From: st3ui@jetson.uh.edu (Andrea N.)
Subject: Directive States (the whole thing)
Date: 13 Sep 1994 12:30 CDT
_________________________
Directive States
copyright 1992 by Newt.
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part one
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Something's not right. I sit up in bed allowing the remainders of
sleep to fade out of me. The room seems unusually quiet, and I'm alone. Not
right.
I call out into the room, "Kelly?!" No answer. I wait a few seconds.
Standing, the bed sheets fall to the floor exposing me and my nakedness.
"Kelly, where are you?" I walk over to the bathroom. The light's not
on, but sometimes she simply doesn't call it when she gets cleaned up.
"What are you doing?" I stand at the doorway looking into the dark
little room. I can see her form lying in the tub, but can not make out any
details other than that. Besides, my eyes haven't adjusted all that well to
the still dark morning hours. The city lights shine relatively brightly
through our room's window, shadowy fringes corrupt the scene here and there.
The bathroom though manages to secret a spot away from any of the lighting.
". . . Why didn't you answer? When I noticed you weren't in . . ." My
eyes begin to adjust somewhat to the low lighting; the tub water looks
extremely dark for some reason, "KELLY!" I yell as I make my way over to her
position in the bathroom. Water on the floor catches me and I slip; my back
hits the floor.
I voice nervously into the air, "Lighting, minimal. . . "
My yell pierces the cubicle as I realize it wasn't water I slipped on
but something else: blood.
The room's lighting illuminates further. Kelly lies gashed in the tub,
her life taken, leaving what there was of it splattered all over the bathroom.
Dark red is smeared onto ever porcelain and polycarb surface. My stomach
begins to contort. My yelling trails into a controted whimper.
With nervous hands, I begin to lift myself from the stained floor,
tears start in my eyes. I simply do not look at her body . . . I slip once
more in the blood.
I catch myself and rush into the bedroom; my body starts to shake
uncontrollably. I hit the floor again.
What's happening?! What happened?! Kelly!
My trembling continues, but I try to voice anyway, "Apartment,
emergency call, contact police . . . hurry!" The last word is said more in
hope instead of sanity. From there the apartment matrix takes over contacting
the police and other authorities.
My body convulses, shakes even more; I fear to turn and acknowledge the
bathroom's existence I simply do not . . . the apartment door pings. Someone
is waiting to come in.
Picking myself off the floor, I grasp clumsily for the fallen bed sheet
and try to conceal my body. I make for the main room.
In a continuous spasm, my body wracks with stuttered shakes. A
pounding on the door sounds.
I voice to the door, "Who is it?!"
"Coil? Let me in, it's Frie," Her voice determined, I feel somewhat
relieved.
My hand quickly pokes over the code lock panel; the door unlocks. I
pull back the black plastic steel door.
Terror sinks into me and I slide my back down the wall to the
floor . . . Where are the police?
The door pushes into my leg, "Coil, what's wrong?" Frie finishes
coming in, her body seems confused as to where it is for the slightest moment.
She catches her breath and turns to my spot on the floor, her feet scampering
over bits of plastic tubing and black tarpalin on the frontroom floor. Her
blind eyes look to me as if in knowledge, but I know better.
Her hand reaches out and uncannily down to touch me. I reach out to
her, the warm brown skin of her hands comforts me immediately . . . I begin to
cry as I pull her into my hold.
What I can see of her face is covered in an inquisitive glance. She
talks, "Coil, why are you shaking, what's wrong? I heard someone yell from
next door. Was that you?" She freezes for a moment, her blind eyes staring
away from me.
"What is that smell?! It's very prominent now. Has something
happened?" She stands up and moves in to the center of the room, kicking
aside more plastic and tarp. Despite her blindness, she makes her way to the
bedroom door.
Frie calls from across the room, "It's Kelly, what's happened!"
I can only remain in my spot, shaking. I watch as Frie begins to move
into the bedroom.
Loud footsteps move down the hall. I turn to look; two dark garbed
and rain soaked policemen push through my door; one donned in a black slicker,
the other wearing a padded flak jacket and dark glasses. The second one
looks immediately to me in my crouched position and begins attending to my
needs, "Are you alright? What's happened?" I meagerly point into the
bedroom, the slickered officer moves to investigate.
I hear a deep voice reverberate from the bathroom, "Ma'm please leave
the room."
I hear Frie's odd accent, "I'm just here to help, can't you see that .
. ."
He returns bluntly, "Your help would be best put to use with your
friend, now leave."
I hear Frie walk slowly back. She moves into the main room, crossing
carefully to me and the dark glassed officer.
He opens a small aluminum laptop and begins asking me questions. I
helplessly begin answering them.
Frie speaks, "Don't you see he's not doin' so hot. Leave him be for a
moment!"
The officer gives her a strange look and continues with me, "Alright
Mr. Bek, what was it that..."
Frie's hand reaches for the officer's laptop, "Leave him be."
The officer stands and speaks into Frie's blank eyes, her stance firm,
"Miss, you are obstructing our process, I must ask you to leave or you will
be placed under arrest."
She returns, "I do not think . . . "
I burst, "Frie! Calm down. I'll be alright." I begin to stand, "You
can go now, no doubt I'll be calling you later anyway. Thanks for your
concern."
"You just remember that. I'll be next door if you need me," she
cautiously pushes past the officer and moves out of the apartment.
The officer begins to question me again when the other policeman comes
to our side, "You're Coil Bek right?"
"Yes," I answer.
"Your friend was Kelly Trail?" He pulls a thin black cord from his
left ear, the jack slender and moulded; he then reinserts it with a slight
tap. I see the remaining cord dangle from his coat pocket. I guess on-line
communications with headquarters.
"Yes officer. Is there something wrong?" I begin to become nervous
for some reason. I watch as the two rain soaked men exchange glances.
The slickered one looks me firm in the eyes as if he was going to tell
me a child of mine died, "Your friend has most surely committed suicide." He
stares off for a moment, listening to his ear piece.
"What!" I yell. This can't be true, blood was everywhere.
I continue, "What do you mean!? You saw the room! It looked like
someone ripped her apart!" I begin to shake again. The first officer pulls a
small slick device from his long black coat, he taps its spout against my
neck. My body begins to relax a bit.
The other officer continues, "Did your friend ever tell you she was
registered?" He glances up from his laptop.
My eyes widen, "Registered?! No." I turn in despair. Kelly never
told me she was a user.
I return in question, "What was her . . . hit?" I almost can't say
the word. Kelly a user, why?
He finishes, "I'm only guessing from what I saw, but it looks like
Cephalaid Kolindyne." I squint in unrecognition. The officer helps,
"Its street name is Neuroblitz. It's the only drug I know of that could cause
the user to do such damage to herself. Especially at high rates of intake.
It always seems to happen this way. Someone will register for use, only to
become an overaddick. She must have been proportioning her dosage, storing it
up for one big hit. That seems to be the only problem with the registering
act. I'm sorry." The officer rests his hand on my shoulder. I look to the
floor, thinking.
"I still want an investigation," I tell him.
He looks back to me, "I really don't think it's necessary.
Preliminary medical examination will prove this to be a clean case."
I keep looking to the floor. I turn my head slowly to look up to him,
"Then I wish to invoke."
"What?" the flak jacketed officer practically laughs, "Do you realize
what you'll be put through?"
"Yes."
The slickered officer looks to me in surprise, "Are you really sure?
Do you realize the wait you'll undergo?"
"Yes. I know all about it. I know it can take up to, but no longer
than, thirteen weeks and that my apartment will have to be frozen until the
investigation can begin. It may be strange, but I know my rights."
The dark glassed officers finishes, "Yes you seem to, but I can't
stress how unnecessary this seems."
"I know my rights! Please, just go along with me."
"Alright," he continues, "You'll have to be out of here in forty-five
minutes, you can only take up to twenty pounds of mass from this apartment.
Each item is to be logged, identified, weighed and catalogued so we may contact
you if the item is needed for the investigation. You realize the time period
this investigation can take?"
"I do."
"Then you have forty-five minutes from now until the freezing crew
shows up," I watch as the slickered officer jiggles his ear piece. The other
officer continues, " . . . at that time the crime scene becomes temporary
property of the city of Hilven, for the duration of the investigation or up to
thirteen weeks. Do you understand?"
"Yes, unfortunately I do."
"One of us has to wait here till the crew shows up."
The slickered officer leaves, apparently to get the log-in equipment.
I turn to the bedroom and begin to gather things for the duration. I
take a few clothes, my work chips, some disk albums.
I speak to the apartment matrix, "Copy and extract all files into
backup bit. Connect me with Frie Calson."
The matrix returns in a simple monotone digital voice, "Files
processing. Connecting with Ms. Calson now."
I hear her voice over the system, "I thought you'd call. How can I
help?"
"I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind if I came over for a few hours.
They are about to freeze my room, and until I get a hotel room, I just wanted
a place to cool down at."
Her voice sounds, "Of course you can. I don't know why you even asked,
come over whenever."
"Thanks Frie."
"No problem."
I return to my task of gathering things, I pick up a few items of
Kelly's. She keeps all of her personal messages in a little data book. I
take that. In all, I'm sure I have less than ten pounds. I take the items
out to be logged, the other officer is back and continues the procedure. As
he does I return to the bedroom and dress. I slip on a waistpant and an
overshirt.
As I reach for my black slip-shoes, the bathroom light catches my eye.
I begin to think of Kelly. Fap her! Why didn't she tell me she was
registered, I could have helped her. I mean I thought that what we did was
share things.
I hurry in light of my time limit. Once more I scan the room and make
sure I've gotten all I need; I pick out the backup information bit from the
matrix panel.
Wait. I remember. I better check Kelly's messages and tie up all her
business. I guess I'm glad all her close family is no longer living. They
would be hit very hard.
I move to Kelly's thin gray message deck and stick the backup bit in
to receive the data. Only two messages wait; I listen to them as the bit
records.
The first one plays, a woman's voice sounds, firm and direct, "Kelly,
I'm calling Tuesday off, get back to me about directive soon." That last word
sounded like a threat.
The second one plays, a man's voice this time, enthusiastic, "We've
hit attractor city here, I still need those bars to finish though. Good job.
Get in touch with me as quick as possible. Tange."
He was the only one that left a name, the woman was probably a boss or
client; I don't recognize the voice. I'll have to check it out. Anyway, I
take the dloaded information and move back to the front room, the officers
wait for me to leave. Standing next to them is the freeze crew. White kira
suited with knit lurex. They wait just outside the doorway, holding tanks and
tubes to freeze park the apartment. Goggles and clear masks hand about their
necks, supposedly to protect them from the coolant.
The officers finish logging out all of my things and allow me to leave.
The dark glassed officer turns to me, "Are you sure you want to go through
with this?"
I stare back at him, "Yes, I'm fairly certain. Thanks for your
concern." I exit for Frie's.
I walk down the brown hall to her room next door. The walls poked
with patching and opaque plastic, transient repairs.
I carry my things packed in a slimpack, shouldered on my arm; I stand
waiting at her door. Lightly, I knock.
Her voice comes from the outside door panel, "Coil, I'll be right
there."
Fiddling with my pack, my concentration breaks as I hear the door lock
desensitize.
My hand pushes on the door.
I begin to enter when I think to myself that her apartment will be
dark. That is one thing I never think about when I talk with Frie; I guess
sometimes I take for granted she's blind and doesn't need light.
I enter the room and close the door. I call out to her, "Frie, can I
turn up the lights?"
Her voice returns from right next to me, I feel like a fool, "Of
course. Allow me."
She calls out to her own apartment matrix, "Lighting normal."
The light flicks bright. I stare across the room and see Frie sitting
in a chair. What?! But her voice was right next to me . . . I turn to my
right. A man in a black body suit and dark waistcoat looks back to me. He
speaks, "Stay calm and nothing will happen." His voice sounds just like
Frie's; I note the slim digital enhancer around his neck, must be how he's
reproducing her voice. What's going on?!?
I stand completely still. Frie's been positioned in a chair; she
seems constrained somehow. I look back to the strange man. He wears his hair
slicked back and an odd pair of black rimmed goggles adorn his eyes flush.
"Who are you?" I try.
He laughs, the sound decants to a deep male voice as he pulls the
apparatus from around his neck, "Not telling, but you are Mr. Bek. We want
the wedge Mr. Bek. You have seventy-two hours to deliver it to SWB. If not,
you will die."
"What? I'll die?! What are you talking about."
He moves with swift reflexes and entangles with me. Somehow he pushes
me to the ground; I try to squirm. I begin to stiffen and become still.
"You have been nocked, the effect will wear off in about three hours.
From that time you will have seventy-two hours to deliver the wedge. If not,
you'll die. Giuw died, Kelly died, and you'll die. Allow me to give you a
reminder."
He places a clear porrocloth band around my mouth. I can not talk.
He next pulls out a gun with a liquid vial attached. I watch as he grabs my
right foot; he takes my waistpant and pushes up the legging above my ankle.
He then moves the gun to the inside of my right ankle. The gun is pressed
tightly against my skin. Something is released into my system. I yell quiet
pain inside as the stingy chemical drains into my body. He stands.
He finishes, "Remember your time limit and your job. Don't go to the
police, don't tell anyone. You're tapped Mr. Bek. We're always watching;
we're always waiting." My vision blurrs and I remain frozen.
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end part one
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part two
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Heat is the last thing I feel. It sinks from my head, dissipating
into nothingness. Then the hotness melts from my arms and chest, then my
lower torso, my left leg and finally my right leg down to my ankle.
My ankle. Without thinking my hand grasps my right ankle.
"AHmmm!" I try to yell as my fingers touch the one raw spot, a new pain.
Hmm. I am capable of moving. I remember being paralyzed, frozen in
place. Stiffness eludes me as I try to address the pain at my ankle. I rip
the band off my mouth, clutching it in my hand. Immediately I look for a
clock and find none, realizing Frie wouldn't need a visual one.
The room's bright lighting shows the area. Nothing seems out of
place; not a thing seems disturbed from the last time I was in Frie's apartment. I feel I should think otherwise.
"Frie!" I call out, looking to her secluded form on the far side of
the room.
She sits so solemnly, almost oblivious to her situation.
Slowly standing, I call again, "Frie! Are you alright?" What's
wrong? She's not responding.
Her form is stationary, sitting firm and formal in the stiff iron
backed chair. I look at her more closely, examining her darkened skin. My
eyes look to her head, small feminine features, soft nose, tightened roll of
hair on her head, and her eyes. Blank eyes looking straight through me,
blindness.
I walk over to her, continuing my assessment of what's wrong, "Come on
Frie, this isn't funny." Standing beside her, I squint at her face. She's
alive, breathing, healthy looking. Foolishly I pass my hand within several
centimeters of her nose.
Her eyes move back and forth, "Coil!?"
Hmmn. "Frie, what's wrong?" She still doesn't hear me.
"Coil, if that's you, do something. Someone's in the apartment.
Hurry, get someone!"
I rest my hand on her shoulder. Whatever is wrong, I hope this will
reassure her. Maybe.
"Why don't you say something . . ." she says.
Hmm again. I look at her face in puzzlement, trying to guess what
coul . . .
She blurts, "Get it off me! If that's you Coil. Get it off me!"
I start feeling her, awkwardly I make my way from her ankles up to her
. . .
She talks again, "It's behind my left ear."
I stand, thanking someone that I didn't have to continue the search.
My hand goes behind her left ear; a small object detaches from her skin. I
hold it out to view.
"It is you Coil, isn't it."
I voice, "Yes, what is this thing?"
"I could tell by the bathing salts on your skin. You always use that
same scent." She stands. "Is that man gone?"
Hesitating, my lower jaw drops ever so slightly, "Uhm."
She turns her head right towards me, "Don't even try it. I know
someone was here, I can smell the lie you were about to conjure. Is he gone?"
With attitude I reply, "You tell me."
"Yes, he is. Where'd he go."
I still don't know what to say, "He rushed right past me as I entered
the room. It was really weird. The door just opened, I pushed it in and he
rushed right out. I thought he was a friend of yours until I saw you all
mingled up like this."
She continues, "It was strange. Whoever it was didn't seem to do
anything. He just put this thing behind my ear, then put some kind of gel on
my wrists and stuck 'em together. After the longest time they came unstuck,
but I was afraid to do anything. So I waited and you showed up." She smiles
somewhat.
I look to the little device, "This thing," I hold it up, examining
its small wirery construction, "what did it do to you? I mean, you didn't
seem to hear me or anything when I was talking to you."
Her smile wanes somewhat, "I'can only guess it made it noiseless. I
couldn't hear anything, only m'own breathing. I really didn't know what it
was."
I look to it some more and try to figure its shape out.
Frie speaks, "Why haven't the police shown up, I thought for sure when
that man's presence was detected by the apartment matrix as foreign, the
police would register a complaint from here."
I ponder this piece of info, "I really don't know," innocently I
finish, "maybe something is wrong with your matrix. See if anything is
missing, if so, then call the police. Otherwise I wouldn't worry to much
about it."
"It just tisn't right Coil. But we'll see," she walks off into her
kitchen.
The pain in my ankle begins to subside to a large degree. I bend down
to examine the spot where the man made the injection; gods! I'm tagged! I
should be panicking. But I'm not. Why?
I look to the spot. Strange, the faintest hint of a mark is forming.
It looks like the shape of a triangle. I really can't make it out too well.
Kind of a purple tint.
My mind sparks: Wedge! What is the Wedge?! Seventy-two hours too.
Why am I wasting time?!! So many questions rancid in my mind! Except SWB,
that's Southwestern Bell Yellow Plates. But what is going on? What was Kelly
messed up in? Who is Giuw and WHY do I have . . . seventy-two hours?
I look to my ankle again. The triangle shape pulses a little. I was
injected, most likely with a poison. Most likely a drug and most likely . .
most likely it is some form of over-concentrated Neuroblitz. I'm going to
bet that; bet my life on it. Especially if that man made a point of mentioning
Kelly's death. Given the time period I can only assume the injection is on a
genetic time delay, ticking down the microscopic spins of the electron before
the whole chemical washes my system with pure unconstrained Bliss! That
could explain the seventy-two hours.
