy.  After a couple of hours of impatiently
twitching and nervous waiting, he stands up and stalks out of the bar by
himself.  The Dark man, whose name, Ratz says, is Tracker, remains at
the table, watching Argent's departure.  Leadfoot turns around to face
Ratz.

     "What can you tell me about Argent."

     "Argent's lovers with Li," Ratz cracks a grin that would scare a
statue.  "Not a fighter, a medico if I read him right.  He'd get wasted
in a second if he was without Li, but then again, Li probably wouldn't
be alive, as she hopefully is right now, without Argent."

     "So where d'you think he's headed?"  Leadfoot downs the rest of his
drink in a single swallow.

     "Probably to try to find his own way of getting Li out of trouble.
Argent has this nasty impatient streak.  Probably get him killed
someday."

     Leadfoot leaves several nuyen on the pitted bartop and swings off
of the creaking barstool.  "Keep the change."

     Ratz mumbles something about the anachronism of physical coinage,
but sweeps the crumpled bills under the bar with a nearly contemptuous
flick of his newly-repaired arm.  "Hully gee, *Leadfoot*, thanks."
Leadfoot flashes Ratz a winning smile as he, too, leaves the Chatsubo.

     Pausing on the pitted pavement in the front of the bar, Leadfoot
checks his weapons.  Stakkaker with ten extra clips.  Digital readout in
his peripheral vision says that the battery that has replaced the bone
in his forearm is fully charged, ready to power the x-ray laser in his
Zeiss eye.  Katana and tonfu secure in their sheaths.  Leadfoot pulls
the hood of his impact armor over his head, closes his trenchcoat, and
sets off down the street after the faint infrared trail that Argent has
left.  Seeker 'bots scamper rapidly to avoid his softly padding feet,
kicking up random scraps of trash in their frantic escape.  Spotlight
glare abruptly washes over the adjacent storefronts, painfully
highlighting the jagged broken facades of decrepit warehouses.
Leadfoot decides to make himself scarce and oozes into the shadow of a
nearby doorway, but it's only a robotransport, splashing through the
shallow puddles left by the recent rain.  Distant budda-budda of a
'copter thrums down the street, reflected sound off of the nonuniform
buildings spawning bizarre echoes which dangerously interfere with
Leadfoot's ability to keep track of Argent and the clumsy merc following
him...

     Argent makes an abrupt turn down a badly-lit side street, which is
odd, because few streets in this part of the Sprawl are lit, if any.
Seeing that it would probably be suicide to make his move in a lit area,
the merc draws up short and disappears into a warehouse on the corner.
Leadfoot follows the merc.

     The warehouse is quite empty, scrubbed clean by seeker 'bots and
scavenging street urchins.  The pieces of machinery too large to move
without destroying the warehouse in the process are all that remain,
along with common scraps of polystyrene and pseudo-metallic trash
littering the floor.  The dull glow of the street shines through the
plexiglassless windows, filtering through the inscrutable machinery and
bouncing off of the reflective trash, creating a kaleidoscope of
patterns on the back wall that undulates in time with the swift,
stagnant breeze that streaks through the desolate warehouse.

     Leadfoot glues himself to the wall and watches for the merc to
reveal himself.  There, over by the door on the opposite side, scuffles
the merc, aiming an accusing gunsteel-blue finger out of one of the
vacant windows into the street outside.  Leadfoot composes himself and
enters a brief trance...

     Leadfoot slides across the floor with cavernous silence, draws his
tonfu, grabs the merc around the head with a wiry grip, slits the merc's
throat.  She collapses against the wall, dropping the anaesthetic sniper
rifle she was carrying which clatters to the floor, moving past
Leadfoot's vain attempt to stop its fall.  The merc dies with an
astonished look upon her face, stunned by the lightning fast onset of
death, amazed that she never even heard it coming, wild-eyed with fear.
With nothing more than a prostesting gurgle, the merc expires, the
rictus of death spreading its ugly fingers over her young face.
Leadfoot shakes his head, cleans off his tonfu on one of the omnipresent
scraps of trash and uses it to cut off the ARES patch located on the
jumpsuit above her right breast.

