From: cffitzge@IASTATE.EDU (Charles F Fitzgerald)
Subject: the dancer, part 1
Date: 9 Sep 92 05:29:15 GMT

This is my first time posting to a newsgroup, so I hope you all enjoy
my attempt at cyberpunk.

---

It was just like a painting.  The dark edges of the dumpster raised
slightly above the canvas of old newsprint and pizza-boxes created the
perfect frame.  The figure stretched across the piece lay as he fell,
his dark, pin-striped, Italian made-to-order suit providing the
perfect contrast to light shapes of abandoned refuse.  It showed
perfectly, to the artist's mind, the current state of the human race.

The only flaw she saw as she surveyed her work from the rusted fire
escape landing three floors above was the distracting motion of the
figure's mechanical eyes.  As he fell, his dark, aviator style sun glasses
slipped from his face and now lay in a twisted pile beside the sleek
barrel of the German made XK-7.  She didn't mind the glasses
themselves or their position--they said something to her about the
nature of technology due to their juxtaposition with the
state-of-the-art handweapon.  No, it was just that, bereft of control,
the million euro optics behaved in a chaotic manner that tended to
draw attention away from the piece as a whole.

That and the red spot in the middle of his chest.  When she first
viewed the wreckage that had been her adversary, she felt the red
contrasted well to the pristine white of the big man's silk shirt.
As time progressed, however, the red invaded more and more of the
white, until she felt that it was a little overdone. Taken all in all,
however, she concluded that the piece was one of her better efforts.

She raised her arm from her side to analyse the instrument that
assited in her work.  It was about ten inches long, black, and rugged.
She popped the clip from grip, put it the pocket of her black leather
jacket, and inserted a full one, all the time admiring the beauty,
simplicity, and elegance of the weapon.  "You may not be a
_laser-driven anti-personnel weapon system_," she said, "but I
would not trade you for the world."

---

"Ya gotta be kiddin'."  She could smell the onions on his breath.
"No.  What you want," the little man said as he started pulling
merchandise up from below the counter, "is this here."  He displayed
a small, silver pistol to the tall, dark haired lady.  "_Nightfighter_
they call it.  Pretty catchy, huh.  Made by Remington's Korean
division.  If there's one thing them gooks can do it's make guns,
ain't it?  Just remember V-nam.  Really showed us what for in that
one.  I tell you, if I hadda little girl, and she lived in the City,
I'd make sure she always had a _Nightfighter_ with her.  Whatta think.
Only 200 euro."

"No, as I said before, I am looking for a nine millimeter,
semi-automatic pistol produced in Italy around the nineteen eighties
called a Baretta.  I am not interested in that or in any other plastic
pistol facsimile that is as likely to explode in my hand as it is to
hit its intended target."

"Well excuse me, I just thought ya might want to see somethin' else.
Ya know, _browse_."  He ran his hand through his greasy hair.
"Gettin' ahold a that's gonna cost some real dough."

"I am willing to pay what the weapon is worth."

"I think," the arms shark says resting his chin on his fist, "I can
getcha one for say...a thousin' euro?"

"You must be joking."

"Only five thou US."

"This is ridiculous."

"Whaddya expect, Toots?!  They made them guns outta real, honest ta
livin' God, _steel_, not any a this lame-o, piece a shit, polee-ethil-
whatever goop!"  The little man looked up and down the tall, lithe
figure dressed in a black leather jacket and tight fitting blue jeans.
"Plus, they ain't that easy ta find no more.  No, they're worth at
least a thou, and prob'ly more.  I'm lettin' off easy 'cause I like
ya."

"Well, Mr. Greek, if you can not find a Baretta for a reasonable
price, I have heard that someone referred to as 'the Bat' has a large
selection of handguns.  Perhaps he can find the pistol for only
five hundred eurodollars."

"Now just a second, Missy."  The small man reached a hairy arm out and
grabbed her as she turned to leave.  Suddenly, he felt a sharp stab of
pain issue from his wrist, and he realised abruptly that she had
managed evade his grasp and secure a firm and unyielding lock on his
right forearm.  "Stop, please," he said, grovelling on the counter.
She released his arm, and he looked up to see himself grovelling in
the mirrors covering her eyes.