Frie returns from the kitchen, "Have you gotten all the things you
need? You are welcome to stay on the couch. I'm sorry I don't have another
room, but you know about all the space problems this city has."
I interrupt her quietly, "Frie, may I borrow your bit machine?"
Her blank eyes look to me, "Yea, just be sure to switch off the audio
if you don't want to hear it. It's just a convenience for me, but . . ."
"Yes, I know, thanks." I cut her off kinda short. But I don't have
the time right now.
Her computer is set on an old aluminum holed desk. A wire chair sits
before it. I begin to sit myself at the desk, but I remember to grab my
slimpack off the floor where I earlier dropped it. I finally seat myself
watching as Frie sits at the kitchen table and begins taking care of some of
her accounting chores. She quietly speaks into an aud recorder, annotating
market figures and processing client files. I turn back to concentrate on my
task.
From the pack I pull out Kelly's data book. The little slip lock
clicks as I pass my finger over the access panel. Its black filmy surface
opens allowing me to look inside. Fibrous pages stare me back. Digital
encoded readouts fill many of the sheaves, scribbles from her projects,
numbers, plans, notes to herself, templates for formula designs. All of her
livelihood seems encased in this book. I continue to flip through.
I insert the dloaded matrix bit into Frie's computer. The little
information piece slides completely into the port of the mini-tower of a
matrix. Her computer is slightly larger than ours ever was. She uses hers
for her business, Kelly always insisted on using the one at work for any major
data crunching. She said it just wasn't worth it to transfer the information.
She had once mentioned something about not wanting the codes printed over
telephone lines. She made a vague remark about the data pirates known as
Kitchen Sink Graphics and how they've got tappers all over the world biting
their teeth into telephone info transfers. That might explain some of the
fuss. But I'll really never know.
The three centimeter diameter black cylinder computer begins to hum
quietly as I turn it on. With all the access Frie must need, I am surprised
she doesn't leave it on all the time. Oh well.
The box chirps in a generic digital voice, "On-line: access space
2893gig, audio present, filter saturated."
Hmm, she has an awful lot of space available. That's unusual. I
speak to the box, "Manual setting please."
The box intones, "Manual confirmed." The flatscreen at the back of
the desk flicks for a miniature second, I pull the old keyboard from behind
the computer out and set it in front of me.
I begin accessing the backup bit from my apartment matrix, then log
through to access the two messages left for Kelly.
The first one, given by the woman, doesn't leave a forwarding access
code, no name or account label. Odd for a message. Kelly must have had a
meeting or something on Tuesday and the lady canceled. But what's the
directive thing? I decide to shelve that thought for a moment.
I review the next message, from Tange. He wants some kind of bars,
maybe he means bar codes or some such. But I don't remember coming across
anything like that in Kelly's data book. This bit of info sounds like the
best place to start.
Accessing out of the information stream, I then connect with the
computer's communication line. The audio chirps back on, "Log line please."
I return to the machine, "Connect 38874-8830-098-773-1233."
A momentary blip and the image clears.
The features of a small graying man appear on the screen. He speaks,
"Gilton Firm," His eyes blink, "Oh, Hello Coil. What you need?"
I speak rapidly, "Is Tange Quinton there? I thought this was a direct
line to his work-station?"
The little man speaks back, "Yea, he's here, but he's connected right
now, can I take a message?"
"Oh, well, I was just wondering if I could bring something of Kelly's
over to him."
He returns, "No problem, drop by anytime. He'll be here late this
evening." The screen blips off.
The black computer hums down and the screen flicks off. I pull the
info bit out of the port and return the keyboard to its unused position.
I turn while standing, "Frie?"
"Hmm. Hold on," She removes the port cables off the audio interface
of her data entry machine.
"What you need?" she returns.
"I'm going to leave for a little bit, I'll be back later. If anyone
calls for me tell them I'm out shopping. Uh," I think right quick, "Are you
sure you should stay here? I wouldn't want that guy to come back."
She smiles, "I'll be okay, just be careful yourself."
"Gotcha."
I get my slimpack and move into her dark bedroom to change; Frie
reinserts the audio interface into her ear and returns to her data world.
First thing, I look out the window, night's under way and wet rain is falling
hard.
From my pack I grab my yellow poly coat and my black bodysuit. The
coat's bright polyfibrous material unfolds and slickens out, its bulkiness
reasserts itself now that it is allowed to take its true shape. I slip out of
my previous clothes and into the slim black bodysuit, then don the yellow
plastic-tinged coat over it. I then pull on and readjust my shoes for wet
travel, they each seal at the bodysuit's ankle. I return to the bag and
notice I'm missing something; I walk back into the front room.
From the desk I grab Kelly's data book and the bit. I place them in
one of the flip pockets in my yellow coat.
Frie starts from her concentration as I tap her on the shoulder, "Now
what, silly boy?"
"Would you believe I forgot to pack my goggles? Do you have an extra
pair?"
"Look in the drawer near the couch," She returns in a flourish to her
data entry.
I rustle through the drawer and find three pairs of rain goggles; I
pick the first set and pull the strap over my head allowing them to settle
around my neck until I need them.
I begin to log out of the apartment when I remember to ask, "Frie,
what's the time?"
She looks up for a moment, "23:34. Why?"
"Just curious is all, I also left my watch in my apartment."
"Silly boy," she turns back to her work.
I finish logging out of the apartment and close the door. Heading
down the brown black-metal hallway, I walk passed our 'old' apartment. Police
bands ribbon off its presence. The room now completely frozen, withstands
time until the investigation can begin. I move past until I stand in front of
the elevator door.
The elevator panel lights as it arrives for my boarding. I get in; no
one else inside.
I settle in for the seconds ride to the basement, the compartment's
own yellow lighting clashes oddly with my plastic coat. The door opens to
the parking garage.
The smell of oil and chlorine pass my nostrils as I make for my car.
The hulking gray-brown 4WD sits far in the back. Low lighting accompanies me
to its location. I look to it and realize how truly ugly it is, I can't get
over how much it looks like one of those old Lambourgini jeeps. Its massive
seeming frame, black rubber tires, and removable black hardtop make it look
like a government reject. But it gets me around.
Being between jobs now though doesn't help either. Why am I thinking
these things! I better get moving!
I flick my fingers over the entry panel near the door and it opens.
I snuggle into the dark gray bucket seat and pass my hand over the ignition.
It starts quietly enough.
I pull out and approach the garage exit. The gate bars part and allow
me to drive up to street level.
Immediately the weather pouts its presence, the hard, acidic raindrops
pound the hull of my car. The wipers automatically begin; after several more
seconds the window warms to steam the drops before they hit the windshield.
The wipers continue their slow pattern.
As the car's beams light the street I notice how dead Hilven seems.
No body walks the sidewalks; only few other cars pass me by. I move out of
range of my apartment tower.
The street lighting remains dim in the peopleless streets. The storm
clouds block all perception of night while trickles of lightning cascade
through. Rain continues to pelt the hardtop as I access the radio news.
My interior lighting glows a dim orange; the radio band blinks green
and blue scanning for the news.
" . . . Province head, Turlan, has allocated funds to begin
construction . . ., . . . research continues on the Nottu virus since it has
reached epidemic levels in Atlanta . . ., . . . the re-districting of the
city into the new proposed sections..."
"Enough," I turn the device off allowing the relatively vehicleless
street to engulf me.
I turn right at the next corner, the tall buildings lighted to their
greatest . . .
"UHHN!!" Someone rear-ends my car. I didn't see any . . .
It happens again.
I speed up. I look into the mirrors and see a low hung vehicle with
a banded length of lights on its front. It rams me again. My speeding
continues, no people or cars can be seen on the streets.
I run a red.
The other car pulls up to my left side. I turn the wheel left,
hitting the other car. I can barely see out the side window, trying to make
out who is in the other car.
"HEY!" the other car bouts me right.
I jam the brakes and swing left; the wheels slide in the wet street.
The dark car speeds past. I complete my turn and settle into four wheel
drive. The engine churns faster. My right hand panels for the car phone, I
dial for the police . . .
The other car rams me again. I look in the mirror and see it back on
my tail. I lift the phone to my ear, "Hello, this is Coil . . ."
A distinct voice clears the line, "Yes, yes, we know you Mr. Bek. You
are very easy to track, you leave all kinds of convenient trails. I don't
know how you expect to evade us . . ."
I balk, "Who the Fap is this!?" The other car jabs left into my door
again.
"Please Mr. Bek, pull over. We just want to talk to you, that's all."
"No way!" I slam the phone into the passenger seat and speed up again.
I begin to drive towards the police station.
If I can't get them, then they'll get me!
"OHHN!" The other car jams my rear again. I brake.
The black vehicle slams my car's tail and both cars skid together,
spinning. My tires lock and I begin to brace when the 4WD's airbag blows.
The noise pops my ears as our attached cars come to a stop.
Immediately I unbuckle and jump out.
We've bumped the curb. I turn for a moment and see the dark car
locked to my car's bumper. My eyes scan the area and I run for the nearby
alley ahead of me.
The rain pelts me as I enter the dark access way. I quickly cover my
eyes with the single lens goggles to protect them from the acidic mist. I can
only hope my last skin bath and hair film will hold out against the rain one
more time.
My face peeks out from the alley; I watch as a woman exits the car.
She grabs her leg but notices me. Her form dark and undelineable in the rain.
Her other hand points to me, a gun fires on my position. Turning to
continue running, I hear her scream, "You can't get away!"
I sink myself into the pitch alleyway. My legs carry me further into
darkness; only the rain is felt less now.
My breath becomes strained, my lungs heave; I fall to the ground into
at puddle of water. I try to catch my breath.
Footsteps creep behind me. A voice, her voice, "I said you couldn't
get away."
Her face shadowed by the darkness, I can only make out a slight nose
and pair of dark eyes. The only illumination is from a hand-held boxlight,
small and compact in her hand. My eyes squint through the goggles. I feel
helpless on my knees, my hands in the puddle.
Her nose bobs, she holds out her free hand. Is she wishing to help me
up?
A feminine voice barks, "The negatives Mr. Bek!"
"WHAT! What negatives?! I don't believe this!?" What's going on?
She angers, "You have the negatives, now hand them over."
"Lady I have no banal idea what you are talking about. Just shoot me
and get it over with. I can't believe this, what would I be doing with
negatives? Negatives you want, for what matters? Who are you?"
She stands closer to me, her light deeper in my eyes. She slaps me
and I fall to the ground further.
"No more arguing," She lowers and begins searching me, her hands
rough and unkind.
"Here!!" I splash some of the rainwater from the puddle in her face.
She yells, the light falls to the ground. I pick myself up and begin
to run further into the alley. Turning back for a final check, I notice the
light remains fixed to the ground. Maybe I have a few moments since she
hadn't any goggles.
The alley lights up a little from fixtures above different doorways; I
begin pounding on the doors. Back and forth I move door to door.
I hear a gun click. I stop the pounding on the current door.
A voice, deep and punctuated, comes from behind, "What d'you want?" I
hear the gun cock further.
My body turns to see. A man in sunglasses points a gun nose through a
hole in a door. A deliberate hole, for this very purpose.
"Uh," is all I can manage.
He returns, "You are obviously in the wrong alley." I watch his
glasses scan the alley.
"Yeah, and would you believe I could use some help?" I begin to shake
from the water and fright. The rain begins to hit more. I can feel the rain
soaking deeper into my hair.
"Come over here."
I cautiously walk over to the door, peering down the alley to see if I
can see the woman's light on the ground still. I don't.
I plead, "Could you please help me, there's someone after me and I . .
."
He laughs, "Right kid, I believe you."
He opens the door, a new gun points from the side. The door
completely opens and a huge man takes the space. His shortened hair nearly
brushes the door rim; Orange-yellow light beats lightly at his facial
features from lantern above the door.
"Please, she'll be here at any moment . . ."
His voice changes, becomes effeminate, "C'mere little one." One of
his huge muscular arms sweeps towards me, the hand snatches one of my wrists
then slings to catch the other. He grasps both of my wrists in one hand.
He coos, "I'm not going to hurt you, too much."
I struggle, not believing his large muscular form. Having no leverage,
I can't manage anything yet. How did I get into this!!
"OUCH!" I cringe as he lifts me from the ground, both of my arms now
above my head, my feet pull from below.
He swings me close to his face, his wanksome breath reeks on my
nostrils, the rain dribbles from his features. Heat from the light pulses my
brow. What is he going to do . . . just a little higher . . . he draws me
closer to his face . . .
I jerk my body and swing back; coming forward, my knee guts his
stomach. The man's hand lets go of my wrists. Both of my feet hit the ground,
immediately I squat as his arm grasps for me again. I low kick his shins, he
falls hitting the door. I pounce his chest, knocking my fist into his jaw,
then settle my knee at his throat and chin and my left leg upon his gunned
hand. With my right hand I fist his temple. He blanks unconscious.
His weight ranks on me as I drag him into his room. I have no idea
what he had in mind for me, and I don't wish to play this game again. I grab
his gun. It's light and slim packed. Triple flat-barrel hand model with a
bank of panels, one of which is a silencing cone. Holding on to it tightly, I
realize that the woman could turn up at any second.
From the dim alley lighting I quickly scan the room. Tarped equipment
lies about. Halfly shrouded machines and chemstations lie around waiting to
be used. A stack of air-tubes hang from the ceiling in one corner.
Styrrovats and industrial spray foam insulation tanks cluster near an orange
couch. A dry cuban-cigar smell reeks. Vials and scanning equipment set on
top of a clean desk: this is the office of a gene-mapper.
Hmm. Some of this stuff could come in handy if I had the time. The
lighting shows on part of a table; white dust-powder looks dropped upon its
surface. I eye the gloves. I grab the black slicks. If these are real
mapper gloves, they're either printless or they'll map someone else's
fingerprints onto whatever I touch. That's the problem with commercial gloves
these days. Any pair you buy, will map your own prints straight through the
material so you don't have to take them off to access panels and computers.
Since these are probably black-market, they should keep me from trailing
myself so much. I hope. I slip them on.
Not knowing the time I have, I leave the room and close the door,
looking back at the fallen man once more. His nutrient enhanced body sleeping
in pain. I continue to race down the alley. This time I don't look back.
I clutch the gun in my hand, panting as I run. After a few moments of
dark running, a cluster of lights brighten far down. I continue my pace.
As I close in, the static of night Market sounds off my ears. I stop.
Noticing the part of town I've gotten into, I examine the gun closer.
That pervert! This is a fapping juicer! He never intended to kill me!
This things only shoot druged dartbeads. Used to knock someone unconscious.
No reason to be mad now. The worst I could do is give someone a long
headache.
I pocket the gun in my jacket. I fit it into one of the big yellow
pockets. No reason to get anyone in a fuss around Market. I begin to walk
toward the clustered lighting and noise.
Wrapper trash and food cartons begin to line the alley more as I get
closer to the end of the alley. The lights brighten and smells start to creep
to my nose. Oily foods, false organics, base smells erupt. Yes, I'm
definitely near Market.
I wish I had my watch. With no way to tell time, I have no idea how
late it is. And if this rain keeps up like this, I'll never see daylight. I
decide maybe I can get some answers here though.
I walk out of the alley, confronted by people of every ethnicity.
Their existences brightens the streetway. Carts and booths line the street.
Very typical setting. Peddlers front the walks and people from all over stand
to buy their wears. Food bins, techno-shops, herbal centers and commercial
shaman. Smart drinks, Wetware, hyperRave booths, ambisex cubicles and Aud
vendors. Micro-malling at its best. The rain never bothers Market,
everything survives as necessary.
Try as I might, I attempt to peruse the walks. Couples, triples, gang
members, all manner of character hangs around the area. Business thrives
here as it would at any commercial indoor vendor.
I come to a lighted convenience stall, the Hispanic-Asian girl looks
to me in boredom, a viddeck perches over one of her eyes. I speak up, "Praxil
Cemaphyte."
Her eyes move behind the counter. I muse in all the junk and
aesthetics that line her stall. A very convenient place. All the necessities
hang within. Every legal type of pleasure stimulant, bit entertainment, and
hard copy mag waits to be purchased. She even carries wants, as I ask for.
She places my order on the counter, her hand waits for the exchange.
I pull out my card. "Wait," I stop halfway, "Will you take cash?"
Her Asian eyes do not blink. I feel like she believes me to be the
lowest form of life on the planet. Finally she nods.
I pull three crisp bills from my chest pocket and hand them to her.
She takes the money and pushes my packet forward. I take it. She turns away
back into her own hyper-reality.
Ripping open the silver mono-packet, I decide to take the lung filter
pills with liquid. Several booths away, a beverage cart sits nearby. I make
for it.
As I walk up, the old man under the neon light asks my desire. I
reply, "Cinnamon tea." I don't know why I've been on this cinnamon string
lately. I again pay in cash. I take the lemony pills, sipping occasionaly at
the tea.
Hmm. I turn back to the man, "Is there a fisher's stall nearby?"
The man quips in some French afterthought then points down the street.
I follow his finger.
My lungs begin to clear to a point; but, the rain only begins to fall
more. So much for health.
"Coil Bek," the voice sing songs, "Haven't seen you in several days."
I turn to face the voice, terrified at who it could be. Kathy Sung
smiles back. Her short posture, shoulder crimped hair, almond eyes, all warm
with welcome. She gives me a hug.
"Hi Kath," I begin to look around. Nervousness breaks on my brow.
"Where's Kelly, haven't seen your friend for quite some time either?"
Casually I take her in arm and walk her towards the fisher's stall,
"You don't mind if we walk this way do you?"
"Not at all," she replies. "You've got to come see my latest piece
Coil. I've started something new. It's not what you'd expect from a street
girl. It's a kind of touch art. My teacher calls it tactile art. He's
always so formal. But he did say that if it's good enough, it might just get
me into the new college they're building after the redistricting gets through.