     After picking up the rifle and tucking it away, Leadfoot wonders at
the clumsiness of this attempt to kidnap Argent.  It didn't seem
characteristic of ARES' modus operandi to send a solo merc after anybody
they wanted to bring in.  Wasn't like ARES to underestimate their enemy.
 Maybe they've saturated this sector with independent agents to try to
use a divide and conquer technique against anybody.  Maybe this person
is just a copycat of some bizarre sort.  She wasn't exactly of ARES
character.  Leadfoot shakes his head again and resolves to ask one of
the veterans about this; as of now, it's a bit out of his league.  He's
got Argent to worry about.

     Leadfoot cautiously steps out of the warehouse onto the lit street
and scans the area up and down for a sign of Argent.  There, beside a
booth on the corner, a booth covered with graffiti and condensation, is
Argent.  Leadfoot steps out of the shadow of the warehouse and into the
flickering light of the street.  Argent's head snaps around at
Leadfoot's movement and his hand disappears into his coat.  Leadfoot
continues to stride towards the booth, almost daring Argent to make a
move.  Argent's face creases into a grin of recognition as Leadfoot
approaches, but his hand remains firmly hidden.

     "Argent.  Glad I found you." Leadfoot brings out the patch and
throws it at Argent, who catches it in his free hand.  Upon realizing
what he holds in his hand, he launches a curious eyebrow into orbit.

     "Where the hell did you get this?"  Accusatory tone.

     "Took it off the merc following you."  Argent recoils in disbelief.
 "She was supposed to kidnap you, but I don't think you'll have to worry
about her now.  You know, you really should pay a little more attention
to the things going on around you.  Li's kidnapping has been tough on
all of us, but that's no excuse to pull novice Wilsons."

     "Yeah, right," Argent breathes.  "Sorry, pretty stupid of me.  I'll
just have to do better the next time, eh, Leadfinger!"

     "That's Lead*foot*, to you, pal.  I may be new to this place but
i'm not as stupid as I look.  Think about it, *chummer*, I just saved
your ass."  Pulls out the anaesthetic rifle.  "I don't know what's in
this, but I'm sure you really don't want to find out.  Or do you?"
Leadfoot levels the rifle at Argent, who backs off slowly, hand outside
of his coat now.

     "Hey, okay, you made your point.  Now put that peashooter down, huh?"

     Leadfoot tucks the rifle back where it came from.

     "Now here's my proposal.  You need my help; I could use someone who
knows what's going down to show me the turf.  As I said before, I want
to lend a hand, as corny as it seems.  Whaddaya say.  Will you have me?"

     Leadfoot stands back and waits as Argent considers the
possibilities.  The rain begins to fall again, more acidic than ever.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

                           -bananafishbones

"Think of it as evolution in action."

------------------------------------------------------------------
Leadfoot's overstressed and underpaid author is going on Christmas
vacation for a solid month, and as a result, will be out of touch with
the Net until approx. mid-January (o horror of horrors!).  I have given
temporary copyright control to Liralen, a.k.a.  phyllis@amc.com , so if
there are any questions about Leadfoot, she's the one to ask.  --Merry
X-mas all, and try to stay out of trouble.

Thanks again, Liralen.  (gotcha last)


From: km4j+@andrew.cmu.edu (Kip G. Moore)
Subject: Cyberprose Part 4: Purgatorio
Date: 2 Apr 91 17:43:58 GMT


     If there's one thing that Leadfoot *really* doesn't like, it's
waiting.  Not to mention the fact that he is waiting alone.  In a cold,
wet trenchcoat.  With several cramps racing up and down his left leg.
The cramps feel like a giant, invisible hand is reaching its fingers
into his leg, playing his muscles like a harp, twanging and vibrating
them with sadistic consistency.  His wet coat provides no warmth
whatsoever and the impact armor he wears under his clothes wasn't
designed to keep you warm.  He's going to have a nasty bruise where his
stakkaker is digging into his thigh, and a headache is emanating in
slow, greasy waves from the warm spot where the Matsushita M-89 is
jacked into his skull.  The only warm spot on my entire body is giving
me pain, thinks Leadfoot angrily as he pulls his coat around him tighter
still in a futile gesture to retain some semblance of warmth.  He
shivers.