"I didn't mean nothin'," he said after he had straightened himself a
little, "honest.  I just didn't want to see you go and get yourself
mixed up with a no-good low-life swindler like that Bat fella.  Na,
he'll charge ya _twice_ what I'll sell it for, and prob'ly get ya one that
don't work ta boot!  No, you don't want ta get mixed up with no Bats.
Especially when _the Greek_ can get ya just what you're askin' for,
let's say, 750 euro or 3700 US?"

"Now you are beginning to be a little more reasonable.  How long will
it take you to aquire the firearm?"

"Normally," he begins, leaning back a little and sticking his round
belly out a little farther, "I would say two or three weeks.  But, for
you, I think I can get it inna coupla days."

"I will give you two hundred eurodollars today, and an additional four
hundred eurodollars upon receipt of the handgun.  If you can produce
the pistol within forty-eight hours I will give you an additional one
hundred eurodollars."

"Come back the day after tomorrah, and I'll have it polished and
waitin' for ya," he said as he slowly counted the ten crisp bills.

He stuffed the money in his pocket and watched her nimble frame glide
past the dusty shelves full of cracked and broken appliances that lined
the small shop the Greek used as a cover for his more lucrative
transactions.  He picked up the long, oily sandwich he had been eating
before she came in as she strode through the dingy door into the press
of the street.  "Damn bitches," the little man thought as he took
another bite of his sub, "think they own the whole Goddam world."

---

She put the pistol in its holster below her left shoulder.  A sharp
pain issued from her left arm suddenly and was once again masked by
the small neuro-processing chip in the base of her skull.  "I had
almost forgotten about that," she said to herself as she examined her
wound.  A small, round hole bore through her leather jacket and into
her upper arm.  No blood issued from the small hole, the laser having
burned the tissue as it passed.

---

She lost sight of him for a moment.  She saw him go behind the stack
of crates but she did not see him come around the other side.  She
looked around the warehouse, but all she saw was more crates.  Crates
and crates.  Full of product, with no one to sell them to.  Not since
the eco-wars.  _Environmentally unlawful_, that was how the eco-corps
saw the so called "disposable" diapers that surrounded her now.
Could not sell them without risking bloodshed, so they just sit in
warehouses now, gathering dust.  Not even rotting.

The eco-wars.  What a joke.  She thought back to the young girl who
had started fighting for a cause she believed in.  A bright eyed,
naive nymph who could see a new world dawning.  An intelligent,
sensitive woman who felt sorry for animals and the environment.  Now
she can not see anything without the glass and circuits that serve her
better than eyes, allowing her to see in the darkest night as if it
were day.  Now she can not feel anything unless it is filtered through
her jacked up reflex system.

When the small, red dot appears upon her left breast, the expensive
nervous enhancement pays off.  From above her, on the stack of crates,
the German firearm releases a bolt of red energy which cuts through
the murky gloom of the dark warehouse.  She brings her gun up, drops
to the ground, and rolls behind some cover while her finger pulls the
trigger twice.  The smell of ozone cuts through her nostrils as she
falls to the ground, and for a brief second she feels the pain as the
solid light enters her flesh.  Then the nerve dampers cut in and the
pain is gone.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she curses as she rolls under the crates.

---

Copywright 1992 by Charles F. Fitzgerald.  The Greek and all other
characters are mine and should be used only with the permission of the
author.  Comments and criticisms welcome.  More will follow if there
is an interest, so please do not embellish.

----
Charles F. Fitzgerald | "Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow,
Iowa State University | Creeps in this petty pace, from Day to Day,
cffitzge@iastate.edu  | To the last syllable of Recorded Time...."
                      | _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.


Subject: the dancer: part two

Thanks to those of you who expressed interest in my little story.
Sorry I haven't posted this part sooner, but I have been kinda busy
of late.  Anyway, here's the next part.
---

She tore open the paper envelope that kept the FastHeal patch sterile
and slapped the medicated pad against her wounded flesh.  The enzymes
hidden beneath the soft, cotton fabric silently began to work on the
damaged tissue.  Endorphins were released into the blood stream to
releive the non-existant pain.  She stuffed the torn wrapper in the
pocket of her jeans.

