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<Title>Kendall Lister - Dark End of the Street Part I [REPOST]</Title>
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From: token@suburbia.apana.org.au (Kendall Lister)
Subject: Dark End of the Street Part I [REPOST]
Date: Tue Feb 28 13:22:16 MET 1995
Dark End of the Street - Part I
by Kendall 'Token' Lister <token@suburbia.apana.org.au>
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This is the first part of a story that I've been writing on and
off for about a year now.
Any and all comments will be appreciated.
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'Slammer's' flashed the green neon to anyone who cared. Take a step
back and the sign was lost in a flickering sea of reflections, mirrors
everywhere. Shop windows, skyscraper walls, mirrorshades, reflect fibre
clothes. In this environment avoiding looking at other people is easy. You
have to work much harder to avoid looking at yourself.
As he stepped through the door he was unsurprised by the weary
deja-vu. If there was a single statement about today's youth this place
shouted it in frustrated chorus with the hundred other similar haunts. He
didn't need to look to see the boostergangers shooting up, comparing
cyberware, scoring, arguing. Or the groupies and chromers, faceless in the
laser light show, slamming in the next room to another anonymous band
thrashing out the latest album from Semper Fidelis.
At the bar, and in the booths along the walls sat the solos and
mercenaries, either hunched over their drinks or nervously waiting, their
enhanced senses scanning the environment for the omnipresent danger,
sniffing for fear or threat. A corp in a crisp suit walked past a row of
booths and dropped a chip on one of the tables, another wealth or death
opportunity. The solo at that table palmed the chip, leaned back against
the wall, and slotted it behind his ear. He closed his eyes, and his
female companion turned her attention to the other solo sitting in the
booth.
A few other corps sat around the tables, obviously out of their
element and obviously not caring.
In one corner sat a dozen or so 'jackers, some jacked in, some out in
the real world. Those out were watching their companions on tiny video
screens, but not letting that stop them enjoying each other.
As usual the solos were the only group without roughly equal numbers
of males and females, but a few female groupies were trying to attract the
attention of a couple of solos.
The boosters wore their customary denim and leather with gang
colours, the corps their power-dressed suits and skirts. The 'jackers wore
brightly coloured, loose fitting fabrics, or tight psychedelic pants. Most
wore runners of some sort, with bandannas or baseball caps, a trend
carried through from the late 20th century. The solos wore a pseudo-random
mixture of flak pants, leather, denim, flight jackets, trench coats and
kevlar armoured jackets. Only the inexperienced display their weaponry,
but he knew there would be an awesome arsenal hidden under cloth, metal,
plastic and synth-skin. A few had helmets propped on tables or bench
seats. Visible in the helmets visors were flickering LEDs, red, green and
yellow. The lights were reflected perfectly in his glasses.
The slammers in the next room were wearing whatever they wanted, as
long as no-one else was wearing it. Anything was acceptable, from fishnet,
leather and nylon to the latest plastics, lycra and fluorescing fibres.
The level of cigarette smoke was far lower these days, he noted.
These days young people popped nicotine patches, or air hypos of
synth-chem drugs.
On the wall a video board showed an advertisement for Teal McKay's
latest series, this time set in some South American jungle.
He moved over to the bar slowly, his eyes never resting. The woman
serving behind the bar looked up as he lent across the bar. She studied
his face, and her eyes lit up with recognition.
'Long time, no see, Johnny,' as she reached over and ran the back of
her fingers down his cheek.
'Where's Tony?'
She pouted, and pointed to the door in the back corner of the bar.
He turned and headed towards the door, dropping an old bank note on
the wear-polished wood of the bar.
She looked at the note in surprise. No-one used these any more. Many
young people had never seen them. Maybe the rumours about Johnny were
true. Most of the stories were contradictory, but whichever was correct
Johnny had certainly disappeared for the last ten years or so. She looked
up again in time to see the back of his jacket disappearing through the
door. On its back was emblazoned a hand-drawn insignia of the 78th Marine
squad, above a kevlar helmet atop a pair of GP boots. Maybe that was where
he'd been. The word on the street was that for the last few years had been
that the American government, possibly sick of the pillaging and terrorism
but more likely under corporate pressure to ensure their slave labour
factories, had invaded Central America again. None of the news corps had
mentioned it, but a pirate TV station running out of Mexico had supposedly
run footage of the combat.