     This was Running Wolf's idea, wasn't it.  We need you to create a
diversion, Leadfoot, we need you to help us get by ARES security.  Your
job is vital, your talent necessary.  So here he was, the novice, the
fall guy, the target that ARES would aim at when the klaxon came
crashing into their world, banshee-wail edge slicing through your
nervous system, reflex response to terror spasming across the compound
like the cramp in his leg.  He'd get shot at while everybody else
bravely dared the unknown that was inside the looming monolith of the
ARES research complex.  What indescribable fun.  Offered up as a martyr
for the cause and if he lived through it, well, all the better.

     But I figure I deserve it, thinks Leadfoot.  I was supposed to be
guarding Argent, but now he's laid up somewhere hopped up on
immunosuppressives so his new heart doesn't get killed off by his own
t-cells, flying high on endorphin analogs to keep him from noticing the
pain, strung up in a net of tubes that are keeping him breathing.  I
wonder if he knows what's happened to him, I wonder if he's awake, I
wonder if he knows I've failed him.  He entrusted me with his
life......and I betrayed that trust like I betrayed Asp.....

     Medicine Hawk had found Argent.  Leadfoot had seen Argent, and that
sight would stay with him until he died.  Impaled on his own bed, naked.
 A single drop of blood had trickled down his chest and pooled on his
abdomen; it looked like an exclamation point, an imperative, a plea.
The tear that had trickled from Argent's horrified eyes had dried on his
cheek from the light breeze that was ruffling the blue gauzy curtains.
An anonymous beam of actinic arc-light was diffracting off of the edge
of the katana that had stuck him there like a collected bug and formed a
perfectly bright star that seemed to float several inches above Argent's
cold breast.  It was as if the katana had not only impaled his body but
speared his soul as well, fastened it down, prevented it from letting it
separate from Argent's body.  Keeping his soul alive, alive with the
knowledge of how he died--no torture could have been more exquisite.
Then the medtechs came and Leadfoot had been shuffled aside like so much
meat.

     Medicine Hawk told Leadfoot in a quiet voice that there was nothing
he could have done, he was not at fault.  As a matter of fact, he was
fortunate not to have interrupted the blue demon that Li had become.
Otherwise they would have not one, but two cooling bodies on their
hands.  Sometimes these things happen, said Medicine Hawk, and they must
be accepted and dealt with.  There was a sadness in his eyes when he
spoke.

     Through the miasma of his self-pity, Leadfoot saw that he wasn't
the only one hurting.  It was easy to see that, now.  It was almost a
credit to him that it had taken someone of Li's caliber to get through
him.  It wasn't really his fault.....was it.  Leadfoot pauses and
stiffens as he hears something--The distant mumble of an aged, overused
attack 'copter pushes these thoughts out of his head.  Here he has a
chance to redeem himself and, for once, lend a helpful hand instead of
cramping everyone else's style.  Don't fuck up.

     A little pulsing alphanumeric light went off in the peripheral
vision of his Zeiss eye.  GO, it said, KICK ASS.  That must be Medicine
Hawk, thought Leadfoot as he emerged from his cramped crouch and
limbered up.  Move quick, smartboy, they'll get here soon.  Leadfoot
enters a brief trance, and becomes *silent*.  A little trick he had
learned from his brother, before he and his brethren had been hunted
down and exterminated like common vermin by an ARES protoype H-K on some
distant, isolated island.  The only survivor had been the young
cat-eared woman who was now piloting the rapidly approaching helicopter.

     When *silent*, Leadfoot makes no noise.  Not even his heartbeat can
be heard without a direct-line subcutaneous implant, which makes him
effectively invisible to the sonic deadline that surrounds the compound
like an invisible fence.  He *silently* moves across the field toward
the deceptively simple chain-link fence that marks the outer perimeter
of the ARES compound.  The infrared tripwires never see him because his
body temperature is at least two and a half degrees centigrade lower
than normal.  Maybe it was a good thing he had been sitting motionless,
losing heat for so long.  And the little infrared that his body was
generating was absorbed by the folds of his wet coat.  I wonder if
Running Wolf realized that when he told me to get here early; thought
Leadfoot.  He probably did.