She turned on the heel and walked into the silent warehouse.  Three
floors below she saw where it had begun.  Her duffel bag lay beneath
the halo of a dingy spotlight.

---

"I came alone," he said.  "One million cash, just like the man
ordered," as he raised his left arm slightly.  She noticed the weapon
in its holster beneath the expensive suit as she saw the briefcase bob
up and down.

"I am not interested in your money."

"Then why did you call?" he started to back slowly towards the open
door behind him.

"I have other business to transact."

By the time her Beretta had cleared its holster, he was on the floor
and rolling behind the tall stacks of useless supplies.  She had two
rounds gone before she could tell herself that she had acted too
slowly.

---

Underneath a palatte she found the briefcase in better repair than
its owner.  The lock was a slight worry eliminated easily.  She gazed
at the well stacked rows of neatly bundled currency for a moment.  She
then lifted one of the packs to examine the newsprint vaguely hidden
beneath the surface of money. "Typical," she said as the contents fell
to the floor by her feet.

The bag lay where she had set it before the fight began.  She unzipped
it and rifled through its contents until she found the small piece of
plastic and wire encased in bubble packing.  "Still there," she said
and gazed at the intricate object.

---

This was the last chance.   She had tried all the rails and the buses,
and none of the lockboxes matched the code.  Only the 'port was left.

The 'port always caused her spirits to sag.  Once the leader in
international airlines and aircraft, the United States had fallen
behind Japan and Taiwan in the late 1990's and early twentyfirst
century.  Now, the only ones who flew were the rich executives and
their families, flying to their corporate's holdings in South-East
Asia and Western Europe.

She walked down the nearly silent hallways until she found the
lockers.  Long silent rows of blank metal boxes with green digital
displays endlessly looping the same tired sentences.  She immediately
started to work.

3-7-29-58-7--Locked, access denied

3-7-29-58-7--Locked, access denied

3-7-29-58-7--Locked, access denied

3-7-29-58-7--Thank you for using Safe-Loc Storage Cabinets.  If you
wish to rent this space again please insert two United States Dollar
Coins.  We appreciate your business...

She reached into the locker and pulled out a small package wrapped in
brown paper.  The only other item in the locker was a slip of paper
with ten numbers scribbled awkwardly upon its surface.

---
Copywright 1992 by Charles F. Fitzgerald.  The Greek and all other
characters are mine and should be used only with the permission of the
author.  Comments and criticisms welcome.  More will follow if there
is an interest, so please do not embellish.

----
Charles F. Fitzgerald | "Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow,
Iowa State University | Creeps in this petty pace, from Day to Day,
cffitzge@iastate.edu  | To the last syllable of Recorded Time...."
                      | _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.


dancer part 3.

She took the chip from its protective wrapping and let it fall between
her fingers onto the cracked concrete floor.  Like a high tech
cockroach, the exoskeleton let out a sharp snap as her heel crushed
the plastic into a million, tiny shards.

She walked out the door into the light drizzle that seemed to be
perpetually falling.  The streetlight gave off a dirty, yellow halo of
light which did little to illuminate the dirty alley, down which she
walked.  She turned the corner to see two urchins rapidly drop from
the side of a dumpster and run into a side alley as she approached.

What now?  Where to go?  The story was over, the play complete.  What
do the actors do when all the lines have been said, all the speaches
recited?

---

"Yo, Dance, wait up!" it was the voice of J. Barnes, Squad Leader.
She stopped, turned and waited for him to catch up to her.  "I wanted
to talk to you before you took off."

"Concerning what, may I ask?"

"The Future," he said with a little grin.  "Look, I know you're
disappointed with the deal they cut (Hell, aren't we all?), but we all
saw it coming.  And we all still got to live, still pay the bills, right?"

"What is your point?"

"BioCorp has offered me the position as Security Chief for their Miami
division, and they said I could pick my team."  He paused for a
moment.  "I was wondering if, maybe, you were available," he added,
his smile broadening.

"Thank you for your consideration, but I am not interested."

"You haven't heard how much they're paying.  45 euro a year, company
health, home, and transportation," he said.  "You're not going to find
a better offer."

"I am sure I will not.  I am still, however, not interested, thank
you."