I hope so. I need a new outlet," she talks faster and faster, "When are you
coming back to school? You've been out for quite some time? I never thought
I'd see the day when you'd drop for a while. I thought for sure you'd be one
of those full timers."
We stop at the fisher's stall. "Kath, could you hold for just a
moment, I wanted to check something out."
"Sure, I wish you'd come over some time. I never get to see you or
Kelly anymore. How's Frie. Haven't gabbed with her in ages. You know, oh,
do your thing, sorry." She quiets for a moment.
The woman in the stall looks to me from under a crisp blue light, her
wrinkled face barely allows her eyes to peer back. I reach into my pocket and
get out Kelly's data book.
"I was wondering, would you be willing to x-ray this for me?"
She points to the selection of iced fish about her. "Uh, I'll take uh,
" I turn to Kath, "What kind of fish do you like?"
She breaks from a stare, "Me? Oh, white pureaI," she turns and repeats
this to the old woman. She would pick the highest delicacy this market
provides. The wrinkled woman hands the fish to the Kath then holds out her
hand for the data book. I hand it to her. She lowers it into something just
below the counter; she speaks back in a thick eastern-dialect, "Have a look,"
she moves something under the counter and a monitor on a flexible arm raises
for our view.
I distinctly make out the shape of the data book, all of the fibrous
pages are transparent in the x-ray. A cluster of objects can be seen in a
pile in the middle. After sipping the cinnamon concoction I whisper, "Of all
the . . ."
Kath turns and looks too, "Hey those are negatives. I haven't seen
negatives in ages. Where'd you get those?"
"Thanks," I say to the woman. I hand her the rest of my cash and she
returns the data book.
I finish with Kathy, "Kelly brought this to me, she asked me to . . .
well that doesn't matter. Hmm." First I set my cup on the ground then I open
the data book. My hand feels through the front cover, nothing. I then feel
through the back cover, nothing. Strange. The pages themselves? That's it.
I turn to the metallic punch board pages; each divider opens. The
first board produces a yellowed piece of paper, on it is a printout of lined
intervals, with specific annotations. This must be the bars Tange was asking
for. I open the next divider, negatives, I examine them through the stall
lighting. One has a microscopic picture, the other seems to be a person, a
bald person. This is what the woman was looking for. I flip through the
third divider, I force it open; but first, I hand the negatives to Kath.
She's thrilled. The third divider produces another piece of paper, scanned
this time, with a simple group of lines on it, at the top it says 6th floor,
with two enclosed areas. Each area contains a group of numbers; the two
divided areas say 685 and 687. I will assume this is a diagram of a set of
rooms because of the odd numbering and the floor number. The other numbers,
specifically the red triangulated 0300, I have no idea what they represent.
Except, at the bottom, I can only note the obviousness of the paper's source,
SWB: Southwestern Bell Yellow Plates. Maybe this is where I'm to take the
Wedge, if I ever find that thing. I open the final divider. It produces a
small flyer and a blank bandcard. The flyer is for something called ?DIRECTIVE
on the 28th at the Pilton Exhibit Hall. That's tomorrow evening. It's at
21:10. I have no clue as to what the bandcard is. This is very interesting.
Kathy turns from the negatives, "These are neat, can I . . . Oh neat,
where'd you get a ticket to ?DIRECTIVE I've been wanting to go for ages.
Mears Jeanon outs as Notic, he plays bassboard. Fap! he's a good musician."
I turn to her, "Sorry, but this is Kelly's."
She turns back to the negatives, "Can I take a look at . . . "
I blurt, "What time is it?" I close all the papers back into the data
book.
Kathy looks to her watch, "It's 4:21, you need to go?"
"Yeah, I was supposed to be at the Gilton Firm hours ago. Talk to you
later." My foot knocks over the cinnamon concoction as I rush off.
I re-deposit the data book in my coat pocket and run off to the Market
edge. A mass transport post waits. I access the post and tap in my
destination.
Several minutes go by, several transports go by. Eventually one set
for my destination arrives. I board.
Walking to the back of the large sterile transport, I plop myself in
an empty row of seats. As the vehicle moves off, the interior neon winks on
and off as the power surges. People look to me then about or to the little
vid screens near each seat. I guess I look kind of dirty.
I remove my goggles and look at my clothes. Fortunately my black
bodysuit doesn't show too much dirt from my fall. Nor does the yellow plastic
coat; the rain has washed it all away. It at least seems that way.
Thoughts about Kelly's data book resurface. Had I know she was
involved in so much; I just don't know how I'd have handled it. It's too
strange to think about the social aspect. Gods, what is all of this about?
Tange better be able to give me some answers or I'll never make it.
I remember the injection again. I position my right leg casually on
my left knee. Nobody cares or looks to care. I unfasten my shoe from the
body suit legging and pull up the fabric. What?! the spot has completely
formed. It's as if I have a tattoo on my ankle. The injection spot has
formed fully into a dark purple-like tattoo. Its shape is now well defined.
Distinctly triangular, except I can make out all the nuances in it. As in all
the littler triangles within the big triangle. Extending on into infinity.
This screams from one of my old classics math courses in grade school; it's
what is called a Serpenski Gasket. Infinite in continuous length but null of
area. How strange that this would represent my poisoning. I've only got
under two days left.
----------
end part two
----------
----------
part three
----------
The transport finally stops at my destination with a humble surge in
the neon. I re-don the goggles to protect my eyes from the rain.
Stepping from the vehicle, I confront the Gilton Firm. Rather, I am
shadowed by the Gilton Firm. The building is a towering monument to all kinds
of research. I've only visited once and that was to meet Kelly in the
cathedral like lobby.
The building itself stretches into the sky like all the other
buildings in Hilven; this one though represents a lot more to me. Its silver
sheen stance and blackgray windows surrounding it hold the place up like a
deconstructionalist's shrine to the gods. The minimal street lighting at its
base impresses me into believing it to be the only building in the city.
Random persons walk in front and behind me as I stride to the lobby entrance.
The two clear glass doors slide aside to let me enter; my feet fall
immediately to the slick grayblack flooring, some kind of polished stone. I
glance upward for an instant to once again grasp the immensity of the lobby
area. I see up for several ten's of meters, the beaming at the lobby's
corners meet at a conical apex. Far and to my left is a service panel. It is
the only device present other than the offset walls and the elevator bank to
the far back. I walk to the panel.
As I approach, the information board lights. A distinctly feminine
voice, elegantly reproduced, sounds, "Welcome to the Gilton Firm. How may we
be of assistance."
For one, I'd like them to turn off this tacky seeming fasaud. Oh,
well. I speak back, "I'm hear to see Tange Quinton."
The board replies, "You may access VR room 78 through elevator five,
Room 78483, turn right as you exit the elevator. Follow the floor beams until
you reach your destination. You have been expected Mr. Bek."
So much for anonymity. I hear a distinct click come from my coat
pocket; the information board speaks again, "Your weapon has been nulled.
Have a nice day."
I walk to the elevator bank and enter the fifth elevator. Upon
entering I note its semicircular shape, pondering how such a personable space
could quickly and efficiently transport so many people to and from their
offices daily. My thought is soon answered as the elevator shoots up. The
ride takes three seconds.
The door opens and I turn right into the white slick hallway. I look
to the floor and note the inconspicuous seeming beam near the junction of the
wall and floor. I follow the blue beam down the hall.
Flush doors line the passage, no indication as to their contents is
suggested, only room numbers discreetly placed to the right of each door near
eye level.
The beam ends at my destination, room 78483. Standard door. I look
to the black stone floor, stepping back a little, and note that I can not see
under the entrance. It appears the room is completely sealed. I begin to
knock, but it opens to my gesture. I walk in.
Everywhere I look there are wires. Wires, tubes, ports, connections,
connectors, screens, cables, filaments, lighting structures all gray, silver,
black or white. I've never seen such a contained mess of electronics. I
stand still, not knowing if I'll break anything.
Tange Quinton steps into my view from the left. He exits from a
doorway carrying a piece of headgear of some kind. He comes up to shake my
hand.
"Hello Coil, I don't think we've ever had the chance to meet in person.
It seems like we're always talking over the lines or some such. What can I
help you with?" His voice is straightforward and very businesslike. His
appearance is hard to classify due to his current attire of bodysuit and
bodygear. He looks like he stepped out of an ancient sci-fi video. Simple
tubing runs the length of his arms to his gloves; the wiring extends to his
shoulders and over his back and down his legs.
Tange notices my examination, "Oh, this is part of our recent endeavor
into VR technology. It's kind of interesting to say the least. Have you
ever been emersed in a VR environment?"
My eyebrows quiz him, "I'm not even sure what VR is. I thought is was
some kind of matrix related programming or . . . I really don't know. Anyway,
I just wanted to bring you this."
I pull out Kelly's data book and retrieve the bar-code slip. Handing
it to Tange makes his eyebrows raise closer to his dark close-cut hair. His
thin lips pull to a surprised smile. "Kelly gave you this?"
I balk for a moment, "Uh yes, she did. Sh's been delayed for quite a
while. Something's come up and se asked me to deliver this to you. Is there
anything wrong?"
He continues to smile, "No. No, not at all. This is great actually.
This is the processing sequence for the VR simulation. We can't access the
attractor unless we have this bar sequence. Kind of the hinge of the
relationship between what we want and what we already have."
My eyes puzzle further.
He tries to explain, "You said you didn't know what VR is, right?"
I nod quietly, not knowing what to expect.
He continues, "Well VR, or virtual reality, is the technology that
allows one to totally immerse one's self in an artificial environment."
Oh-kaaay, I think to myself.
"I can see I need to explain a little deeper . . ."
I comment, "I think I know that part; you mean where you are capable
of accessing the matrix system and its memory, graphics, data, et cetera by
using physical motions of the body?"
He smiles, "Yes, you do know it. Well, to make a long story even
longer, Gilton has been developing its own VR technology from the ground up.
That's why you see all the equipment lying about. Normally, if we were a
commercial VR industry, we'd have this all streamlined down to a hand-held
version. But being the way we are, Gilton prefers to start from scratch and
perfect things in its own manner. We've even got plans for someday
introducing a nanoteched version of this VR stuff into the human body, so
everyone can access all kinds of matrix data personally. But that's quite a
ways off. Right now we are interested in what the technology can do with this
project."
Not fully grasping all of what Tange said, I itch to question,
"Kelly's never really told me what she's been working on these last few months.
She's normally so excited to tell me all she's doing. Lately though she's
been kind of quiet."
Tange pats me on the shoulder, "I'm surprised she hasn't told everyone.
It's no secret really. We've been modifying an algorithm to generate the
prime numbers."
"WHAT!" I blurt. Kelly was killed over this?!! There's got to be
more!! What's this have to do with a wedge?!?
Tange's eyes open wide with slight shock at my response.
I return, "Sorry, I had no idea your project was so . . . "
Tange becomes solemn, "That's okay, we did not expect anyone to be too
excited. But it is something mathematicians and statisticians have been
working on for centuries. But, we've cracked it."
I must be missing something very big. I simply can not believe that
all of the chasing I've gone through is for nothing. What's a formula to
crack the prime numbers going to do to help me find this wedge thing.
How . . . weird.
Tange sees the complacency on my face, "Here, let me show you. Maybe
you'll be a little more enthusiastic once I demonstrate."
I return, "Maybe I shouldn't, I've got a lot of other things to do."
Thoughts about getting the wedge thing heat my skin. "I'm running on a really
tight time schedule. How about . . ."
He takes my arm in enthusiasm, "Come on Coil. It will only take five
minutes. You can tell Kelly that you were the first to view the attractor in
VR. She'll be jealous, then maybe she'll talk to you about it some more."
I reluctantly give in to his motions.
"Here," he moves to one of the messy desks and picks up a pair of
gloves and a headset with thin black opaque goggles and hands them to me.
"Take your coat off and put these gloves on, then put the headgear on. You'll
need to take your own goggles off first, then you can wear these."
Like a fool, I forgot I had left my rain goggles on; quickly I let
them fall around my neck.
I take my coat off and drape it over one of the polybacked chairs. I
pull off the genegloves and pocket them in the coat. I next put on the gloves
Tange handed me; finally I allow the VR goggles to sit upon my brow until he
tells me to cover my eyes with them.
He continues to explain, "You'll be wearing our latest reduction in
the technology, no body wires. Like I said, the hard part is getting started.
The easy part is streamlining the technology. Right now we've got all our
data under picostorage. That's where we use simple ionic charges and
discharges to manipulate the electron state of helium-glass."
Fumbling with some of the desk equipment, he continues,
" . . . electron attached to helium is a binary one, non-electron helium is a
binary zero. It makes for hyper dense storage of large amounts of numbers.
By manipulating the atom on the atomic scale we have increased our memory
storage capacity to the billions of trillions per square centimeter . . .
then again you didn't come here for a lesson in matrix memory storage. Hold
on a moment while I prep the attractor."
Tange takes the piece of paper I handed him earlier and places on a
horizontal panel near the chair I draped my coat over. He then moves his hand
to another panel board nearby and motions a sequence. A blue lightbeam scans
from below the panel with the paper, then stops. He doesn't remove the paper.
He speaks, "Okay, the progression is initiated and the attractor is
ready to be played out in three-space. Let's go have a look."
I blurt, "Wait, wait, wait. Let me ask one tiny question."
"Sure."
Quietly I ask, trying not to sound too much a fool, "If I'm going to
go through this, could you please explain what an attractor is? I honestly
don't know what your referring to."
He laughs a little, "I'm very sorry. When you spouted that little bit
of info you had on VR tech, I thought you knew what an attractor was. I
apologize. Anyway. An attractor, or more formally in this case a strange
attractor, is a shape that particular data points tend to fall to when plotted
in phase space. In this case the attractor will be seen in three dimensions.
I think you'll get a much better understanding once you see it. It's really
fairly neat once you see the data points plot onto the attractor. If our
assumptions go correctly, the shape should look something like a wedge."
He turns to walk into the room he originally came out of. I simply
stand, enthusiasm finally hitting me.
Tange calls back, "Come on Coil." He puts his own goggles on, "When
you step into the VR room, then put your goggles on, the matrix will then
locate your position and allow you to roam the dimensions of the room."
I follow him into the room. It is devoid of all objects, completely
smooth, no features what-so-ever. A low ceiling hangs above us, yet the room
stretches far in all directions horizontal. I don my goggles, then hear the
door close.
Tange's voice sounds clear and distinct in my ears, my headset relays
what he says directly do me. At the moment I am in complete darkness due to
the opaque goggles over my eyes.
Tange comments, "In the next few days hopefully you won't even be
wearing goggles. Like I said earlier, we're working on a technology that taps
directly into your neurosystem. Anyway, allow me."
A moment of nothingness then he speaks again, "On-line."
The view in front of me statics for a second then clears to an
infinite plane. I see what could be called a sky and the ground. A sharp
line separates the two. The 'sky' is black, the 'ground' is deep dark blue.
I can somehow make the distinction out rather well. Next I very distinctly
hear Tange speak, his voice comes from my left. Without thinking I turn;
standing before me, I see two well defined hands, a set of goggles and what
looks like a wireframe of a body attaching the hands and goggles to wire legs,
arm, torso, and feet. The image is placed exactly where I would anticipate
Tange to be.
He speaks again, "Allow me flesh out a few things . . . " He speaks
with a purpose into the air, "Matrix interpolation, personal data form,
fractal fill correspondence now."
The once skeletal form of Tange retraces and becomes a fully imaged
version of what he really looks like. Except it's been reproduced by the
matrix. He walks up to me and holds his hand out. We once again shake hands.
I notice my own version of a hand in this world is simply a wire framed
glove. As I look at it, Tange voices something else. The wire glove fills
out to look like a hand. Not my hand, but a woman's hand. Must be one of the
other employees. How strange.
He talks, "If at any time you feel disoriented or sick, tell me and
we'll get you out. Some say the VR experience is too real. I beg to differ,
but that's life. Now for the show."
He again speaks formally to the matrix, "Recenter coordinates to
spatial centroid. Calculated relative size to one-tenth the average data
correspondence of existing planar data. Begin calculation based on bar
sequencer now."
At waist level between our two imaginary forms a visible point erupts.
From the point several more points develop in the area. This process
continues until I can distinctly see the points filling a specific volume;
that volume is the shape of a wedge. A very odd wedge at that. As I continue
to watch the volume shape out, its form begins to take on more haunting
characteristics. The wedge starts to flesh out into a zig zagged shape.
Very unusual.
Tange speaks, "This is only the beginning. Right now you are seeing
the holistic view of the natural numbers. Every prime number can be found to
exist in that volume. It is an unusual way to map the naturals but that is
where the power lies. Watch this."
He continues with enthusiasm, "touch it."
I look to him, wondering if he can see my virtual facial expressions,
my puzzlement . . . But, I reach for the wedge none-the-less. Fap! My
fingers feel pricked! . . . as if needles tip my fingers. The gloves, somehow
the gloves transfer the images composition to my skin . . . but I can't move
it . . . the wedge is rigid, rather it feels rigid? Weird, I can feel the
tiny spaces between the points that make up the image . . . odd.
Tange's voice breaks my thoughts, "The gloves you're wearing alow for
mechanical force feeback . . . tiny motors are attached to wires which in turn
are receiving signals from the image processor . . . we're in the process of
streamlining this at the moment . . .like I said, give us a few days."
I only half listen, more fascinated in the wedge image itself, its
composition, its actual coarse tactile sense. Its virtual reality.
Tange again voices some formal matrix commands and I watch the wedge
shape. Sections of the object begin to peel away. He continues, "Right now
what you are seeing, and what I'm seeing for the first time, is the stripping
of all numbers that aren't prime from the wedge. What ever is left over is
the prime attractor, or what we've come to joke about as the prime directive."
The peeling ends. What is now left of the object is several ethereal,
gossamer strands of data points. They all project radialy outward from the
initial point and only define a hint of wedge. Very beautiful to the eye.