     Leadfoot approached the fence.  Crafty buggers, aren't they.  The
fence was ordinary chain-mesh carbon-steel kevlar weave.  Can you see
those glittering lines there, Leadfoot?  Those are monomol fibers, pal,
and your little tonfu ain't quite enough to do the job.  Those monomol
fibers must be real thick for moisture to bead on them like that.
Almost as thick as spiderweb.  He nearly laughed aloud at the image that
popped unbidden into his mind--an H-K trapped in the web of a giant
arachnoid, like in some ancient 2-D flatscreen vid.  They're so
arrogant, these ARES goons, they probably didn't even wire it with an
alarm.

     Leadfoot stood back--and nearly stepped on a screamer in the
process.  Whoops!  That wouldn't do now, would it?  A screamer, you see,
is a little amalgam of resin and plastique.  Kinda like a mine, but with
no metal parts to detect.  If enough pressure is brought to bear on the
resin case, it spontaneously reacts with the plastique, causing the
whole thing to explode.  They call it a screamer because that's what you
do when one blows your legs off at the knee and the resulting shock
shatters your spine.  Leadfoot can see the 'copter now, trailing a
spreading stain against the overcast, thumping along determinedly,
getting closer.

     Leadfoot uses the onboard computer in the Matsushita to help him
target a line along the fence with his x-ray laser.  The most powerful
weapon he possesses, bar none, is something he uses very sparingly.  One
in every five of the artificial rods and cones in Leadfoot's Zeiss eye
is replaced with a lasing element about ten microns tall.  He uses the
casing of his eye as an electromagnetic focussing device to orient the
beam, and a battery/prosthesis that has replaced his left ulna powers it.

      Leadfoot <looks> at the section of the fence he wants to cut away
and he kicks it and it softly falls away, no problem.  An invisible
sword a mile long has just given him the key to the ARES compound.  The
helicopter isn't far away now, movemovemovemove......

     *Silently* Leadfoot eases through the new oval hole in the fence to
find himself staring face to face with a rapidly talking guard going for
his machine pistol, fast, too fast.  Leadfoot leaps, rolls, draws and
fires.  His stakkaker.  The hundreds of supersonic glass filaments that
hiss out of the barrel simply erase the man's head, reducing it to a
fine grey-pink mist, no time to scream.  Close again, too close.
They're onto him now, that headset he was talking into will give him
away.  Before the guard has even begun to fall, Leadfoot runs as fast as
he can towards the nearest side of the complex.  Keep moving, moving,
moving.....

     The ARES complex begins to flash bloodred.  Dammit.  Leadfoot had
hoped to remain unnoticed for at least five more seconds, but he figures
that maybe the fence was wired after all.  Oh well.  From the windows a
dull red emergency light is illuminating the grounds, oozing out of the
windows and streaming across the weed-infested grounds. No klaxon.  They
must all be wired for sound, thinks Leadfoot as he breaks out of his
brief reverie.  He cuts open a plexiglass window with his tonfu and
*silently* slips inside the building.

     Once inside, he finds himself in a nondescript hall of generic
yellow linoleum origin.  The flashing red light is strobing quickly,
alternating dizzyingly with the industrial-strength fluorescent arcs,
provinding enough illumination to see people running through the
adjacent hallway.  Crouched in an alcove, nobody sees or pays attention
to Leadfoot as they run past to destinations unknown.  Leadfoot knows
exactly where he is, however: Corridor G3-a-14 according to the floor
plans that Gestalt had been able to get for them.  *Silently* he emerges
from his crouch and sweeps swiftly down the corridors, ducking into
doors and hiding in empty rooms to avoid the roving guards.....  Left,
left, duck, right, left, straight, left, keep moving!!!  Here's what he
was looking for--the security center.

     A small room with four or five people in it sitting at computer
panels, dressed in typical ARES drab, wearing oversize headsets that
makes their head look like it is wrapped in circuitry, a microchip
infection.  They are jabbering madly in some kind of supersimplified
paramilitary dialect, trying to get a fix on the intruder's position and
ohmygod he's right---Leadfoot fires two antipersonnel grenades into the
room and keeps running.  Dull red flame the same color as the light
washes out of the room, feeling the heat on his back as he suddenly
falls flat on his face, rigid as a statue.