"Come on, Dance!" he said, passionately. "What the Hell do you think
you're going to do?  The Goddam war's over!  Kaput!  Finished!  That's
it!  Time to put away all the ideology, all the good intentions, and
look after numero uno," he looked at her with pity in his eyes.  "I
know how much the war meant to you.  It meant that much to all of us.
But look, we tried to make a change, tried to make a difference, and
where did it get us?  The world any better now?  Hell no, you know it's
not.  So what's the point?  We can't change the world, the world won't
let us."

"Yes, I think you are right....We can not change the world.  I suppose
it was foolish to believe that we could....Regardless, I refuse to
surrender simply because I can not win."

"I never could understand you, Dancer," he said, shaking his head.
"That doesn't mean I didn't try," he added, softly.

"I know you tried ... we all tried.  Some of us will continue to try.
Good-bye John."

She turned and started towards the door.  "Good-bye Rachel," she heard
softly echoing down the deserted corridor.

---

The Chatsubo had not changed since her last visit, but then, it never
does.  Months, years go by, and the Chatsubo continues to sell its
wares to the ragged refuse of a civilisation turned up-so-down.
Multinationals go belly-up, crime lords get iced, cities are
abondoned, and the Chatsubo continues to flourish amidst a steady
stream of shady deals and chance meetings.  It is a place of legend
and story.

She looked around the small establishment as she entered.  Lonny Zone
was in a corner chastising one of his girls over some offense, real or
imagined.  Ratz stood proudly behind the bar, efficiently serving the
dozen costumers that leaned against the prodigious ediface, his
outdated piece of hardware rasping and grinding with each movement.
There was no sign of Jason.

---

"It's about Goddam time."  She sensed the anxiety beneath his anger.
"I suppose you've never heard of a phone," he added angrily.

"I do not need to inform you of my every movement."

"Well, when you've been home for all of about two minutes in the last
two days, some people start to worry a little," he retorted.

"There was no need for concern over my safty."

"Oh, no!  Miss Ninja Super Cyber Warrior, that's you!" he said
sarcastically.  "Forget your knives, her super tough skin will deflect
them.  Bullets, she'll catch in her teeth!"

"Are you finished yet?"

"Goddammit, Rache, can't you see that I care for you, and don't want
anything to happen to you?"  He looked at her and she could see the
love in his eyes.  "I don't know what I'd do without you."  He moved
closer and put his hands on her shoulders.

"I should expect that your parents would once again assume the burden
of your pharmeceutical purchases."  She walked into the bedroom.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he called from the other room.  "I
told you I gave that shit up months ago," he said as he came and leaned
against the bedroom doorway.

"I remember the conversation very well."  She pulled the small case
from the back of the closet where it had been hidden since she last
had use for its contents.

"You don't believe me do you?" he said with obvious pain.  "I haven't
had a single pop in five months, I swear."

"That is a likely story."  She passed by him with grace and deposited
the case on the kitchen table.

"I really haven't," he said, turning and following her.

She opened the lid and removed the Beretta.  She nodded slightly, and
began to disassemble her pistol.

"Look, I don't have to take this from you,"  he said, turning and
following her.  "I kicked the junk and now I'm clean.  I don't need
drugs, and I don't need you either." He grabbed a duffel bag and
started collecting things from different parts of the apartment.  She
sat at the table and silently cleaned her firearm.  Ten minutes later
he stood in front of her, his duffle in one hand, his key in the
other.

"Make sure the front door locks on your way out."

The key landed on the table in front of her.  She heard the door slam,
followed by the almost inaudible click of the lock.  She wished she
had her tear ducts removed with her eyes.

---

Copyright 1992 by Charles F. FitzGerald.  Dancer is my character, she
should not be used without permission.  Questions or comments welcome
and encouraged.

----
Charles F. Fitzgerald | "Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow,
Iowa State University | Creeps in this petty pace, from Day to Day,
cffitzge@iastate.edu  | To the last syllable of Recorded Time...."
                      | _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.


Subject: dancer, part 4

Well, gang, this is it.  The last installment of my first
story since High School.  Hope you have enjoyed it.

---

The local scream had the recent marriage of simstar Sheri Glass
to the billionaire CEO of Execudyne spread liberally across its
front page.  She finally found the article hidden in the bottom
half of page six.