Tange goes on, "This is quite amazing. I had no idea it would look
like this. We only knew what the initial attractor would look like, that's
the wedge shape I mean. But this, this is very keen to look at. Right now
you are looking at the holistic interpretation the prime numbers. You must
realize this is not all the prime numbers because that sequence is infinite,
but this little image," his virtual hand points to the threadlike object,
"contains the template to find any prime number, all primes lie in this volume.
Truly a strange attractor."
I begin wondering how I am to get this 'thing', this virtual wedge,
from him. How can I turn over a bunch of data points from a matrix to a man
I'm supposed to meet in less than two days? This is a predicament.
Tange speaks a few more formal commands and all the imaging blinks
away. I am back in darkness.
"You can take your goggles off now," his voice is normal now. I
remove my paraphernalia.
We walk back into the messy seeming office area. My eyes turn
cautiously to the bar paper on the scanner.
After handing back the equipment to Tange, I move to get my coat. I
deliberately stand in front of the scanner as I slip the coat on. My hand
casually snatches the sheet of paper.
I next put the genegloves back on.
Tange ruffles some things on a nearby desk. He sits down at an old
keyboard and types out several commands on a flatscreen above it. Afterwards
he pushes some more equipment aside. His hand reaches for a panel and flashes
over several places. A low hum is heard then an audible bip. He then
reaches under his desk and flips open a matrix panel. He extracts a rather
impressive black bit, larger than standard size, but small enough to contain
in one hand.
He grabs some bubble plastic lying on another desk and wraps the bit
in a section of it, clumsily taping it with a stroke or two. He hands the
bundle to me.
"This is for Kelly. This contains the helium-glass template for the
wedge and subroutines for extracting the primes and peeling all unnecessary
numbers away from the prime attractor. She'll definitely want to look at
this. It wouldn't be too righteous-like to deliver it over matrix lines with
all this stormy weather."
I take the bundle and carefully place it in another of my coat pockets.
I begin to leave, "Thank you very much Mr. Quinton. Kelly will be
looking forward to viewing this, I'm sure. You've opened my eyes to quite a
new world. I'll have to look into this VR thing some more. Thanks again for
your help, I better be going." All the BSing done, I leave. The door opens
for me.
Tange calls out, "Wait."
I turn back into the room, now what?! He ruffles through another of
the desks and picks out a dark overcoat. He fingers through one of the
pockets and produces a blank bandcard. He hands this to me, "And give this to
Kelly also. Tell her I'm sorry I can't make the performance. She'll have to
go without me."
I voice back, "This is to ?DIRECTIVE?"
"Yes," he returns.
"I'll be sure it's taken care of, thanks again," I leave.
As the door closes, I realize my tension has only just begun. I
decide I'm not safe till I'm out of the building and away from Gilton.
I practically run down the hall to the elevator, enter and drop to the
ground level. I briskly stride through the lobby and exit into the dark
morning street. With a slap of plastic on flesh, I reposition my goggles.
Immediately I lose myself in the early morning work crowds.
I've made it.
As I walk through the mass of people I think about what I've gotten.
So far I've been chased about a wedge and some negative and so far they don't
seem to have any connection. The only directive I know of is the performance
tomorrow, and now I've got two tickets to it. Unless the directive the voice
on Kelly's machine meant the prime directive? I don't know! And then there's
the little sheet with the rooms and the numbers. I can only assume that's
where I'm to deliver the wedge. That part was too easy. Or was it? I have
the banal thing in my pocket. But I haven't figured out why Kelly was killed,
or who Giuw was for that matter. What's the connection with the guy that
drugged me. Kelly must have been mixed up in something else. Then there's
this lady that's chasing me, she wanted some negatives Kelly has.
The negatives! Kathy still has them!
Fap!! She might be in trouble!!
I race to the nearest mass transport stop.
.........
end part three
.........
.........
part four
.........
The rain pelts harder as I exit the transport. The traction on my
shoes holds well in all kinds of weather, especially well in water. But then
again, I think that all clothes anymore are designed to be worn in the rain
more than any other kind atmosphere. Fact of life.
One near streetlight illuminates the area. At the moment, I'm walking
up to Kathy's apartment building. It is very old, must be in the hundreds of
years in age. The outside looks to be constructed of some kind of stone,
maybe even a type of brick, brown and maroon polymold. I really don't know.
I had to practically bribe that dreg on the transport to let me use
her portable phone. For some reason Kathy didn't answer her plate, nor did
she have a message taking device. Which worries me even more. Though she
could be out, I simply do not trust such thoughts. Nor the idea that I've
never been to her apartment before. Locating it was difficult also.
Information gave me a real hassle about giving out her address, not like they
didn't have every bit of info on me also.
As I step up the stone steps and confront the black gated door that
fronts the building, I notice the entrance isn't equipped with the standard
security stuff. No card clearance, or key lock. Nothing. I simply pull open
the gate.
I enter the hallway. The gate door automatically closes behind me,
spring hinged, a slight click sounds. I walk on.
The passageway is fairly dark except for the small upturned yellow
lights near each door. I continue down the hall to the end. The elevator
awaits. I grab for the gun in my pocket, pulling it out and hiding it in the
folds of my coat, only sure it will sedate someone. No guarantee of that
either.
After pushing the call button, I note the unkeptness of the complex.
The walls have a minimal amount of damage. A few holes show black filament
and insulation, nothing that couldn't be repaired. If the money were allotted.
The elevator arrives, no sound announces its stop. I step aside.
The doors to the elevator open, a minor amount of neon shines out from
its interior. No one exits. I begin to enter and stop.
My heart quickens. A gun slides from around inner door, I step back
and the genemapper's gun out, ready. My finger tense on the trigger, my hand
jerks when the person jumps from around the door screaming, "Bang!" I pull
the trigger. Dead hit in the chest. He goes down.
"Fap!" It's a kid. Doesn't look older than ten. His hair is wet and
strung to his head. The pellet from my gun knocked him out good. He won't
awaken for quite awhile.
I check his pulse, all's well. Then his eyes. They are red veined,
darkening to purple; it looks like they've been exposed to too much rain.
Not knowing what else to do, I move his body to the side out of the
elevator; hopefully he'll be safe till he wakes. I hope.
Next I rush into the elevator and hit seven. The door closes and I
begin to ascend. Neon flickers from above me as each floor passes. Finally
the door opens. I walk out and turn left, looking for room 704. Not very
difficult to find, only one of four on this side of the building, must be a
loft.
I stand near Kathy's door and knock. She hasn't even a wall plate to
see who's calling. I ring the doorbell a couple of times. No answer.
Turning the handle, I find that it gives rather easily; but it is
locked. I've got to get inside if not to help Kathy, then to get the negatives.
No better idea surfacing, I stand back and aim at the door handle.
Before firing I panel the nozzle for a silencing cone and pulse shot. I shoot
the handle and the lock pocks inward. The handle turns easily and I go in.
Dim light creeps from one neon light near a window across the loft.
Almost ambi-ray in hue, seen in some police flicks. Looking right, I see a
short hallway and a cubical room, possibly the bathroom. I call out, "Kathy!
Are you here?!"
I look across the room and notice the total disarray that everything
is in. All kinds of equipment and supplies are strewn about, someone seems to
have been searching the apartment. But who would know about the negatives
but me?!
Several Japanese paper screens stand to divide the loft area into
sections. No other light shines in the room.
I walk towards the neon light near the window, slowly crossing the
room, my eyes somewhat adjusting further to the rest of the area. It is then
that I see the form.
To my left ,seated in a chair, looks to be a person.
I stifle a breath.
I run over to the chair, something has happened! Seated, is someone
completely wrapped in plastic wrap. The whole body covered in the material
from head to foot, each arm and leg wrapped separately. The material is
semi-opaque, unable to allow me to see fully into the wrapping. The form
suggests a female; it is strapped with black ties to the back of the chair.
It is difficult to make out any more specifics in the bad lighting.
Scared and shaking, I begin to unwrap the body, first near the face. My hands
shake badly; sweat falls onto my goggles; I let them fall to my neck.
I begin unwrapping the face more and eventually reach a portion of the
skin. Purple and gray, bruised looking; an eye opened stares out.
Oh my . . . !
"And just what the hell are you doing!?" the female voice comes from
behind. I slowly turn around.
As I look, Kathy stands in the slighted light with a sawed off machine
pistol held with two hands. She wears a towel around her body and a plastic
cap holding her hair back.
Puzzlement crosses my brow.
"Coil?! What in holy high are you doing? How'd you get in?" She
lowers the gun.
Embarrassment flushes my face and I stand.
And question, "I thought this was you," pointing to the body in the
chair.
She looks to the form and swears, "Coil! you've ruined it!"
Kathy walks to the figure and starts replacing the plastic wrap around
the face, picking up what looks like an industrial gel tube from the floor.
She begins to speak to the form more than to me, "It took me gods know how
long to get permits for this thing, and here you are exposing it to the air
before it needs to be. What do you think you're doing?"
What do I think I'm doing . . . what is that thing, "What is that
thing?"
She turns, her hand finishing replacing a last bit of wrap, "This is
Anatomy101. I requested a permit to use her as she designated her body for
experimental purposes on her log card. So here I am experimenting. It is
part of a political art collection at the Cosbaan Galleri." She sighs,
"Personally I don't go for that 'Art to make a Statement' kind of thing, but
it's to help rake in some money for Tollington fund. And you know me,
anything to help a good cause."
Weird, very weird. Gross too. I turn away from the form.
Kathy walks over to me, "So your turn, why and how are you here? I'm
glad you decided to visit . . ."
I break, "Well, I broke your door, I'm sorry about that. But I really
needed something, something you have."
"What?"
"Do you still have those negatives I put in your hand?"
"No."
I practically yell, "NO!!?"
"That's right, no. They're at Filaman's on Müller in the District."
My eyes blaze, "Why are they there? I need them now."
"Alright Coil, don't get so tragic on me. I thought as long as I
got'em and you don't I'll see what I can see about them. No big deal. I took
them to Filaman's and asked if he'd develop them. He told me to come back
the next evening, so I'm waiting. Got a problem with that?" Her voice
finishes with a sweetness.
"No," I reply. "But we can get them back right?"
"Yes, of course."
I sit down, exhausted in a nearby polyfoam couch. Kathy moves near
the door. She grabs several steel folding chairs and places them in front of
the handle. Then she rumages behind behind one of the wall screens, two
board objects in her hand. She picks a nailgun off the floor and staples the
wood and plastibar pilons over the door and wall. Instant door lock.
Amazement crosses my eyes, "Kathy."
"Yes."
"I thought someone had broken in, that is with all this stuff lying
about."
She laughs, "Really now, I'm an artist," artist comes out with a
French accent, "I've got no time for aesthetics!"
I simply stare at her. Then remember.
"Kathy, would you attend ?DIRECTIVE with me?"
"HOW!?" she blurts.
"I just got an extra ticket from Kelly, she's really not up to going,
and her friend dropped out of it at the last minute. So would you like to go?"
Her eyes light up with a small joy, "Yes!" Aggression perks from her.
"Good," I finish.
I begin to yawn.
Kathy finishes, "Maybe you better take a nap. Those negatives won't
be ready till the evening and the performance is tonight. So you won't be
too busy . . ."
"Tonight?" I question.
She smiles back, "Yes Coil, it's morning. Maybe you can't see the
sun, but it's out there."
Not capable of arguing, I turn to stare one last time at the form,
Anatomy101, shivering from its prospective purpose. I then lay down on the
couch, pulling a red poly fabriked pillow from the floor to rest my head on.
.........
end part four
.........
.........
part five
.........
"Where's this place again?" my question seems to pass right through
Kath's head. She keeps up her brisk pace in the purple-red dusk lighting.
Pushing my way through the crowd behind her, I find I have to keep getting her
attention to make sure she doesn't lose me, an ever-present fear.
Her hand reaches back and takes hold of my own. Her grip is deathlike;
obviously she has been through this before, as have we all.
The early evening lacks its normal humidity, no rain was forecast for
the next several hours. We both brought our goggles anyway. Kathy felt it
necessary to dress not only 'appropriate' for the performance, but
'appropriate' for our excursion into the District. So she decided to don a
pseudo-leather bomber jacket, tinted black. Her hair is mussed in a stringy
black matted look; some miniature polybags hang in stipled strands throughout.
Dark maroon lipstick-slash-lip-protectant marks her mouth. Otherwise she is
wearing a dark purple bodysuit with some kind of industrial-usage boots. Me,
I'm still wearing my old black and yellow gear.
She pulls me right out of the crowd and into a lighted alcove.
"We're here," she turns and opens a glass inset door. As she does, a
minimal bip sounds off that we are entering.
Looking straight into the room, I see cameras of every kind. Old
ones, sort of new ones, ancient ones, even a recent new bulky device that fits
over your head like a helmet; I think it's called a simulacration helmet.
The lighting is reminiscent of Kathy's apartment. A few light tubes
line the ceiling corners, channeling a single pulse of light through tubular
monothread all the way around the room, lighting everything. Pure optic
efficiency.
We walk down one of the only two aisles in the store to the back. It
is then that I notice the gentleman sitting at the counter. I hadn't see him
before.
Kathy greets him, "Unrei, do you have the negatives I gave you ready?"
The Hispanic seeming man moves aside a long brown-blond, dreadlocked
piece of hair out of his face and looks up to Kathy. A smile crosses his
tired looking face, his eyes focus little on either of us.
"Yezi ma'm," his accent is a mixture of something odd, I do not even
attempt to locate it. He continues, "It waz verdy hoard tryeeng to dievelop
them. All Ei could do waz enlarge the negatev itzelf." He stands up from a
stool I hadn't realized he was sitting on, then moves to my left and lifts a
panel in the floor. He descends into a basement of some sort; I try to look
over the counter to see where, but Kathy tugs my coat.
Sitting on the counter is the remains of what Unrei is working on. It
looks like a conglomeration of several distinctly different matrix pieces
from several very seemingly incompatible matrix industries; I notice an IBM
and Sendai emblam on two pieces. The parts are soldered together in a unique
manner, each board takes on the . . .
Unrei's head pops up, immediately noting my interest in his device. I
question him anyway, "What is this thing? It looks like matrix memory boards."
He finishes exiting his basement and closes the floor board. In his
hand is a clear plastic folder with the negatives in it. I watch as he sets
it on the counter.
"Eit iz just something Ei been workeng on. Been tiered of binary
proceessing foer ages; tryeing to come up with something differend, something
a litdle faster. Molds all the good points of othder technolodgies; works on
hollistic datda interpretation. We'll szee."
I simply nod in interest.
Unrei pushes his device aside and lifts the negative folder up and
begins to show Kathy.
She begins, "They are actually his," pointing to me.
Unrei's eyes light anew for some reason, "Where'd you getd these?"
"Uh, my friend works for a large corporation, she just forgot she gave
them to me and I just forgot I gave them to Kathy. I had no idea she'd try
to develop them. No harm though. Is there anything wrong?" I begin getting
a little nervous.
"Here, letd me szhow you," his foot pumps something on the floor
behind the desk and he reaches down. After a second he lifts up an old, CRT
tube-monitor on a swiveling arm. The outer shell is gone, only the insides
and the wiring remains. It flickers from its previous programming as Unrei
snaps off a cord from it to his little project. He then pulls up a keyboard
and another device I recognize to be a hand scanner. He runs the scanner over
the negatives in the clear folder.
The screen on the monitor blinks again and produces, at a distant
view, an image of the two negatives. His hand operates the keys on the
typewriter style board. Soon the images focus and the screen zooms in on the
left negative. This one is what Kathy and I saw to be a person. As the
zooming stops, Unrei pushes several more buttons and the image clarifies, the
program interpolates background patterns and begins to fill out the picture.
Scan bars pass over the image and leave behind deposits of color and detail.
The view finally settles on a clear rendition of what the negative could
represent.
I simply stare in be-puzzlement at the picture; no idea as to who the
balding aged man is, crosses my mind. I do notice a slick office surrounding
in the background; but, that could be the limits of the scanning program I'm
seeing.
Unrei turns to me, "Ei didnt think Kathy waz involved in thde
Gripyard, but your friendt may be."
I stare only slightly shocked at Unrei, "What do you mean? How can
you say that?"
His smile turns to a serious grin, "This," he taps the screen, "is the
leader of the Gripyard. He heads the . . ."
I finish his words, "Yes, the black-market technology terrorists. I
don't think anyone doesn't know who they are. But, I can't imagine Kelly
being involved with them?!" Another question lurks my mind, "But how do you
know this is the head of the Gripyard organization? No one has ever seen him
or her?"
Kathy's eye turns to Unrei too, "Yeah, how do you know?"
Surprised at Kathy's comment, I turn to Unrei. He returns, "Idt's
part o my job."
I begin to wonder what exactly is his job; a man that deals in old
cameras, peddles in hyper-sophisticated memory-boards and knows who the head
of the Gripyard is. My nerves only compound in tension.
Unrei keys in more commands and the screen zooms in on the next
negative. This time the image is in black and white. The tentative picture
is microscopic in size as it is on the negative, but the machine begins to
zoom and enhance by the second. It begins to clear and siphon off background
distortion. The view finally clears and settles to a pure grayscale image of
a diagram. A three dimensional diagram. Odd symbols line the sides and
annotate different portions of the picture. The views wax holographic in
storing information at times, this is what produces the three-dimensional
quality. Very odd, but very effective for compacting information. I'm just
as puzzled as before as to what this is.
With a bit of sarcasm I speak to Unrei, "And do you have any idea what
this is?"
He looks to me straight on, "No, I don't."
Kathy's voice breaks, "It's a mass changer."
I double take and look to her, Unrei does also.
"How would you know that? And don't tell me it's your job either," I
pass a small glare at Unrei.
"See," she then points to the screen, "those are the atomic splicers,
capable of charging the atoms to higher energy levels, thus creating a pull-in
of particles. I should have said a densifier. That makes for sense actually.
The only reason I could say mass changer is because when operated, it makes
the object appear to gain more mass, when in actuality it simply compacts the
atoms further, pulling their electron shells closer or pushes them farther out.
Takes a lot of energy, but it can be done."
My eyes are wide with amazement. I question again, "Still, how would
you know this?"