     What the--somebody shot me!!  Damn fool, shoulda kept an eye on
that corridor...The impact armor unstiffens and Leadfoot picks himself
off the floor.  He fires at the featureless figure that is dashing
toward him through the flames of the exploded room.  The figure jerks,
once, twice, and stumbles through the flame, and Leadfoot just barely
catches the look of unutterable surprise that was plastered on the man's
face as he gets up and runs for the stairwell.  Leadfoot has no idea
where the 'copter is right now, but he knows that the automatic air
defense systems are on the roof and he'd better get there pretty damn'
quick.

     Racing up the stairwell, Leadfoot encounters no more ARES
personnel.  He knows that there is an auxiliary security base located
somewhere in a distant wing, but knows also that it is never kept
manned.  He figures it'll take maybe five or so minutes for ARES to
unfreeze and get it operational; five minutes and it'll probably be too
late for 'em.  Only in case of emergency.....Feeling the effects of the
cramp in his leg, Leadfoot is beginning to breathe a bit hard and the
crosshairs that the Matsushita generates in his artificial eye are
beginning to become permanent parts of his vision, like the afterimage
of a flashbomb burning, burning.  He bursts out of the stairwell and
onto the roof and...oh shit.

     On the pebbled roof in ARES generic guard mufti are two sentries.
One of them is fairly close to Leadfoot, about fifteen or so meters
away.  The other is carefully lounging by the railgun that occupies the
larger part of a more distant corner of the roof.  They both see
Leadfoot instantaneously, their heads swiveling around to face him,
staring at him, locking onto him with their sleek, standard-issue ARES
assault cannon.

     Behind them, the railgun is swinging ponderously to bear on the
flatulent, smoke spewing attack helicopter that is on its landing
approach, too close, way too close.  Leadfoot can also see both of the
monocles they wear that are used as a constant-feedback targeting
system, much like the kind in his own Matsushita.

     Their crosshairs are glowing an angry red, much the same color as
the emergency lighting inside the complex.  Leadfoot is at Ground Zero.

     So Leadfoot does the only thing he can: he fires first.  Advantage
of surprise counts for maybe a few hundredths of a second here.  He
dives immediately for cover and sends a blistering barrage of explosive
bullets and the remainder of his grenades in the general direction of
the railgun emplacement.  Guard #1 ignores this and fires at Leadfoot.
Brave fellow.  That fusillade would have turned most body armor into
mincemeat and that guy didn't flinch, I fired right by his damn' EAR fer
gossakes...The railgun isn't even dented as the grenades detonate off
its side and the bullets carom off its shielding.

     Fortunately, the roof isn't nearly as strong as the railgun's
armor, and it sags ponderously, pointing at the zenith now.  Bullets
buzz past Leadfoot as he scampers for cover.  The 'copter is now below
the railgun's field of fire and dropping fast, clattering down a bit too
fast, Nekoko spooked a bit by the ricochets.  Some of the ricochets are
intercepted by Guard #1, who now seems to have the jerky motion that is
characteristic of the alternating rigidity of impact armor under fire.
Guard #1 begins to run toward Leadfoot.

     Just as Leadfoot hits cover he sees Guard #2 getting tossed about
by the blast the grenades made, and he notices the stop-step motion that
again, indicates impact armor.   Guard #2's targeting improves, and some
ricocheted shells zing around and thwack off Leadfoot's own impact
armor.  Each shell feels like an ordinary magnum load meeting kevlar
clothing.  Leadfoot is beginning to wish that he was facing H-K's
instead of these impact-armored cannon-toting ARES meatballs.  He
reholsters his Matsushita, knowing full well that even the armor
piercing ammo he has couldn't penetrate impact armor.  No way.
Leadfoot, from behind cover, fires his x-ray laser for the second time
this day.  And probably for the last time; the battery could only eke
out so much power from its cells.

     That was the neat thing about x-ray lasers--they only affected the
thing you focussed on and utterly ignored everything else.  The heavy
barrage was suddenly cut off, and he felt rather than heard a soft thud
nearby.  Leadfoot peeps out from cover and takes stock.

     He could barely hear the helicopter now, it had dropped below the
level of the roof and had presumably landed safely.  Guard #2 had
dropped his cannon while being tossed about and Leadfoot could see it
lying about five meters away from the guard, in plain view.  Guard #2
hadn't seen it yet and was scrabbling madly for it.