	MAN MURDERED IN LOCAL CLUB

	Last night the patrons of the Nu-Americana
	dance club were surprised to find a dead
	man in the midst of their nightly revels.
	The man, identified by police as Arthur
	Lemortinov, was apparently alive when he
	entered the establishment...

"Arthur Lemortinov.  How apt."

---

"I done paid you back once, honey," he leaned his chair back against
wall. "Remember ol' Arty.  Yesterday weren't so long ago that you
could have forgot already."  A wide, ugly grin disfigured his flat
face.  "I think this time you'll have to pay for a favor."

"I do not think you would enjoy my payment."

"How do you know?  I'm into some pretty weird shit.  Whips, chains,
you name it."  His smile widened almost to the two sockets attached
to his temples.  "So how about?  Wanna take a fling with your worst
Nightmare?"

She sighed.  "Must we always repeat this?"

"Hey, babe, only doing what comes natural.  I look at you and just
can't help myself."  He shook his head and smirked, "Mm, mm, good."

"What would Jessica say?"

"Hey, she's cool.  The way she is, she'd prob'ly say, 'If I was a guy
I'd do it too.'"

"I tend to doubt that."

"You do?  Well maybe not, but she ought to," he set his chair down on
the floor.  "So what's it this time."  She handed him the slip of paper
with the ten numbers on it.  "Phone number.  Come on, Dance, you really
didn't need me to tell you that."

"I had surmised that it is a telephone number.  I wish to know whose
number it is."

"Oh, well" he said, drawing out his words.  "I suppose you came to the
right place then," he said with a big grin.

"Nightmare!"

"Oh, alright," he said, chuckling.  "Let's see what we got here," he
said as he started jacking the cables into the small, black box, hidden
beneath the papers on the formica covered desk.

"I will pay you as soon as I can.  It should take no more than a month to
secure an ample amount."

"Now lissen," he said, trying to suppress his natural smile.  "There ain't
no call for you to go start talking about actu'lly payin' for anything.
The way I figure, if it weren't for you I'd be filled with enough lead
to sink the Titanic, and then where would lil' Jes be?  Crying her pretty
lil' eyes out, that's where."  He paused a moment and seemed to drift
for a second.  "Ah...Bingo."

---

"Well look who we got here," Ratz said with a big smile.  "Long time
no see, Dancer."  The pink prothesis swabbed a potion of the bar in
front of her stool.  "The usual?"

"Please."

---

She looked at the little girl huddled against the white expanse of the
refrigerator.  She stepped over the broken table.

"Now, you will tell me all you know of your friend Arthur, correct?"

The girl nodded her head vigorously.  The girl's eyes were bloodshot and
had the dazed look that she remembered often seeing in Jason's eyes
early in their relationship.

---

She dialed the number and waited for the strong, dark voice on the other
end to respond.

"Microtech, Security Division.  Walters speaking."

"I have the chip.  Come to the warehouse at East Sixth and Grand at 2100
hours.  Come alone."

"Who are..." the man began, and stopped short when he heard the buzzing
start.

---

He grabbed the bottle by its neck and adroitly swung it over the wide
bottomed glass, until the correct amount of dark orange liquid filled
the bowl.  "There you go," he said setting the glass down and scooping
the money up.  He crossed his arms on the bar, and leaned down, his face
even with hers.  "So where you been?  Dancing at that new place, the
other side of the river?"

---

It took her a month to understand.  Jason had taken her to Nu-Am
for her birthday and to celebrate his staying clean a month.  It was
a wonderful evening.  They danced together until Jason was falling down,
and then he sat down and watched as she danced until close, the crowd
clearing to give her plenty of room.  The evening ended, as it always
did, with a dance of a different nature--a wild, carnal dance to the
beat of two hearts--in the privacy of her small apartment.

But it was not the first time she had gone dancing with Jason, and
awakened the next morning to the smell of bacon and coffee, exhausted
and euphoric.  They had been to dozens of clubs throughout the city,
from dives with barely enough room to breathe, to spacious palaces,
all crystal and silver.  None of them affected her the way Nu-Am did.

They were all flat somehow, stale.