Unrei asks the same too.
"That's easy, one of the art exhibits that came through the Kofhein
Gallery was by a nanotech artist. He had developed a method in manipulating
atomic energy levels very easy. He's the guy that invented those cycling-
changing eye lenses you heard so little about. His technique allowed a rapid
change in the energy levels of atoms, by frequenting different levels of
energy, the atoms would give off multiple colors. The eye lens stuff didn't
last but a few weeks; people began having nasty side effects because the
effect began traveling over into the eye and damaging the cornea. But the
last thing I heard was a large firm was supposed to buy up his idea. When he
came through he gave a short seminar with diagrams as to how his process
worked," she rubs her brow, "Maybe that company finally did buy up the plans,"
she finishes, "or something."
The believability of the past few minutes conversation sinks in. No
way.
I grab for the negatives when Kathy speaks again, "Shouldn't we be
going, I'd like to eat before we go to the rave."
"Okay," I reply. I begin to walk off but Kathy tugs at my coat and
whispers, "Shouldn't you like, give something to Unrei."
A quiet sigh erupts from my chest. I walk back over to Unrei and
thank him, then pull out a crisp bill and begin to hand it to him.
He returns, "No, nodt neceessary. If you'll just ledt me have theese
images, I'll be happy."
I nod to him and thank him again. Grabbing Kathy's arm I pull her
back out of the shop and into the crowded streets.
As we push through the people, I keep watching our backs. After
finding out about those negatives, I can only imagine who's now after us. I
begin to stride and push a little more. I still want to know how Unrei knew
that was the head of the Gripyard. That isn't information that just anybody
would know. And Kathy. She's a surprise a second. I haven't been around her
in so long, I forgot weird stuff like this happens when I'm with her. She's
like the queen of coincidence, synchronicity for sure. It just so happens she
knows about this, and so in so knows about this, and she has connections with
so in so about such in such. Strange, but useful at times.
I ask Kathy the time, she tells me we have a few hours until the
performance begins.
She begins to take charge and starts leading. We drag through the
crowd for several more minutes and stop at a street corner. Her grip is as
hard as ever as we wait to cross the busy street. She pulls me across when it
is safe, and we then head up the next sidewalk. After another five or so
minutes we stop in front of a small delicatessen called Futera's. She drags
me in.
She pushes through the double glass doors and heads to the ordering
booth. I then realize I've been flopping all the way down the street with
these negatives still in my hand. I stop her for a moment and take the
negatives out of the clear plastic folder and reinsert them into Kelly's data
book. She resumes dragging me to the ordering booth.
After receiving our choices--me with a fresh croissant and tea, Kath
with some German meat-sandwich, artichoke and lemon juice--we sit near the
entrance by a large full size window. The little wooden tables and chairs
quaintly scene-out this portion of the District. Across the street can be
seen the recent construction of the new Tyndal college facility. All type of
machine and person at work. It appears to be going up in stages, trees,
plants, then buildings, landscaping, walls, all sorts of architectural styles.
But then again, that's what makes this the District. It is so different
from the rest of the polymetaled city and hyper-organized transport systems.
Rain begins to fall; Kathy and I watch as the people in the streets
either begin to run or they break out wetwear.
Kathy breaks our quiet dinner atmosphere, "Do you have any idea why
Kelly would have those negatives from Gripyard?"
I begin to reply, "I'm thinking that she had . . . "
Kathy grips my arm for a second, "Listen."
The intercom in the restaurant bips, then, ". . .call for Mr. Bek,
would Mr. Coil Bek please take his call."
I look to Kathy in shock, "No body knows I'm here? Wait just a
moment." I stand and walk to the back of the restaurant, to the restrooms. I
open the door and face the phone station, the bathroom to my right. I step
into the head to waist booth and press the receive/hold panel. Only a voice
comes across, no visual.
"Mr. Bek you leave a trail like a bunch of binary cows."
Anger interrupts me, "Who are you? How did you get my location?"
"Please Mr. Bek. If you don't want to be followed don't use you
account cards." I just remember I did use my account card instead of cash to
pay for our food. Fap!
The generic voice continues, "That doesn't matter though. We'd find
you anyway. We warned you earlier, now bring the negatives this evening.
We'll be waiting." The voice closes out.
What in the world?! This evening? I don't know where I'm supposed to
meet this person? Unless.
I stand with my back to the booth, someone comes in to use it and I
exit the head to waist booth and stand just outside it. The new caller looks
at me strangely. I simply contemplate.
Tonight, rather 'this evening' I'm supposed to go to a performance of
?DIRECTIVE, today is not Tuesday, I've been chased by a woman who wants the
negatives, the negatives are vital to something, especially since I could hand
them over to the authorities or . . . if I was in the right position, I could
blackmail someone with them. But who? Is that is, did Kelly expect to
blackmail someone with these photos? Let me think.
The first message on his machine talked about calling Tuesday off,
then she was told to get back to so in so on directive soon. I don't think
that was the prime directive . . . that had to be the performance ?DIRECTIVE,
and Tuesday is not the day, it's a person! Even if so, I was still chased!
Fap! What a mess!
I push out of the alcove and open the door. Walking back to Kathy, I
see someone get up and walk off from our table. A man wearing a black
bodysuit and a black waistcoat with dark slicked hair leaves the restaurant.
Immediately I sit down, "Who was that?"
"He left this for you."
My eyebrows raise, "Me?"
"Yes Coil. Here," she hands me a small clear business chip, inscribed
on its surface is a replica of a Serpenski Gasket. My tattoo and a reminder
of my poisoning! I look down and uncover my ankle for a moment. The reminder
is still there.
I question her, "Did he say anything?"
"Just for me to give this to you and to mention something about 'free
flee' or 'flee, no-free'. Personally I think he has bad grammar and I also
think his rhymes are stupid. But that's only my opinion."
"True," is all I say. Kathy lightly hits me on the arm, then smiles.
I think she should have read the message more like, 'flee, no Frie'. I
guess I've been warned yet again.
"Let's go," I intone. "How much time do we have?" I put the clear
card in one of my pockets.
"Uhm, about an hour and fifteen minutes. Why?"
"I think we better go now; if these things pack, like they normally
do, I'll bet you a bookoo that we'd not be the first ones there."
This time I drag her off, but only for a few minutes as I realize I
don't know where the Pilton Exhibit Hall is. It is then that Kathy drags me
through the crowd and the rain.
.........
end part five
.........
.........
part six
.........
"This is Pilton?" I ask with a cringe on my face. Through the rain
and darkness, Kathy and I stand at the base of a decrepit-rot church.
"Yeah," she says with enthusiasm. A smile broadens on her maroon
smeared lips. I simply nod in acceptance.
The building extends upwards at least fifty meters. Some structure
this is, impressive in its shear size. I feel a deep sense of atheism
surrounding its once religious edifice. No lighting shines on the outside
except for a minimal street light about twenty meters to our left and down the
street.
Kathy begins to draw me towards the front entrance. I watch as two
men dressed in slick techwear slide in near the door before us. From
examining there hypertrendy style I begin to feel like my meager outfit will
prove the social downfall of Kathy. But she doesn't seem to care.
As we face the two dark wood doors of the church, I can't help but
look up, my neck careening to see the top of the building, its white aged
marblelite composition and other gothic protrusions in stark relief despite
the darkness and rain. We push through the door.
With assurance Kathy pulls me to an individual standing at the second
entrance to the church proper. The doors into the interior closed to us. If
not for Kathy's prior knowledge and supposed experience with Pilton, I'd
swear the person we were walking up to was simply another performance watcher.
Kathy asks for the two blank tickets from me.
I open my top left slicker pocket and pull out Kelly's data book,
retrieving the tickets. I hand them to Kathy and she quickly hands them to
the black bodysuited individual near the door.
My eyes widen as I look to the ticket taker. It's her! Or is it? I
firmly stare at the woman's eyes for several seconds, but she doesn't seem to
recognize me. I'd swear it's the woman that tried to run me over! Yet she
simply won't acknowledge my presence. Her face is only so firm in makeup and
design. Her hair is starkly straight and draped to her jawline. I can only
freeze, wondering why she won't notice me.
"Here Coil," I feel Kathy stuff a small plastic bag into my hands. I
look to it and see that is contains some kind of techgear and some pills.
She has a similar bag. I look to the floor near the ticket taker and see that
she must be handing them out to everyone entering. Kathy tugs at my hand and
pulls me through the door. The woman never looks to me, she goes on to
taking the tickets from the next group of persons. How odd.
As we step into the new room, I am assaulted with arcane smells of
chemicals and smartdrugs. If not for the intended performance, I'd simply
chock this up to be just another hyperRave. The people here are obviously
dressed for image. I've never seen such a large mix of persons in one place
except at Fall Market in the District. It seems everyone who is anyone has
tried to show up. Uptowners, deckheaders, technofetishists, registered
addicts, art league members, and obsessive mallers. These people only
recognizable by their clothing and attitude.
We walk directly into the crowd. I can only wonder why, but Kathy
seems to have made eye contact with someone. I am pulled along.
The further we walk into the densening crowd the more of an incline I
notice the floor is on. It is then that I begin to see the stage. Peering
above the many heads down at the back of the church is a mass of metal wiring,
all of it webbed together at the base and then sprawling to an invisible
height, possibly scraping the ceiling. I can't tell, what is above us is
completely dark. Behind that is multiples of screens, old TV's, CRT tubes,
and movie panels. Different kinds of imaging equipment and polybagged wiring
creeps along the stage. Shrouded electrical equipment and black plasticed
objects are strewn further on the stage area.
Kathy keeps walking through the crowd; my surprise deepens as the
people seem to keep letting us through. I feel a slight pinch on my leg.
Immediately I turn to my right and see a clean-cut young man, black hair
slicked and sprawled about his eyes; he wears a dark shoulder padded jacket
and an ank necklace over a white high collared shirt. I simply stare into his
eyes, incapable of distinguishing their color in the minimal lighting. Kathy
keeps pulling me as I loose the young man.
I don't have time for this, I think. We finally stop. No one to
great us.
"I thought you saw someone," I voice sarcastically.
"I did," she says.
"Well."
"She disappeared before we got here. I'm sure she'll return shortly.
Don't worry about it Coil." After that she turns to look up at the stage.
In the next several moments I take time to examine the little plastic bag I
was handed earlier. I try to look through it and see that not only does it
contain a small assortment of pills, probably some form or extracted
neurotransmitters, but a pair jacks and some sort of meshed webbing connected
to a cord and a tiny digital receiver. It seems this Mears Jeanon pushes the
idea of archaic multimedia performances to the extreme. Interesting.
"Look," Kath says.
I glance up at the stage and see two hooded individuals simply
standing. Every person in the room quiets. The lights overhead, what little
there is, goes out. I note the phosphorescent glow of some of the organic
makeup on persons around us.
The people on the stage are more obvious now. They wear what looks to
be full monk regalia, black mesh cloth tied at the waist with a plasticine
lycra sash. Their hooded countenances unable to be seen. A single dark blue
neon light shines on them from my right.
A slight rustling wafts through the audience, I try to see what's
happening but notice Kathy digging out the jacks from her plastic bag and
inserting them into the receiver, she then places the other ends of the jacks,
what looks like tiny wire cusps, onto her right ear. I mimic and do the
same. After about thirty seconds the rustling settles and I watch.
The figures on the stage still remain frozen, still no movement from
them. A slight tingle begins to surge into my ear from the cusps but finally
rests. It is then that I see a shadowy light perk from behind the stage
members. White grid beams begin to coruscate upon the robed figures and the
neon light to my right explodes. A muted hush crosses the audience. I then
feel a low, almost primordial, thumping rise within myself. It feels as if it
is coming from my very heart, only amplified and controlled.
The pounding becomes more evident, almost a rush within my ears. A
slow gothic chorus begins to overlay the pounding, almost an industrial
pounding. The beat. I decide this must be the beat or more appropriately
the bass. It becomes stronger and ever-present. The choral voices distort
and change to harsh crashing whispers.
The figures on the stage drop into crouching stances and embrace each
other. Sound in my inner ear peaks and explodes into a staticy ambiance; the
stage performers' robes seem to explode from them. And they rise. They rise
in a spasmatic manner, somehow moving their bodies to the inner rhythms of my
ear.
The sounds crescendo to a strange timbre and my eyes water slightly.
The noise is so unique so, different. I watch and notice that one of the
performers is Mears Jeanon, his black skin and shortened dreadlocks, reflect
the eerie background lighting, he wears a skintight bodysuit with a black
sweater pushed up at the sleeves. His partner, an Asian female with large
blackly smeared lips and taught, black hair dances morbidly around him in a
similar outfit.
I catch a glimpse of Kath's expression; she is absolutely mesmerized.
I think I can see why, the show is quite something. I watch Kathy for
several moments and see that she pulls out one of the pills; not knowing
better I do the same. She places it in her mouth. I begin to do the same.
"Stop, Mr. Bek," a distinct female voice overpowers the music in my
inner ear.
"You're not hearing things and this isn't part of the show. I'm hear
to collect the negatives. I assume you wouldn't have the gall to come if you
didn't have them. If you're wondering how I'm communicating with you, you're
getting my signal over the cusp receiver. Now," the voice pauses for a
second, "I want you to slowly make your way backwards to the rear of the
audience. Yes, that was me you saw earlier. I'll be waiting for you at the
same place."
I pull the cusps free from my ear. Immediately the inner sounds die,
only an echoic ambiance remains. Somehow pumped into the cathedral like
chamber via hidden speakers. I begin to slowly back out; I'm fairly certain
Kathy will be fine; she's happy now.
It takes several minutes but I do manage to escape the mass of people;
unfortunately though, I have to feel my way along the wall to find the
original entrance door to this room. Finally I pull through it and step into
the noiseless, seemingly soundproof, foyer of the ticket taker.
I peer to my right and then to my . . .
A slickgloved hand pushes my throat and pushes me back against the
marbled wall. I feel its cold surface, even through my jacket.
Looking down I see her again, only this time she is wearing a plastic
black lurex waist jacket. How I can think of such while her hand is groping
my neck is beyond me. The nozzle of some sort of gun pushes under my jaw.
Cool black goggles look to me; through clenched teeth she pours, "Enough games
Bek, where's the negatives."
Her grip tightens around my neck; the gun device begins to hurt my jaw.
Sweat breaks on my brow, "In my upper left pocket . . ."
She keeps the gun at my chin and rips the yellow slickness of my
jacket's pocket open. Then, grasping Kelly's data book in one hand she let's
it fall open. She steps back, watching me. Slowly the goggled woman flips
through the pages, "What is this, I want the negatives!?" She tosses it to
the floor and the negatives fall out.
A sharp breath creeps from my throat. She squats and picks up the
items of interest and several other sheets.
She looks up to me in a cringing smile. I simply smirk back.
Visibly her eyebrows perk, "Where did you get this?"
She holds up the little map of the rooms at SWB.
"They're Kelly's."
"Then she must have the wedge ready. I want it."
She knows about the wedge? How are they connected?
I manage some courage, "Listen lady, I don't have it," I try to lie,
"All I know is Kelly was working on a project at Gilton. Next thing I know
she's dead, some weird guy drugs me and tells me to deliver some wedge thing
to SWB. Then you start chasing me about some banal negatives."
"Interesting . . .," she ponders, "I had no idea that Joined's plans
were so involved."
My eyes squint.
"Don't look so stupid Bek. Joined is who drugged you. They're an
organization that specializes in procuring little pieces of technology such as
this wedge you don't seem to know anything about. They are conveniently
fronted by SWB. But obviously they knew you had the capability of getting it
or you'd be dead now."
I give a sigh, "I still don't know what Kelly was doing dealing with
Joined or the Gripyard. I mean why? What does . . . "
Her mouth opens in anger, "GRIPYARD! Who told you that?!?!"
"I'm not at liberty to say." She moves her gun back under my neck,
her lips firm and straight.
"You little Fap! Don't you know what you're involved in?!" She pulls
away and starts walking in circles.
I watch in fright.
She blurts, "Kelly, if you didn't know, was hired by GWA to program a
code to map the prime numbers. Gilton Firm was contacted by Giuw, head of
GWA. Supposedly when Joined found out about the project they desired the
project to be turned over to them when it was finished."
I question, "Well why didn't she do that?"
She angers again, "You don't understand! Joined wanted exclusive
knowledge of the project. That is their purpose. They are information
terrorists, willing to go to any length to possess even the minutess amount of
information. That's why Kelly had the negatives. Joined had bribed Kelly
with them, thinking that once she had these . . ."
I interrupt, "You mean a picture of the Gripyard leader and the plans
to a device of nominal complexity . . . "
Her brows rise again, "Yes . . . It was thought that she would drop
GWA and turn her efforts completely over to Joined. But she decided
differently. Secretly she planned to still give the project over to Giuw and
make a copy for Joined. That was her mistake. Joined decided to go to the
root of the matter and kill Giuw. Thus GWA had no reason, from then on, to
desire the project. It was then that Kelly was killed, but only after
perfecting her programming. That is obvious enough or she wouldn't have been
nocked off."
"But how did Joined know about Kelly's deal . . ."
She calms a little, "That's just it Bek, Joined has storages of
information that no one possess . . . They even have hoards of private
citizens that illegally scann communication lines and download all that
information to SWB. After all SWB is a major information transfer station in
the Southwest. Think about it. Kelly is hired, Joined 'contracts' her, Giuw
dies, Kelly dies, Joined retrieves 'their' blackmailing information (the
negatives) and gets a hefty bit of mathematical genius in the end. Quite
good."
She comes back to point her gun at me, "But now that I've informed
you, I mustn't let you get away. I had no idea that you knew about Gripyard.
And if you won't tell me about who gave you that information then . . ."
A sharp poking noise sounds and the goggled woman falls, crumbling
into a heap.
My tension breaks a little and I shuffle through my pocket for my own
gun. I crouch down.
I look around and notice no one else in the area. What happened to
her? I hurriedly gather the papers from Kelly's data book, being sure to
leave the negatives with the Gripyard woman. I stand, having gathered all of
the papers.