     Guard #1 was lying on the roof, in shock.  Leadfoot had lasered off
his left leg and a spreading pool of blood was staining the rooftop
pebbles red.  His cannon was sliced neatly in two, the exposed matte
black gunmetal glinting menacingly in the light of the fire.  Leadfoot
swore soundlessly as he broke cover and made for Guard #2.  He hadn't
wanted this to get so messy, not like this.  But he has to keep moving,
moving if he wants to live through this.  Medicine Hawk and the others
are on their own now.......He's done his part.

     Guard #2 looked up just in time to see Leadfoot bearing down on
him, katana upraised.  He grinned and raised his arm to deflect the
blow, but lost the grin as the monomolecule-edged
blade....cut....off....his....arm.  The guard howled in surprise and
clutched the stump and fainted dead away, flat-out unconscious for the
duration.  He could survive if he didn't relax his grip...Leadfoot
sheaths his katana and runs for the edge of the roof.  He couldn't go
back through the complex, too risky, so he jumps.

     Only four or five stories, no problem.  His impact armor holds, yet
again, saving him from snapping his back upon impact.  His breath is
solidly knocked out of him, and he blacked out.

     He wakes up quickly, however, only out for a New York minute at the
most, and finds himself near a large oblong cylinder that had several
pipes leading from it.  A calling card, thinks Leadfoot evilly as he
picks himself up and shakes the cobwebs from his head.  On the fall, the
Matsushita had been badly jarred and a error message was strobing across
the extreme top of his vision.  It was telling him that the targeting
and monitoring systems of its battle computer had been damaged in the
fall, but the weapon itself still functioned.  He could still see the
afterimage of the crosshairs etched there in the dead center of his eye,
only white now.   Leadfoot began to run, no longer *silent*, but he
didn't care anymore.  He just ran.

     When he reached the fence, he paused and reloaded the Matsushita
with the last few explosive bullets he had left.  Sighted, aimed, fired,
very carefully, no targeting to tell him where to fire.  The shells
ripped into the tank he had fallen near and detonated.  Much to his
surprise, the tank did not burst into a giant ball of flame as he had
expected, rather, a white cloud of cryogenic gas billowed out, and he
could hear the sounds of structural members of the complex begin to
snap, windows shattering in fractal symmetry.  The sight of frost
forming on one side of the building and flames and smoke billowing out
of another area along with the rapidly strobing lights turned the
complex into Dante's dance hall.  And all in eerie silence, no sound
save for the crackle of fire and ice waging their age-old battle across
the twilight sky, shadows from both camps twitching and writhing,
wrestling across the vibrantly colored, polluted twilight sky and
reflected in the ebon sheen of Leadfoot's state-of-the-art Matsushita.

     But Leadfoot just turns around and heads right back through the
hole in the fence that he came through.  Long before he made it back to
the motorcycle he had used to get him here, he heard the helicopter lift
off again, dopplering away into the gloomy twilight.

     Later, he found a bullet that had been trapped somehow in his
now-ruined trenchcoat.

     He slept well that night, without dreaming.


                                 -bananafishbones

========================================================Medicine Hawk
created by Ken Aubey (kaubey@europa.asd.contel.com)

Running Wolf created by Ross TenEyck (teneyck@tybalt.caltech.edu)

Nekoko created by Hubert Bartels (hgb@catalina.opt-sci.arizona.edu)

Do not use Leadfoot without my permission, implicit or explicit.

Thanks go out to the rest of the Rescue Rangers, especially Hubert,
Phyllis, and Joan; aka Chip, Dale, and Gadget.  Take your pick, guys!!
Ain't nobody here but us H-K's....To those who are still following this
thread, thanks for being patient.

Comments, suggestions, observations, etc. are encouraged!

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In the darkness of future past, the magician longs to see.  One chants
out between two worlds, Fire, Walk With Me.

Not responsible for advice not taken.   -Niven

>From: km4j+@andrew.cmu.edu (Kip G. Moore)
Subject: Cyberprose Part 5:A Hiatus
Date: 15 May 91 17:16:14 GMT



<-> indicates distant, third person perspective


     Leadfoot woke to bright sunlight glowing through the windows of his
apartment.  His eyes opened slowly, and surveyed the room.  He had come
in late; his armor and weapons were strewn across the bedroom, draped
carelessly across chairs and dumped casually on the floor.  It was good
to be back in a familiar place, familiar prints hanging on the wall,
familiar overstuffed chairs, familiar nightstand.  He rolled over
sleepily and immediately regretted it.