And Johnny had been in the thick of it again, she mused.
'Hey, babe, how about a drink down here?' called a voice from down
the bar.
As suddenly as he had reappeared, Johnny disappeared.
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Comments to: token@suburbia.apana.org.au
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From token@suburbia.apana.org.au (Kendall Lister)
Subject: Dark End of the Street Part II [REPOST]
Date: Tue Feb 28 13:23:55 MET 1995
Dark End of the Street - Part II
by Kendall 'Token' Lister <token@suburbia.apana.org.au>
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This is the second part of a story that I've been writing on and
off for about a year now.
Any and all comments will be appreciated.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
He looked around the small room, saw the smoke swirling in the dull
light, and smelled the sickly-sweet essence of marijuana. Now that was
expensive these days, because it was almost extinct thanks to the
bio-engineered plagues spread by the DEA.
'Welcome back, Johnny. Siddown,' said a skinny, unhealthy looking
Jamaican with filthy dreadlocks and a pair of crudely mended circular-lens
glasses. He wore a colourful long sleeved shirt, buttoned right up to his
throat, and a pair of dirty blue jeans. Tony.
He sat down in the vacant chair, and glanced around the table that
occupied the centre of the room. In the dark corner he could just make out
a bald African-American, who he decided he wouldn't want to throw hands
with. He literally bulged out of his black singlet. Johnny looked at the
chair beside him in time to see a girl of about nineteen shimmering into
view. She was wearing one of the latest chamaeleon suits. Shit, he could
remember testing the very first prototypes in combat. This model must be
interfaceable, because her body changed from invisible to a perfect mirror
to a bright luminous white. Unlike his original suit this one was skin
tight, and she seemed to know it. She raised her hands to push back the
hood and face mask, and Johnny watched her breasts. Her hair was jet
black, in contrast to the suit, and straight. She pushed it back into a
short pony tail that fell from the top of her head to the nape of her
neck. Her hands fell back down, but her hair stayed in place. Shit,
sculpting implants. He _had_ been out for a while.
'This is why you're here, Johhny.' Tony gestured to a chip lying on
the table. Johnny picked it up and turned it over in his fingers.
'It's a recording, just slot it.'
He slotted it behind his ear. Instantly his vision flickered to
static, then to an image of a boardroom. He was sitting ay the end of a
long table. At the other end was a corp, wearing dark glasses and an
expensive woollen suit, expensive because sheep were barely more common
than marijuana.
'Ahh, Mr Charl,' said the corp, looking up from his screenmat which
was spread over half a square metre of the table.
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Comments to: token@suburbia.apana.org.au
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From token@suburbia.apana.org.au (Kendall Lister)
Subject: Dark End of the Street Part III
Date: Mon Feb 27 13:01:19 MET 1995
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Dark End of the Street - Part III
by Kendall 'Token' Lister <token@suburbia.apana.org.au>
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is the third part of a story that I've been writing on and
off for about a year now.
Any and all comments will be appreciated.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Shit, he hadn't been called 'Mr' in years.
He was about to reply when he realised that this was not an inter-
active recording.
'I'm about to make you an offer, Mr Charl. But first a litle
background perhaps. A drink, Mr Charl?' He gestured to a cabinet to his
left. 'Oh, I'm sorry, how silly of me. Back to business. I realise that
you have been away for a little while, but we don't need to discuss that
now. Do you know Pental, the chemical manufacturers? Sure you do,
everyone knows them. You've probably encountered some of their less
publicised products in your line of work.
'Well, its because of one of their products that I'm talking to you
now. Does lignomethenolocaine mean anything to you? No, I didn't think it
would, and that's not even its full correct name. How about 'Eyesore'?
Yes, that rings a bell doesn't it? A little like teargas, except that
exposure for more than five minutes tends to leave people a little less,
how should I say this?' He paused, and pressed his hands together as if
praying. 'A little less, alive?'