"I would at least like some thanks," a smooth masculine voice pounces
from my left.
I turn and notice the young man I saw earlier from within the
audience, the one who pinched me.
My eyes widen, "What did you do?" I back a little bit away.
He smiles a little, "Well, she was about to nock you off. That much
was obvious from her flick-like speech. You know the old, 'well you know to
much so I'll have to kill you' routine."
I simply manage an, "Oh."
"Besides," he continues, "I believe in my dad's old saying,
'Sceglerele tapre'."
My eyebrows by now have raise to the roof and back.
He laughs, "Choose your own destiny. Oh well, so much for education.
Anyway, you seem in quite a scrape."
I ask, "How long have you been here?" I begin to head for the door.
He follows somewhat.
"The whole time."
"Why didn't you stop her earlier?" a slight anger perks in my throat.
"Sorry," I finish.
"No problem," he sighs.
Stuffing the data book back into the now ripped pocket, I reach for
the exit handle. I decide I had simply best get out of here. Kathy will be
okay, and Gripyard has their banal negatives. I don't want what's-her-name
deciding to come after me.
"Listen," I start, "I've got to . . ."
". . . Leave, go, skedadle, break a beat, get out of town," his smile
continues, "No problem. But . . . "
"But what," I formulate.
"May I help you?" he finishes.
I stare at him in perplexity. Here is a young man who's actions
simply bewilder me and whose words seem to come straight out of the twentieth
century. What am I to say. All I know is I've got under twenty four hours to
deliver this wedge thing now that the negative problem seems to be solved.
What should I do, I think to myself.
I speak, "I guess I could use some help. All I really need is to get
to SWB. If you could even get me . . . "
He whispers a laugh, "You've more than piqued my interest Bek. I'll
help you if you let me. Come on."
The young man pushes past me and heads out into the street. I follow,
noticing that the rain has stopped. As usual, I only realize at the last
minute that I've been wearing my goggles at the most ridiculous times. I let
them dangle around my neck.
As we walk in the opposite direction, the young man speaks, "What
about your girlfriend?"
"My what? Oh, you mean Kathy. She's just a friend; she'll be more
than alright," I voice in my mind a solemn 'I hope so.'
I question as he turns a corner, pocketing my gun, "How did you manage
that little trick?"
"Mace darts," he holds up a slim canister gun. Smooth.
He walks along the sidewalk and I finally join his pace. We stride
down the walk; I watch as he looks to the cars lining the street. I figure he
must be parked around here.
My mind stifles for a moment. Should I be trusting this guy.
Especially all the weirdness he's seen and enacted? I don't know. I hope I'm
not acting out of self-pity since Kelly's death.
He stops at a Carmangia. It's early to mid twentieth century style,
suggestive art deco and minimalist tech. The two seater, brown and muted
white chassis, sculpts around a three wheeled body; two in the front one in
the back. Its quaintness suggests an antique car dealership of the District.
He opens the passenger's door on the left. I voice, "Thank you . . ."
leaving the last portion of my sentence open.
He catches my meaning, "Oh, sorry," He holds out a hand, "The name's
Print."
I shake his hand, cornily I return, "Coil Bek."
Print blanches innocently, "I thought your name was Bek, sorry about
the earlier faux pas."
"No problem." I settle myself in the leather seat and close the door.
Print walks to the right side and opens the door. He takes off his
jacket, leaving only his white long sleeved shirt and blue jeans exposed. He
settles into the driver's seat and starts the car with a key turn. We move
slowly from the parallel parking space and enter into the trafficless streets.
Print steers towards downtown.
.........
end part six
.........
.........
part seven
.........
Warmth. Haven't felt that in quite a while.
I move a little and realize my neck's got a strange ache in it. I
reach to turn off my vid-alarm, but my hand hits something a little more solid
than a clock. A door of some kind. My eyes open very wide very quickly.
For a moment the dawn sun blinds me. I smell a cool crispness waft
into the car; Print's driver's side window is cracked a bit to let some air
in. I look to him and see that he is intently watching the road, listening
and staring into the pseudo projection on the windshield. The image, barely
visual in the morning glow, reminds me of a heads up display; it lightly pops
up below the driver's visual area on the window. Right now he's got it tuned
to a news station.
I run a hand through my hair and note the scenery outside. We seem to
be the only person's on the planet, riding on some infinitesimal stretch of
road. The car putters a little, adding a nice background noise to the sharp
plateaus and high cliffs of the Southwest.
The Southwest?
I sit up straight.
Print smiles from his driving, "Well good morning. Once you fell
asleep I thought you'd never wake up. Do you always talk about such
interesting things while in dreamtime?" His smile widens to a great extent.
I begin to blush; Kelly told me I would sometimes talk in bed,
especially if it was after a rough day or somesuch.
Print continues, "So who's Kelly? I certainly doubt she's your
Optimal Persona."
Immediately I change the subject; not very good either, "Where are we?"
He catches me, "Changing the subject already? Well, we're about forty
kilometers out of Phoenix. I've been driving all night, didn't think I'd
ever get out of . . ."
I interrupt, "We're in New Mexico?! What are we . . ." I quiet up
realizing the stupidity of my remark. I knew we were in some part of the
Southwestern US; I guess I just needed a verbal affirmation. In a way I've
been played for a major fool. How I ever fell asleep in the first place is
beyond me. My neck still hurts from propping it on the car seat. I suppose
I'm extremely lucky 'my friend' here didn't dump me on the highway somewhere
and take what little I had. This is one weird situation. I can only hope
Kathy is all right. Knowing her, I bet she is.
"Print, where're you taking me. I'm not exactly on freedom's wings."
His eyes lock with mine momentarily, he turns back to the road, "I do
know about your little problem. So I thought we'd get it fixed."
"My little problem?"
"Yeah, that drug thing you and the woman were arguing over. I know
someone that can help get you situated."
He turns off the news broadcast, something about the redistricting of
Wisconsin and Minnesota's borders winks out.
I stare at him for a second trying to figure out his motive. It just
isn't normal for someone, me, to be picked up, as it were, by a guy, helped,
and not toyed with. I can't help but think he's out for something else,
something I fear I should be wary of.
Print's left hand reaches from the driver's wheel and moves to the old
post-millennium ammo-box between the seats. His fingers undo the clasp-hinge
and reach inside. His hand grips a sheaf of papers and plastic overlays,
some of them, most of them, crumpled and used. He hands them to me, "Here,
look and see if you can find a map that says MC on it. It should have the
letters written in some kind of digital script on one of its corners; I think
it's an optic print with contour lines."
I shuffle through the papers and plastics coming upon a set of gloss
prints. Print's eye seems to linger on one, "There . . . " I pick out the
marked gloss. A hand-written MC is written in the upper left corner.
I watch as Print reaches again into the ammo-box and pulls out a pair
of half glasses. He dons them, then gently pulls the gloss from my hands.
The glasses perch the lower part of his nose, adding a couple of years to his
young age. He peruses the image and hands it back.
"We'll be there shortly."
I perk, "Where's there?" I can't imagine anyone having the ability to
rid me of this drug other than Joined; I'm not even sure of that.
Enigmatically he returns, "MC."
I shut up.
The morning sun is shadowed on and off by the mountainous plateaus and
rocks. I realize I've never seen New Mexico in the Fall; actually I've never
seen it at all except in glosses and prints. After several minutes Print
turns left onto a semisurfaced road. It begins to curve a little and head
towards one of the lower hung plateaus.
A thought strikes me, "Do you have a phone?"
"Yeah," he takes off his glasses and sets them into the ammo-box,
"reach behind you and it should be right there."
I do so and find my hand touching all kinds of gadgets; I physically
turn around to see where the phone exactly is. I find it folded up lying next
to a portable image FAX. He's got to be some kind of traveling consultant.
That's a rarity though. I pick up the phone.
Beginning to dial, I think of something else. The plateau closes in
on us and the road curves to the right around the edifice. The shearness of
the rock drones on me. I can't help but wonder if a piece of it will fall off
onto us.
"This might sound funny, but does your line have a scrambler?"
"You bet it does," he answers very sarcastically, "just tap the red
and green panels when you open it."
I unfold the device and tap the two panels like he said, I then code
in Frie's number.
After three bips she answers, "Hello."
I hesitate, "Uh, Frie. This is Coil. I wanted to . . . "
"Coil, where have you been. I thought you'd at least call me
yesterday. I had no idea you'd bink out on me."
I continue, "Well, things have gotten a little strange," I begin
thinking up a white lie. "Listen Frie. I've got a big favor to ask you."
"Coil, don't tell me you're in trouble. Please don't say it."
I lie of course, "No way. It's just that . . . well, do you remember
Kathy Sung?"
Her voice crackles, "Kathy?"
"Yes," I pause for a second, "Oh, maybe I only introduced you to her
as Kay."
"The name's a bit more familiar. Coil you messed up in some strange
stuff having friends with three different names that sound alike. What'd you
think . . . "
I interrupt her, "I'm sorry Frie. Anyway, I'm helping her with
something that's come up. Kind of keeping my mind off Kelly and all. But, I
need you to do something. I left my apartment matrix bit in your bedroom
after I used your computer. I was wondering if you'd take it and deliver it
to Cal Sutman. He's a friend of mine that goes to Arreis Technical school."
She returns with a tapering, "Okay."
"It has some info from Kelly for a project he's working on and I
forgot to drop it off to him."
Another okay comes from the line. I watch the road as Print turns
left into a high break into the plateau. The shear cliffs shoot straight up,
blocking out the sun's rays, leaving a gray-brown dust to contend with. He
drives slowly through the pass.
"The only problem is it needs to be delivered in person, it'll take
you about seven hours total to get it to him. There and back I mean. Is that
alright?"
She laughs, "You're one funny boy, Coil. But, I guess I'll do it.
This report's gettin on my nerves anyway. I have to go get some groceries
first, so it'll be a few hours before I can get out."
"Alright," I return. As I say that, we break from the pass and enter
a small clearing within the plateau. The shear cliffs drop to a semicircular
camp of some sort. An odd glass construct is situated to our left. The car
stops.
I finish up, "Hold on a moment," I turn to Print, but only after
looking again at the outside again, "Can this thing transmit data codes?"
"Yes, press the blue panel then use the number keys to cycle the
code." He sits and waits for me to finish.
I return again to Frie, trying to finish up my elaborate scheme,
"Alright, I'm going to send you his data code. That should get you all the
info you need to find his address and computer receiver code. Just remember
Frie, it needs to be delivered in person."
She returns sarcastically, "No problem Coil. I get the feeling you're
sending me on a real trip. I expect a full report when you get this mess
straightened out. I better go."
"Okay," my turn, "I'm sending you the code, thanks." I press the
little blue panel on the phone's control area, then punch in Cal's data code.
The phone bips off indicating that the code was received. I fold it up and
place it back behind my seat. All I can do now is hope she's out in time. I
think this little diversion will work and keep Frie safe from Joined when and
if they come knocking and when and if I don't show up with the wedge on time.
Print looks to me with wide staring eyes, "Hmm, quite a conversation
you had there. She's not supposed to know about all this?"
"Yes," I reply tersely.
He unbuckles his seatbelt, "Well, we're here. Bet you thought I'd
never say that."
"Yeah," is all I manage.
Print opens his door, gets out and picks up his jacket from the back
seat. I take my jacket off as I get out. Had I known we'd be in such a
closed space for so long, I would have pulled the thing off a lot earlier.
Closing the car's door, I stretch a little and examine my
surroundings. I look again to the glass building structure on my left. As I
look at it more I see that it's made out of many different kinds of windows,
rather window panes. It's as if whoever constructed it took precious time to
pick out each and ever different window, placing them all in a just right
fashion. This amalgamation seems quite odd though. The glass panes are
constructed in the form of a large lean-to, climbing the cliffside in a
strange geometric embrasure. It looks to be more aesthetic than functional.
Maybe is all I can think.
The only other structure in the alcove is a makeshift aluminum shed;
I also see what looks to be an ash-rock fire pit and stamped out ground under
a bored volleyball net. Otherwise the alcove is mostly brown-gold dirt strewn
with a few scrubby grasses.
Print motions for me to follow him as he walks towards the glass
building. As we get closer, I see that the windows are semi-opaque, making is
impossible for me to distinguish exactly what is in the building. We stand
right next to a group of the panes; I watch as Print taps in a brief code on a
panel I hadn't previously noticed on the construct. Several of the windows
seem to jerk, almost as if a pressure release. Print pulls at the section,
opening a door for us. We walk in.
All around us is plants, hydroponics. A very narrow walk is devised
in the middle, leading us straight into the plateau cliffside. Above and at
our feet is pre-stripped wire and mesh grills, poles and posts holding
hundreds of species of plants, mosses, and fungus. An audible trickle can be
heard and a low droning hum vibrates under our feet. Even though we are
underneath all the windows and glass, the temperature seems almost bearable
where we are standing.
I stretch my neck in fascination at the multitudes of hanging
organics, vines and greenery trying to wind their way up towards the top of
the building.
Print practically pushes my arm until I begin to follow him again.
We take the walk directly into the cliffside.
As we step into the shadow of the pulse-hammered passage, coolness
blows at our faces. Blue neon creeps from makeshift patches of light along
the rock corridor's edges. I notice that the floor begins to slope ever so
slightly upwards. Print stops me in a shadow of the passage.
A door.
He panels another code and we are through. The scenery changes. I
feel like we are in a government installation. I only think this because of
the anesthetic walls that great us on this side of the door. Whiteness and
silverness. I absolutely can not pick another equivalent for the room other
than a cafeteria, but it seems to be otherwise because of a group of lounging
chairs and vidplates gathered to the left.
I can't help, "Print, where'n the banal are we?"
"MC. Right now we're in the briefing quarters. Through those doors,"
he points to the left and towards the back wall, "is the living quarters and
a rec room. And this way," he motions for me to follow him to my right past
the silver tables and polychromous chairs, "is to your help."
We go through yet another door and down a new passage, three more
passages branch to the sides, and stand at a black doorway. Just as before,
Print panels a new code and the doorway opens.
A lab. We're definitely in a lab. I don't know what kind, but all of
the silver-black equipment suggests as much. Plants lie about opened,
dissected and set in neat rows. Microscopes, electron imaging screens, and
rows of matrixware are stacked all around. A single woman sits among the
technology. She is wearing a white jumpsuit and is equipped with surgical
gloves. Her blond hair is pinned up into a bun, and her eyes are enfronted
with half gasses similar to the ones Print sported earlier. Her slim form is
hunched over an electron imaging station, goggles and VR equipment dangle
nearby on the table.
She doesn't look up from her work, but her words are cheerful enough,
"Print, I didn't expect you for another two weeks."
A smile creases her lips even though she still doesn't look up.
He walks closer and stops about a meter away. I stand quietly behind.
She finally looks to us and stands. Her green eyes catch me off
guard. I look to her face and see the years reveal themselves. A hint of
crow's feet corner her eyes and a few well placed wrinkles mark her face, her
closened presence allows me to see a few silvery strands weave her hair.
Otherwise she appears rather, well, rather beautiful. Though she could
possibly have born children, if so, she's done so with a large amount of grace.
She and Print hug. Print introduces me, "I'd like you to meet my
friend Coil," I reach out and shake her strong grip. Print continues, "Coil,
meet Helen Crenshin."
She smiles politely and nods in my direction, "Nice to make your
acquaintance Coil." Now there's something I don't hear everyday.
Her eyes fix on Print's face, "It's just as well you're here. Bally
and the gang aren't back yet. And all I have is Tehn and Martha here to keep
me company. It's been a good four hours since Bally went out. I needed some
Createx to finish the spore molding I'm working on. Right now I'm just busing
my thoughts."
Print, "Ah, but I have something a little more challenging for you to
work on. My friend here has been poisoned."
She looks to me with a new light. Strange?
Her eyes seems to light with interest, but then she turns back to
Print, "It's not some simplistic overlay is it? That certainly wouldn't be a
challenge." She makes it sound like a game. I begin to nerve.
Print returns, "I don't know," his face turns to me, questioning, "Do
you have any idea what you've been doped with?"
My face squints a little, "Well, the only thing I'm sure of is that
it's on a time delay. I was told I had seventy-two hours before the drug was
released in my system. The only thing I have to go on as to what it is . . .
well, I . . ."
I begin to hesitate. All of this time, for the last several days I
don't think I've actually settled down to the thought that I'm infected with a
derivative of Neuroblitz. I'm going to die. That's all there is. How I've
kept from worrying about it before is beyond me!
I begin to sweat. My mind rushes. What's going on. Is it happening
now. I feel light headed. What time is it?!
I blurt out, "What time is it?!"
Ms. Crenshin stares at me. My legs shake. My hands and arms begins
to tremble. I grab Print's arm, noting his watch. I look at it. Huh? It's
only nine-thirty. I had seventy two hours. I should have another five hours
at least. Oh my . . .
I fall to the floor. Convulsions begin to take over. What's
happening?!?!
Ms. Crenshin lowers to my side and runs her hands over me. I pull
into a fetal position, my stomach hurting.
Something stings my neck. I black out.
.........
end part seven
.........
.........
part eight
.........
"How is he?" I hear Ms. Crenshin's voice call from across the room.
"I don't know. I'm afraid he'll live," this voice sarcastic, female.
My eyes open and I see a smiling, young Asian girl peering at me. I
find myself propped up in a bed, the young woman's hand affixing a patch to my
upper arm.
As I look across the area, I see Ms. Crenshin carrying a baby. The
child is tightened into a sling, cradled from her shoulder onto her back. She
shuffles things around the room, the baby perky and giggly upon her mother's
back.
"What's your name?" I ask the woman attending me.
"Saun," her hand pats my shoulder and she moves off, exiting a far door.
Ms. Crenshin comes over to me, "That was some stunt you pulled Mr.
Coil. I've not seen a psychologically induced convulsion in a long time.
You did that quite well."
"What do you mean; I thought, the drug was taking effect?"