     Wincing in pain and now fully awake, Leadfoot lifted his covers and
inspected the damage.  He was covered from head to toe with green-purple
bruises and the angry slash-red of welts.  There was a burn on the back
of his hand that was becoming dangerously inflamed.  Impact armor
apparently wasn't designed with padding in mind, thought Leadfoot wryly.
 I'll have to bring that up to Asp the next time I see her.

     Carefully, gingerly, Leadfoot oozed out of his bed, taking extreme
caution to favor the turned ankle he had just discovered.  He crept over
to the bathroom, stepping over empty Matsushita cartridges and random
bits of fiber optic cables that littered his floor from his latest
attempts to wire his antique seventh-generation PC together.  And the
bathroom was in no better condition.  Towels strewn across the floor
impeded his progress to the plastiform sink/medicine cabinet.

     Leadfoot looked at himself in the mirror, and for the second time
this morning found himself suffused with the twinge of regret.  To say
he looked awful would be.....an understatement.  The deep shadows under
his eyes made his face look hollow and emaciated.  There was a nasty cut
just above his left eyebrow of unknown origin, and a shallow abrasion on
his cheek looked like it was getting infected.  Leadfoot sighed and
pulled out a pain-killer derm and an antibiotic derm from the medicine
cabinet and affixed them to the inside of his wrist.

     After taking one of the most delicious showers one could ever hope
to have, Leadfoot eased his way over to the kitchenette to fix himself a
cup of coffee.  He filled his antique Braun with water and plugged it
in.  Soon the scent of a pot of '23 Folgers Decaf (an excellent year)
permeated Leadfoot's sinuses and massaged his head with its delicate,
insistent pungency.  Leadfoot poured himself a mug, savoring every
precious drop.

     But he didn't linger too long.  The others were counting on him to
show up at the safe house to do his share of taking care of Li, so
immediately after finishing his cup of coffee, Leadfoot threw his
clothes and impact armor into the ultrasonic washer, and was headed out
the door in five minutes, clothes freshly cleaned.

     Leadfoot lived on the 26th floor of Lindstetter's Needle, the
highest building in the Seattle Sprawl.  As a matter of fact, it was one
of the pillars that held some of the larger domes up, and was the only
one of the so-called Great Five that was a residential area.  The other
four buildings were all owned by various "entreprenurial consortia" from
the yakuza (rumored) to Maas-Neotek Biolabs.  Unfortunately, Leadfoot
didn't live high enough to reach above the domes, but it was a good
place to live all the same.

     In the elevator, Leadfoot strapped on his arsenal, including the
Matsushita, which he hoped to get Medicine Hawk to take a look at for
him, seeing as how its computer had been damaged in the fall that
Leadfoot had taken off the top of the ARES research complex.  He strode
confidently (albeit with a lilttle limp) out of the elevator and to the
door where his bike was waiting for him.

     <A heavily armed young man straddles his motorcycle and fires up
the advanced two-stroke natural gas engine.  Quiet blue flames mushroom
briefly out of the tailpipes, but before the young man can get on his
way, a slim woman dressed in mimetic camouflage places herself
resoultely in front of the motorcycles path.  The young man stiffens and
freezes absolutely still.  The woman slowly approaches the young man and
mouths a question at him.  The young man responds tersely, quivering.
The woman demands of him and the young man responds angrily, composure
lost.  The young man then dismounts from his 'cycle and reenters the
building, the woman right behind him.>

     <Moments later, they leave together.>

     Later that day, a message arrives for Medicine Hawk.  "Gone on
involuntary fishing trip.  Sorry to leave you hanging.  Will get back to
you if I survive.       -Leadfoot"

      He swears, quietly.

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"Medicine Hawk" created by Ken Aubey  (kaubey@europa.asd.contel.com)

Infinite thanks to all those involved in the Model 66 scenario: Phyllis,
Joan, Hubert, Ross, Jonathan, Ken, and Tracker.  Thanks for being there.

See you in the Fall............

-bananafishbones