Then she knew.  It was not the music--loud, brash sounds of disjointed
unity that she could not understand as a child and did not appreciate
as an adult--nor the building--an old warehouse-turned-nightclub, with
lots of room, smoke, and dirt;

it was the lights.

Many places had lasers positioned about the dance floor, synchronised
to the music and the dancers' motions, but at the Nu-Amercana, they
had something more.  She never knew, never questioned, exactly what it
was--the operator, the system--that made the Nu-Am special--she just
gloried in it.  Alone, on the dance floor, surrounded by music and
gyrating bodies, the lights entered hers eyes, and through them, they
touched her very soul.  The soul that the cyber-surgeons ripped out
and replaced wth plastic and wires.

---

"What did you tell the police?"

The girl was now sitting, shaking on one of the yellow, straight-backed
chairs, trying to take small sips of the coffee she held in her quivering
hands.  "I didn't say shit to them pigs," the girl said defiantly.

"Nothing?"

The girl seemed to be sobering after her fright and with the help of
the coffee.  "Only that Wart said how he was gonna make a load off
his new deal, and we was gonna move outta this dump, and maybe outta the
whole city if we was lucky."  The small woman's eyes began to fill.  "You
really gonna off the bastard."

"That is what I intend."

"Good."  The girl sniffed, wiped her nose with her sleave, and took a
big gulp of the black fluid.  "If that's the case, I got sumfin' for
ya."  She watched as the small frame weaved its way unsteadily out of
the small kitchen and came back holding a large bag.

The girl fell into her chair again and emptied the bag unto the dirty
linoleum.  She looked at the jumble of hair brushes, make-up kits, and
various knick-knacks as her companion sorted through the various slips
of paper.

"Ah ha." The girl looked half-crazed waving the small slip of paper
in the air.  "Found it."  She took the proffered note from the
outstretched arm.

3-7-29-58-7

"What does it mean?"

"I danow," the girl answered, honestly.  "Warty just said that it was
really importint, and I shouldn't never let no one have it, ever.  So,
I figure it must have somefin' to do with what got him killed...and maybe
it can lead you to the son of a bitch that done it."

---

"I have been there several times, but I do not think I will be returning."

"Oh? not returning?" Ratz asked questioningly.

"No."

---

Jason had not felt like dancing that night.  Two years since the war
ended and her life began again, and she could not stay cooped up in
her tiny apartment.  She went to club alone.

The music wrapped around her like a cloak as she entered, her heart
thumping to the beat of the drum.  She moved rythmically through the
crowd to the dance floor, led like a snake by a charmer's recorder to
the rapidly pulsating lights around the stage, where a group of
young boys screamed lyrics to a song older than they were.  She began.

The band segued into their next piece, and she slid with them, the
lights telling her how to move, when to move, where to move.  Around
her, the other patrons moved to the edges of the mirrored plexiglass
surface and watched in mingled admiration and envy.

The band changed songs again, but she did not notice.  She followed
the lights--as they changed, she changed.  As the lights moved, she
moved.  That is why she noticed it before anyone else.

She stopped in mid-step and gazed up at the upper balcony.  She saw
the hole, the neat, clean, perfect hole, just before the head crashed
on to the table in front of him.  She turned to where the errant, red
beam had begun its trip across her consciousness and saw the big man
rise hurridly, turning the lapel of his hand-tailored trench up and
pulling his dark hat down in order to conceal his identity.

The band stopped playing, sensing something was wrong.  A scream echoed
across the crowded room, and she reached the stair to the upper
level as the stream of people rushed downward.

When she had managed to clear the pressing throng of frantic people,
she knew she was too late.  He had escaped in the confusion.

"Now, the search begins."

---

the dancer, Copyright 1992, Charles F. FitzGerald.  First appearance
on the newsgroup alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo.  All characters, especially
Dancer, Nightmare, and the Greek, used only by permission of the
author or under penalty of death from above.

This story dedicated to to Andrew Thompson.  "You are my Commanding
Officer.  You are also my friend.  I am, and ever shall be, yours."
Spock, _Star Trek II, The Wrath of Khan_

----
Charles F. Fitzgerald | '....Life's but a walking shadow,
Iowa State University | a poor player that struts, and frets,
cffitzge@iastate.edu  | his hour upon the stage,
                      | and then is heard from no more.'
                      | _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.