She laughs a friendly moment, the baby strapped to her back giggling
almost in unison, "The 'drug', as you call it, was released in your system
about two hours ago. You've been out for seven. All I can guess is that for
some reason or nother you kind of cracked when we asked you what you were
doped with. I've never seen anyone get the shakes that bad over knowing they
had 'blitz in their system."
I think for a moment, "I don't think it was actually the knowledge of
the drug so much now as the knowledge of what it can do to someone in the
presence of an overdose."
She stiffens slightly, almost unnoticeabley, "Yes, I guess that would
do it."
An almost simultaneous knowledge links us. I feel like I'm not the
only one that's lost someone to a drug overdose. Odd, but frightening.
Ms. Crenshin moves away beginning to nonchalantly clean up things
around the room. She continues, "Uh, Coil, you're more than welcome to stay
for a few days. After you took your fall, I went ahead and analyzed a DNA
sample of yours and found out exactly what it was your system was laced with.
It wasn't easy to counteract. Actually it was pretty close, I mean coming up
with a counteragent in time. But, my team and I were able to inject you with
it within a reasonable window before your system released the other drug.
You're safe now."
"Thank you Ms. Crenshin, I know it's going to sound terribly trite,
but if there's anyway I can repay you . . ."
She perks a little and turns towards me, "No, let me sound trite. I'm
just glad I could help. I wasn't so lucky saving the last person I knew that
had a problem similar to yours. It's just the fact that I at least saved
someone else in a similar predicament. Consider the debt nonexistent."
Not really knowing what else to say, I try to break the tension,
"What's your baby's name?"
She walks over to me, "This is Martha. She's six months old now."
"She's . . . cute," other questions coming to mind, "What exactly is
this place? Do you and your family live here?"
"Oh, uh," she hesitates a little. "Actually, it's sort of a company
station. It's just that, well. The company let's us have our family around
us as long as we get our job done. Corporate bargaining in a manner. The
main function of this station is plant and drug research. Right now I'm in
the process of training a group of college graduates for corporate research.
That's why you saw the volleyball net outside. Normally we wouldn't have such
pleasantries on site. A little relaxer."
"Hmmn," I stay. I decide to ask one more question, "What does MC
stand for? Is it the company's name or an acronym."
She almost bursts into laughter, "Ha. MC? Halan must have told you
that."
My eyes furrow, "Halan?"
Her mouth curls, "Oh, Print. That's what we call him, our son. His
older sister started calling him that when he was a lot younger because he
looked so much like his father. It just stuck I guess. As for MC. Goodness.
That stands for Mothercore." She laughs a little again. "Halan calls this
place that because I run it, rather it's been our pseudo home for the last six
months since his father died."
I stifle for a moment, "I'm sorry."
"No, don't be, Coil. It was actually his own fault. I got over it
and continued with my life. I expect the same of my children." The woman has
an interesting manner of disallowing her grief.
She continues, "Here, let me leave. Your clothes are over there.
I'll send Halan down to show you around."
She and Martha exit the far door.
I dress and check to see that all of my things are in order. Even
though I'm supposedly cured, there's no telling how furious Joined is that I
didn't show up at SWB. I plan to still take care of that. I don't care
otherwise, except for Frie. I only hope she's still at Cal's. He's such a
talker, I'm sure they hit it off perfectly. I hope.
Print enters and I stand. Now he's wearing a black bodysuit similar
to mine and a black waist jacket, goggles dangling around his neck.
Print comes over, "You doing better?"
"Much, thank you. Thanks to your mom."
He looks to me in shock, "I didn't think you two would get so personal."
I kind of shrug his remark off.
"Listen Print. I appreciate all that you've done. It's more than I
ever expected. But, I really need to get to SWB. If you could drop me off at
a transit station or something, I'll get out of your hair. You heard all
that's been keeping up with me, the last thing I think you need is Joined
knocking on your door because of me."
"Don't worry about it Coil. I said I'd help you get there and I mean
it. So sit tight." He begins to move off, "You got your things?"
I look to him in a puzzling manner, "Yes."
"Then let's go."
We traipse through the complex and exit into the hydroponics house.
Bright flare-intense lighting beams on us from within the building, despite
the darkness outside. We leave the housing.
Total darkness, no light shines from inside the hydroponics complex.
The windows' opacity keeps almost all the light in.
I ask the time and Print replies, "Sevenish."
That explains the early darkness. I stand still for a moment and
listen. I grab Print's arm. He stops. Even though I can't really see him,
except his outline from the moonlight, Print stands completely still.
I whisper, "What is that?"
I see his shadowy figure careen in my direction, "What?"
I finish, "That noise. It sounds like someone getting beat up."
It does. I hear the smack smack of flesh on flesh. Every few moments
I seem to hear guttural noises and body hit ground.
Prints laughs a little, "Coil. Don't be so paranoid. That's just
Bally, Tehn and their friends playing Volleyball."
If only he could see my quizzical grin, but my silence must have
provoked his answer.
"Don't be so innocent Coil. This is a corporate front. Believe it or
not they're using infrared goggles," he laughs a little more and walks away.
I follow his rock crunching footsteps. As my eyes adjust, I see the
rim of the cliffs around the alcove and can make out Print's car and another
vehicle parked next to it, a Volkswagen van. Print laughs a stifled laugh
every few steps.
I question, "What is it that possess your mother to . . . "
A cry hurls from one of the volleyballers.
I whisper, "What was that?!"
Print quiets also, "I don't know. It sounded like someone
getting . . ."
Another yell falls out from the volleyballers. Someone screams, "Get
down!"
Someone else yells, "...been shot!"
Print grabs my arm. I distinctly see his arm reach into his pocket
and pull out a gun of some sort. I search my own pockets and find the
genemapper's gun. We're being hunted.
"What should we do?" I question hurriedly.
"I don't know?" after a few seconds of silence, "Get in the car."
"What?!"
He repeats calmly, "Get in the car."
We creep next to his vehicle and quietly open the doors. When we
close them, they seal themselves without a forced jar.
Print speaks, "Give me the phone."
"What?"
"Just do it!" His voice tense.
He takes the device from my hands. As he opens it, I see the light
green digital readout spark, then hear his fingers panel the buttons. He
speaks, "Mom, someone's nocking your gang . . .yes!" His voice lowers. "I
don't know? Just get them inside. I'm taking Coil out of here . . .
yes! . . . I think so. You know that's the reason! . . . we're going to SWB.
No . . . No, I'm going to do it tonight. Just get them in safe. I don't
know what else to say. I'll call you later." He hangs up.
He drops the phone into my lap and his gun also. The car starts up.
Print peels his tires for moment and makes a fast turn to go back through the
pass. We lapse into a deeper darkness.
"What's that!" I yell. Then I realize the car's being pelted by ammo.
Print speaks, "Hang on! I'm going to take this a little faster."
I speak up, "What about your tires? They'll shoot your tires."
He finishes, "That's what I mean. Hang on."
"What?"
He fiddles with a wire in his left hand under the dash. After several
seconds the ride gets bumpier.
"What'd you do?"
He almost yells, "Will you stop saying that?!"
"What!?"
"That!"
"Well, what did you do?"
He lets out a groan, "I released the tire sealant in the tires.
Normally," we experience a tumult of jolts and bumps, he tries to finish,
"normally the sealant releases when the tires are punctured. I released the
foam prematurely. Now they're solid."
"That's why the bumpy . . ." the car jumps up and down. The ammo box
in the middle juggles. I finish, "That's why the bumpy ride."
"Right-o." He drives on with the car lights out.
The sniper still hits, pelting the car. I can only guess they are
intentionally after us.
We clear the pass. The ammo pocks at the back of the car then stops
as we seem to get out of range.
Print speeds up further and hits the road.
"Do you know the roads?"
"Yes. But not like the back of my hand. All I know is this one road
leads to Phoenix when we get to the highway. The bad thing is, that this is
the only road out here. The Sterling Tollway is another twenty kilometers
southeast of here. So we'll probably not encounter any traffic but ourselves."
I try to think of something, "What about the police?"
"We could try, but by the time they got here we might be dead.
Besides I don't think the police are what we need."
I return, "What do you mean?"
He continues, "It's you they want Coil. Whoever it is, it's you they
want. It's that wedge thing. Joined's probably on our tail right now."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
I think for a short moment, "Wait. When you . . . "
I ponder my thought a little more. Something's beginning to click.
"When you said . . " The back window pops. An ammo shell ricochets
into the back seat.
"Fap!" yells Print. "They already know we're here." He turns on the
lights. The highway approaches.
The car screeches as he swerves onto the highway.
He bursts, "Do you see'm?!"
I look out the non-existent back window. No car or vehicle follow us.
"I don't see anything!"
I begin to roll down my window.
"Leave it up," Print forces. "The side and front window are
reinforced with cryt wire."
I try to look up. I see something above us.
"Something's definitely onto us Print. I don't know what."
"Try me. Give me a description."
"It's a little hard to see it in the dark."
He's tense, "Just try!"
I strain my eyes, "The thing doesn't look like a jet or copter.
Maybe it's a drone of some sort or a one manned thing. What ever it is it's
maneuverable."
A bullet zings off the side of the car.
"Print, I can't make out its shape!"
"No matter. We've got something else to worry about."
"What?" I almost stifle my word.
He points to the vid screen projection above his steering column. On
the window is projected a virtual map and our position on the highway moving
west. Ahead of our position is another blip.
"Are we coming to an outed bridge or something?"
"Stop with the questions! An outed bridge?! In New Mexico?! Fap
Coil. It's someone else and they're stopped. That's why they're icon is
blinking. They're in trouble."
As we speed on, I start to make out the other vehicle, several
emergency flares are placed about it.
Print speaks, "We're stopping."
I blanch, but don't speak.
Somehow Print gets a good clip out of his car. The thing chasing us
seems lost for a moment.
"You got turbo or something?"
" . . . Or something." We keep speeding up then coast. Before I
realize it, we screech and bump to a stop at the circle of flares.
Print opens his door and jumps out. Not knowing what to do I jump out
too. Where's that thing?! is all I can think.
I look to Print and my eyes follow him into the circle of flares.
I see a woman step out of the car. Immediately I walk over to the two
of them.
"Print, what are we doing. That thing's going to be here any second!"
"Just a moment," he holds out his hand.
I look to the woman as she straightens up to us.
Of all the BANAL!
"Get'n the car!"
This time Print yells, "What!?"
"Both of you get in the car!" Print moves the girl in front of him
and pushes her into the back seat. He then jumps back in the driver's seat.
I start to get into the passenger's seat.
"Move," the woman says. She jumps out of the car from behind the
passenger's seat. I yell at her as she runs back to her car. She rummages
for some things then goes to the trunk and pulls out a box of some sort.
She runs back over to my side and jumps into the back seat again. I
push down the passenger's seat and get in. Before my door's closed, Print's
on the pedal.
I turn to the woman, "What the hell are you doing out here!!!! Just
what in the name of . . . What are you doing out here!!?!?"
Kathy's eyes crease, "What do you think?! I'm stuck."
Print turns to me, "You know her? How's that possible?" He turns his
head momentarily and stares at her.
He burst, "Holy Fap! It's her. It's that girl that was with you at
the rave!" He turns around and quiets up.
I begin, "Print, don't even ask. You thought I had a lot of
questions. Somehow this woman manages to do things even a writer can't come
up with. She's got Fate on her side or something," I turn to her, "Answer me.
What are you doing in New Mexico?"
She questions right back, "Why did you leave me?!"
"Answer me first!"
"No!"
"Kathy this is not the time . . ."
"No."
"AhH!"
I return, "You wouldn't understand."
"Yes I would."
"Alright, I was going to be shot."
"See that wasn't so hard, was it."
I turn to Print, "Where's that . . ."
He returns, "Don't say it."
"What?"
"Don't say it."
Ammo begins to pelt the sides.
I turn back to Kathy, "What are you doing out here?"
"I had to pay my phone bill."
"Your What!!"
"My phone bill. I believed you, now you believe me." She sits back
with a sigh.
"Don't sit near the window!"
"Why?"
"You'll get shot." Another bullet zings off the car.
She sits up, almost pushing into the front seat.
Print speaks, "Why does paying your phone bill constitute you driving
all the way out here?"
"Now look who's got all the questions," I smirk at Print. He merely
eyes me.
Kathy replies, "Well, this's where Southwestern Bell Yellow Plates is.
And I got a notice that I was to pay it in person, or my service would be
cut."
I practically yell, "And you Believed them?!"
"Coil, you don't exactly 'not' believe the phone company. I have a
life, and that life depends on me communicating with clients all over the
world if need be."
"Since when do you have clients all over the world?"
"Well, if I did."
"Yeah right."
"It sounds good."
Print blurts, "Will you two please shut up. We're being chased by
some maniacal flying machine gun and both of you are arguing over her damn
phone bill. Who cares!"
I immediately turn to Kathy, "Don't even dare answer."
She pouts momentarily.
"How far are we from SWB?" I question Print.
He returns, "It's on the other side of Phoenix. We'll Have to take
the loop."
"You think that thing'll follow us into the city?"
"I wouldn't doubt it."
"How are we going to get rid of it."
I look to Kathy, my eyes crease. Damn her.
She looks to me, "What? What'd I do?"
"Nothing," I reply, "It's what you could do. What'd you bring?"
She looks in the bag she brought with her, "Well, I got my hair spray,
gel, some face paints, polycrisps, my blowtorch, nailgun, spark lighter . . .
hmmn, uh, some crackers, a flare gun, some orange poly-fiber net, and some
assorted diamond fibers left over from my invisible mobile project."
I speak to her, "Give me your flare gun first. I want you to attach
your diamond fibers to nails. Are the nails in a clip?"
She nods.
"Do it." I take the flare gun from her. I roll down the window and
let the fast wind rush my hair. I look up to see the thing following us.
Surprisingly it hasn't shot at us for a while. Where is it?
I turn my head right and it hovers in front of the car. I duck inside.
I arm the flare gun and aim at the thing. I pull the trigger.
A pulse of light shoots from the instrument and bangs the flying
object. It lights it up enough to make out some detail. The vehicle looks
like a single person helicopter. Some kind of black body molded covering
encases whoever's inside and a quiet rotor carries it along. A pair of very
large machine guns are mounted below it.
Print yells, "It's going to fire right at the front. Hold on!" He
swerves and the thing fires rattling holes in the driver's side. Two bullets
break through the driver's side window.
Print speeds up again, heading back down the way we came.
"Here!" Kathy hands me her modified nailgun.
"Got it!"
"Wait," Print speeds up, "That's a Corporate drone. It looks
modified. When you shot that flare I recognized its shape."
"Well, what do you suggest!"
"Aim for the blades. Since it's a copter formation, it will be most
vulnerable at the rotors or even better at the . . . just aim for the blades!!!"
I begin to reach out the window; the phone rings.
Kathy picks it up and unfolds the object. She answers, "Hello? . . .
It's for you."
She hands it to me.
"What! . . ."
"Bek, why did you run away? You've only made things worse," I
recognize the voice to be the woman from Gripyard.
I hang up.
"It's Gripyard. So it could be anyone's drone."
I stick my head out the window, aiming with the modified nail gun.
I yell back into the car, "How many of these things are wired together!"
Kathy yells back, "They're strung in nines."
I keep my aim up and fire. The nails fire in rounds of nine; the
jerking of the powerful gun nocks my aim from the blades. The drone jerks
around.
The phone rings again. Kathy pushes the hang up button.
I re-aim and blast the last three nines at the drone.
The diamond fibers finally catch and tangle in the blades.
"Hit it Print!" He speeds up.
One of the blades flies off. The drone hits the ground. Print swerves
and drives back towards it. He rounds the blazing wreckage and we speed
towards Phoenix.
.........
end part eight
.........
.........
part nine
.........
Wind breezes coolly through the open windows chilling Kathy and
freezing the sweat on my brow. Print drives quietly on into the dark night.
I can't even imagine what the outside of the car will look like in the
daylight. I don't want to see it.
I begin, "Alright, answer time."
I turn to Kathy, "Girlfriend, I don't believe you. How is it you're
'just so happens' going to pay your phone bill, and it's 'just so happens'
now of all times. And it's 'just so happens' your out in the middle of New
Mexico, by now we're in Arizona. And only the gods know why! Explain that.
I simply find it hard to believe that you're even human sometimes with all the
weird stuff that follows you around. All the coincidences, how's that
possible!?! I can't help but believe you're working for someone!"
"I'm not."
Print interrupts, "I don't think she's part of any organization,
except maybe an art league or two. Think about it Coil. She's like one of
those strange attractors you read about in classical math courses. You know
all the really strange stuff is attracted to it but never really touches it.
She reminds me of that, especially with all the coincidences you talk about.
She's just a very lucky girl. C'mon Coil, chock it all up as good luck.
She's a blessing actually. If it wasn't for her we'd be dead or deader."
I try to believe, even if a little. I still question, "But why all
the stuff Kathy? The equipment in your bag. The flare gun."
She calmly replies, "I thought I'd go see my brother in Phoenix while
I was in the area. He lives near Burnt Dam. When I called him, he said they
were having a sculpture convention in Bapchule and that I might want to bring
some of my equipment. An besides, I know this really old Navajo in Palo Verde
who trades burnt silver for diamond fibers. As for the phone bill. I really
got a note that said to personally come to SWB."
I think about that a little more, "Who talked to you about that?"
"I don't know, some guy."
Print intervenes, "Maybe they were trying to get to you through her,
Coil. By making her come here, they'd only make you come here even more."
"Maybe."
Print's heads-up map shows us closing in on the Phoenix out beltway.
After ten minutes of thinking, we take the south exit and head towards Tempe.
SWB is located five kilometers Northeast of there.
My earlier question pops, "Alright Print."
He gazes at me, "Yes."
"Your turn."
"Okay."
I continue, "You've had your little coincidences too, you know."
"True. But I think mine can be explained as well."
I go on, "I can believe all that happened at the rave, even to the
point that you overheard my conversation with the Gripyard woman. But
afterwards, when you became so interested in my plight, as it were. I began
thinking a little more."