He'd seen the effects of Eyesore alright. One night his patrol had set
off a silent gas mine. He'd been walking point, about two hundred metres
ahead, and had returned in time to find the horribly twisted bodies, the
sergeant who had shot himself. He remembered activating his helmet's
filters that couldn't stop the sickly smell; he remembered switching
to his limited air supply to get out of there.
'I think we both know what we're talking about, don't we Johnny?'
* * *
This is definitely the last time, thought Suyuki. For the last three
months now she had been Johnson's doll, and had earned enough to pay off
the Play-being(TM) body modification he had paid for, and keep a few
thousand eurobucks for herself. Problem was, Johnson had taken a liking to
her, or at least her new body. Which was only fair, seeing as how he had
paid for it, literally. Still, even with the cost of a new identity, she'd
be living good. The money wouldn't run out for at least a couple of
months, a virtual eternity these days.
She could hear him just outside the play-room now. Definitely the
last time, then I'm outta this life for good. She ran her hands over her
body. She had grown to like it, and it was going to be a shame to have to
change it again. She hoped he wouldn't bruise her like last time. Suyuki
lay back on Johnson's bed, and as he came through the door she slotted the
neural cutout chip behind her ear, and then she was effectively on remote
control.
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Comments to: token@suburbia.apana.org.au
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From token@suburbia.apana.org.au (Kendall Lister)
Subject: Dark End of the Street Part IV
Date: Tue Feb 28 13:25:07 MET 1995
Dark End of the Street - Part IV
by Kendall 'Token' Lister <token@suburbia.apana.org.au>
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is the fourth part of a story that I've been writing on and
off for about a year now.
Any and all comments will be appreciated.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
In spite of himself, Johnny nodded.
'Well then, we can get down to the nitty gritty. You see, the
consortium I represent has managed to, aah, aquire a sample of this
chemical, but so far they have been unable to reproduce it. Which you are
probably thinking is quite good. However, your thoughts are irrelevant.
What _is_ relevant is your combat skill, but you will be informed further
as the time comes.'
The corp looked back down at his screenmat.
His vision flickered, and faded to black. He reached behind his ear
to remove the chip, and suddenly he was back in the real world. It took
him a few minutes to adjust.
'Shit.'
'That's nuthin', Johnny. We can do full tactile and olfactory sense
replacement now. Plain A/V is old news.'
'No. I mean about 'Eyesore'.' He was a little shaken by the memory.
'Yeah, we all know. We all got a little message like yours.'
'If this is for real, it's bad news.'
'Funny you should say that, because we aren't so sure that it is for
real. You see, Tracy here,' he gestured to the girl, 'she ran some checks
against the ICID, an' our friendly corp appears to have the voice of an
Arkansas grocery storekeeper, and the body patterns of a convicted Chinese
rapist. Oh, Johnny, body patterns is a new way of identifying people from,
say, video footage. Real secure, all done by ai. Anyway, it would seem
that our corp friend is not as substantial as he would like us to think.'
'So you think its not a sim-stim recording?'
'No, Tracey's convinced it's a constructed animation.'
'Who would be able to that that well?'
'Well, Tracey's found several corporations that probably have the
capacity to do this sort of thing, I mean, you'd just need a very big
computer, and plenty of people have them, some of them powerful enough,
Tracey thinks. But the question really is, who would bother? I mean, like,
if a corporation wants to contact someone, they don't give a shit who
knows usually, so why bother now?'
'So what are you saying, Tony?'
'Well, Tracey thinks, and I must say that I agree, that it's been
done by an ai.'
'Oh shit. So we've got a probably rogue ai tring to aquire the means
of producing Eyesore?'
'That's about it, man.'
'So tell the Autojocks, or Rogue Hunters, or someone.'
'It's not that simple, Johnny. Ya see, whatever this thing is, it's
offered us a lot of money for the chemical details.'
'How much?'
Tracey broke in quietly, 'Two hundred grand.'
Shit. Some choice.
'So what do you need to involve me for?'
'Well, Johnny, we were kinda hoping you would have some ideas.'
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Comments to: token@suburbia.apana.org.au
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