"Go on."
"Why?"
He laughs a little, the wind from the broken window coursing his brow,
"Well, I'll admit to my initial interest. It was honest. But the main
reason I was at the rave was, in a sense, to find you. You see, Joined killed
my father."
I let this sink in. In a way this connects with what his mother was
saying. A lot.
He continues, "His name was Giuw Crenshin, and he was head of GWA. My
father had hired your 'friend' Kelly Trail to research and develop the wedge.
That is until Kelly decided to make a side deal. Rather make a double
profit. In a way I don't blame her. It wasn't so much a double profit she
was trying to pull, as it was keep her life and job at the same time. I think
she had always intended to stay on contract with GWA, but when Joined got
ahold of her. Well, I really find it hard for anyone to resist the
information that Joined has to offer. Their motives are so deep and dark
sometimes, I wonder if maybe we're all part of some big game of their's. I
really don't know. Anyway. After my father was killed, GWA dropped the wedge
contract; but Gilton kept researching. That's when I actually found out
Joined was involved. No one would keep up a potentially hopeless enterprise
like 'finding a pattern to the prime numbers' unless they were prodded by
Joined or really close to an answer. In Kelly's case, unfortunately, she was
both. That caused her death."
Kathy's breath breaks. I only wish I had been the one to tell her
about Kelly's death. It's just as well now though. Any further into this
mess and she might never forgive me, if she doesn't already.
Print continues, "Anyway, I found you. When you fell asleep in my car
and you started talking in your sleep, mentioning Kelly and some kind of
murder investigation. That's when I realized I had the right guy. GWA still
wants its project. It never broke the contract with Kelly. But because of
the death of my father, I'm willing to give up the wedge just to get at
Joined. And Gripyard. I don't like them messing with a friend. Not one bit."
I turn to him in a kind of sympathy. Did he actually say that? Yes.
All I can manage for a moment is, "Thanks."
Kathy speaks up, "We missed our turn off."
Print exits the next off ramp and circles back. We get off at exit
68E-SWB. The sign reads Southwestern Bell Yellow Plates-7 KM.
.........
end part nine
.........
.........
part ten
.........
My stomach starts to ache a little as Print drives down exit 68E.
It's almost as if all the bad things I should have felt earlier are just now
starting to ulcerate my stomach. It's got to be nerves. Just nerves.
The air blowing through the broken car windows begins to turn humid.
Thick and wet, the atmosphere sinks into my throat. Kathy coughs.
Print begins to slow somewhat as a light fog begins to encroach on the
highway. I start to put my goggles on, but the humidity passes quickly.
Unexpectedly.
I search my pockets finding that I still have Kelly's data book, the
genemapper's gun, and the wedge programming wrapped in bubble plastic. If I
can just get rid of this program, all should turn normal. At least that's
what my idealistic little brain wishes.
I turn to examine Kath, she sits cross armed in the backseat staring
straight ahead. She perks a slight smile when I turn to look at her. Her
hair falls flat against her head, soaked with sweat from our recent ordeal.
Black rings smear from her eyes; I chuckle a little. She pulls a pair of
mirrored sunglasses from her bag and covers her eyes. I turn back around.
The car slows and Print turns out the lights.
"What are you doing?" Kath asks.
He returns, "I don't think I want them knowing I'm here."
I question, "Well how do you expect to get inside. We don't exactly
have a helicopter unless this thing can fly."
"I expect to get in with my gun intact. I would think if we went
through the front gate they'd surely confiscate our weapons," his logic rings
true.
Kathy shrugs.
"Do we even know what the layout of this place is?"
"That's easy," he quips. Print rustles behind my seat and picks out
the folded phone. He then pulls a little black and purple lycra bag from out
of the glove compartment in front of me. "Kathy right?" He turns to face
Kath and she nods. "Reach behind your seat and open the interior trunk
hatch." She does so. A small hinged door slaps open. "Get the slim case
under the tool box." She heaves a heavy object it seems then pulls out a very
thin briefcase of sorts. She hands it to Print. "Thanks."
Kath and I watch as he opens the slim case on his lap, revealing a
collapsed computer and keyboard. Print opens the lycra bag and pulls out a
yellow and red taped cord. He inserts them into the back of the computer and
then connects one end into the steering column and the other, after pulling
out the lighter, into the lighter socket. He pulls out yet another cord from
the bag and inserts it into the side of the computer. Next he unfolds the
phone.
He punches a code in the phone, then the scramble buttons.
I question, "Are you sure that scramble will work? Last time it led
that drone to us."
"Coil, I'm not even sure it was your phone call was the one that led
Gripyard to us. They might have you bugged or something," he returns to his
phonecall. I let his words sink in wondering if what he says could be true.
I can only guess.
He speaks into the phone, " . . . Tehn, yeah. Could you upload our
bit files on SWB. Mainly floor plans and all . . . Yes . . . That'll
work . . . Okay . . . Tell her I'm alright . . . Yes . . . Did they
get . . . Oh, good . . . Bye." He plugs the side computer jack into the phone
and switches the keyboard on. He flicks the car's heads-up display on and we
watch as coded information siphons through the phone line onto the virtual
screen. Kathy pushes closer between the two front seats to see better.
The phone bips off and Print unjacks it. Several seconds go by and
the screen unscrambles the text.
"How do you have access to the floor plans of SWB?"
Print taps several keys on the keyboard and we watch as said floor
plan pops up, "When my father was killed I bought black-market bits on SWB
from a guy in the District. That's another reason I was in the city; doing a
little research for my later trackdown."
Pretty good.
"Hold it," I mutter, "let me get out that piece of paper I have." I
pull out Kelly's data book and retrieve the scanned slip with the room numbers
on it. I hand it to Print, "This is where I was to deliver the program. I
don't know why the 0300 is highlighted red though."
He touches a panel above Kath's head and a small blue light winks on.
Print looks closely at the scrawled map. "These could be outlets of some
kind, terminal numbers or operator booths. You were just told to deliver the
program to SWB."
I nod.
Print looks for a moment at the paper then flicks out the light. He
turns back to the keyboard and scrolls through the main floor plan. The
building sprawls out into one large complex and very few sub-complexes. The
company sits on a plane without any surrounding detail present. A simple
three dimensional graphic rotates in the view's upper right corner, rendering
the entire shape of SWB; numbers and dimensions annotate different portions
at several stops of the rotation. The building rises as one block of concrete
with a semipherical lattice arching from the ground to the roof. The graphic
seems to display groupings of sheet-panes strung along the lattice supports.
A small green dot blinks to the southwest of the main image; Print explains
that that is our present location.
Print meanwhile scrolls onward over the main screen. The view shifts
from a layman's diagram to an electric circuit grid. He seems to be tracing
a path. The screen stops.
"Here," he points on the virtual screen. A small 0300-687 is present
in a bank of numbers and wire lines.
"What is it?" Kath asks.
"This diagram looks like a fiber optics schematic. Notice how all the
other lines jump the zero-prefixed ones." His fingers trace several lines on
the screen. No other lines intersect the zero-prefixed ones. He then traces
the 0300 line off the schematic and out of the building. The screen scrolls
and leads to a new building. All of the zero-prefixed lines bank at the new
location.
He smiles, "This is where we need to go. I'll bet you this is a FO
station. If we patch in through here we won't have to go directly into SWB.
We can upload all the info through this port."
"Uh, Print," I pull out the plastic bubbled program bit, "I don't
think this will fit in your matrixware."
He stares at it oddly, "That doesn't matter. We'll send them a ghost
program and they'll have to come to us."
I squint and crease my brow, not sure what he's driving at. I just
want to deliver this thing and get out of here.
He goes on, "This bank station is outside of the complex and outside
of the perimeter of SWB. I'm thinking that if we connect up here, we'll have
a better chance of knowing who's jumping down our back. Get it?"
Kathy perks, "Got it."
I merely sit back, hoping they know what they're doing.
"Let's go," Print unjacks his equipment and packs it away. Before
removing the computer connection from the lighter jack, a tiny printout on
slick clear plastic meanders from the right side of the computer. A schematic
of the outer complex is drawn on it.
After removing his seatbelt, he speaks to Kathy, "Bring your
equipment. I bet we'll need your torch." He then closes his case and motions
for us to get out.
Print rummages through his trunk and pulls out a black slimsac; he
gives it to me after pulling out and handing me a monocular-scope. He pulls a
strap from his slimcase and allows it to dangle over his shoulder. Kathy
also shoulders her bag waiting for our next move. She takes off her
sunglasses and tucks them into her lurex parka, then pulls a thin strip of
material from one of its pockets then bunches and ties her hair.
I remember from the graphic where we were in relation to the complex
and noted the FO station looked to be almost two kilometers northwest of
Print's car. We walk from the highway in that direction towards the only
lights. SWB.
.........
end part ten
.........
.........
part eleven
.........
The humidity is getting bad. My face begins to sweat before we even
clear the first kilometer. The Fiber Optics station is marked by no gates or
security perimeters, just a simple black-ammocrete rectangular box, no seeming
doors and a single blue light panel near one corner of the building.
Actually it isn't much of a building because it's not even shoulder height.
I peer through the monocular that Print handed me earlier. The IF
scope bips on and zooms slowly past the FO station, a multi-array graphic
siphons off to the side of the scope's view and details dimensions and
distances. I make out a twenty foot wall surrounding the SWB complex. I
can't imagine how we're to get in there; I don't remember packing any mountain
climbing equipment. Ha.
Kathy pulls me on; she had to back track to get me because I had
stopped to look. "C'mon . . . we're almost there," she practically whispers.
The scattered fibrous scrub crunches lightly under our approach. We
catch up to Print; he's already at the FO station.
Print is crouched near a polyplated grate, his hand motioning for us
to join him quickly.
" . . . give me your torch," he whispers harshly at Kathy. She
motions into her sack and hands it and the spark lighter to him.
Print flips up the small eye guard on the torch and fires the device
up. It begins a low hiss of red flame turning blue as he adjusts the stream,
the noise dulls to a crisp roar. He cuts at the grating.
Three minutes pass, the whole time I scann the horizon with the
monocular. I voice my opinion, "Don't you think by now we've been noticed?
Surely you've set off some kind of alarm."
Print returns quietly, "That's a chance for us."
He pushes through the grate as it breaks off; Kathy follows him in, a
light beam perking from her hand. I join them.
The FO station is a cramped collection of boxes and panels, all of
which are covered in porrofoam and steel. Banks and rows of grid junctions
and communications relays abound.
Kathy knocks her hand on one of the cases, a sharp ring sounds off its
exterior, "How are we going to torch through this stuff? My flamer won't cut
steel this thick."
Print motions for her to move her light over to his direction, "I
don't think we'll need to do that. There's a large cable here," he points
with the light to a spot near his finger on the clear printout. "We just need
to cut through this and tap into the desired optic line."
He moves on, kneeling his way around the floor to "ceiling" casings.
I follow after Kathy, watching behind us, constantly wondering when and if
we'll be noticed. I examine the low ceiling and see multitudes of cables and
wire sheafs running from a central location up ahead of us into the boxes.
That must be where we're headed.
After a minute of kneeing on the hard concrete floor, we stop at the
optic node. Three large cables enter from the floor and hit the ceiling.
Their diameter at least ten centimeters each. Print looks to his schematic.
"Hold your light over head please."
Kathy not only holds the light over head, she takes her gum out of her
mouth and sticks it to her light. Then she places the makeshift lamp on the
wall above Print, shining it down. She then squats near the wall holding her
knees to her chest. "Let me have the scope." She takes if from my hand. I
watch Print.
He motions for me to give him the slimsac I am carrying; he ruffles
through it momentarily, picking out cable cutters and a splicing box. He
starts into the largest cable, sawing into its black outer coat. The device's
whine careens off our ears as Print cuts through multilayers of aluminum and
monofoam. After slicing a door into the conduit, he peels the casing back
and stares into a lighted collection of optic wires. A miasma of white
muscles, bright and thin, siphoning information from SWB, through this node
and into the collection boxes to be transmitted across the world. The light
from the cords flickers softly onto Print's face. He dons a pair of
sunglasses from his coat pocket.
He next settles his slimcase onto the floor; opens it and boots it up
off of stored battery power. He then reaches into the conduit and pulls a
handful of the optic wires out, searching through the lighted tendons for
the 'correct' strand. He picks it out and pulls black electrical tape out of
his sack and tapes the strand to the outside of the conduit. The rest of the
strands fall back into their web.
"What exactly are you going to do? I thought you wanted at Joined
themselves?"
Print continues his operation, booting up his computer and preparing
the cable splicer, "I definitely want 'them' but I figure we should get a
little something from them too. I've set up an exponential virus, kind of a
generator virus from the 1990's, to attack their main information centers.
Though it won't destroy anything, it will block their information flow on an
exponential scale. It's all rooted in mathematics; it starts small and gets
really big. This is the same thing. It starts blocking little pieces of
info at first; they shouldn't notice it, then as it grows, the virus will
start walling off teragigs of data. That'll really Fap'm off. But in the
meantime, I've rigged a battery of pigiback virus's that, while the initial
code is acting, the littler ones will direct specific pieces of data from the
collective info core to coded data accounts around the world." He begins
splicing the taped optic cable. Carefully stripping its outer coat and
tapping into it like a surgeon, small pins inserting and connecting a dark
cable to the computer and back. Print panels a command on his keyboard and
the connecting cable lights, siphoning information off the optic core.
We wait.
Minutes pass. I watch Print's computer scann information and bubble
with codes. The optic splice winks on and off.
"Let me have that data disk with the Prime project on it." Print
holds his hand out.
I open my pocket and pull out the bubble packed data disk. I hand it
to Print. After setting up a raw wired data entry point on his computer to
accommodate the oversized data disk, I look to question Kathy . . .
Gas. A white mist catches my throat, stinging like mace. I watch as
Print tries to uncouple his slimcase from the wire, but I fall unconsiou . . .
.........
end part eleven
.........
.........
part twelve
.........
"OUch!" is the first thing I hear. Kathy yelps. I recognize that we
are tied together, out hands laced in one place, around a post, behind out
backs. My eyes clear, but only to darkness. My nostrils are assaulted with
the smell of oil and vinegar, threaded with a hint of ammonia. My butt sits
on the floor, my legs held awkwardly to my chest. I try to stretch them. As
I settle, I notice the floor seems to vibrate minutely. Shaking on its
foundation.
Print speaks, "You awake Coil?"
"Yeah," I murmur.
". . .Kathy stop struggling!" She writhes for a moment more then calms.
My fingers caress the cord tied to our hands. I feel the cold pole to
which they are bound to.
I question, "Do we have any ideas as to where we are?"
"Kathy thinks we're in SWB. I can only agree under the
circumstances," Print pants a little. My breathing is slightly shallow too,
possibly from the gas.
"Have either of you two seen anyone?"
They both say no.
Print continues, "All of our things were taken," I even feel my jacket
gone, "They have the Prime project now, whether we want'm to have or not."
"Hey, I had no intentions of keeping it from them," I voice.
Kathy remarks, her hands still struggling a little, "What in the world
are they . . ."
A door opens. Footsteps approach; a sliver of light shines, but I
can't see it directly.
I whisper, "How come we can't see? I can tell a light's on . . ."
Slick gloved hands cut the cord from our hands and groups of arms
force us to stand. We are forcibly walked out of the room. The door closes
behind us. Cool air pushes from atop us.
We walk for several long minutes, every time I try to voice something,
I'm shushed by a monotone, "quiet." The hands gripping my arms tight and
slick.
We are finally pushed through a new doorway. We stop.
The hands leave and my ears catch murmuring voices all around. A cold
piece of metal sticks my brow. My eyes clear.
A room we are in, of course; but as my eyes settle to their former
nature, I note the size of the room. Not just large, but expansive. The
three of us are within a small glassed-off station looking over the main vault
below. Matrix terminals are set up, rows and sections. Hundreds of people
sitting at them, electronic equipment interfacing with each. Darkness fills
their room, ghost green mires from their monochromatic consoles. Wires and
tubes fall from the ceiling linking with the multitudinous bitheads and their
equipment. The people are wearing goggles and gloves, equipment's coupled
directly to their forehead and necks. All of them monitoring, encoding,
receiving, or transmitting information. Manipulating it, storing it. The
Phone Company at work.
I turn from this sight and realize the bright neon of our smaller
encasement. I look behind and see the door we came through and three slick
black-slimsuited men, holding sphange guns, wire mesh ploders. As my eyes
follow the stark room, noting the plastic floor, filachrome ceiling, four
individuals are seated at similar terminals as those below, green light
shining from their terminals into their visored faces. Each man or woman
performing a virtual dance with their interfacing technology.
And then my eyes settle on him.
His dress, different, casual; his face familiar; hair dry, round
glasses perch his brow. The man that originally drugged me, sunk me with
Neuroblitz. I stand in anger.
He smiles oddly, "I see you've finally made it. Good." He motions to
the guards behind the door, "Let her in."
Print, Kathy and I turn as one, watching as the guard nearest the door
opens it and then pulls an individual out from the hall. Frie.
She walks in with confidence, assurance I've never actually seen her
with before. I stare directly at her; she turns to me and smiles. She
blinks. I watch as pure recognition strikes her face. As if she sees me.
"Hello Coil," she walks over to lean on the man's desk. I stand
shocked, her voice striped of its former accent and odd enunciations.
Print and Kathy simply watch me.
I burst, "You're a part of this?! How could you?! You're blind, at
least I thought you were?"
She smirks casually, "Silly boy, don't you get it. Of course I was
blind, but I learned to live with it. That was only a temporary thing, for
you."
"But why?" I move ever so closer to her.
"Because it pays well. I'm an information junkie Coil. It's my job.
You were just another field assignment."
I think about it. All the times I saw her jacked into her data world,
she wasn't doing what she said she was. It was pure information gathering
she was doing. Her job. And I fell for it.
"I saw you . . . "
She finishes for me, "You saw me . . . what, 'tied' up. Of course.
Just to complete the illusion. I was placed by your side, made sure you came
through for us. Especially after the failure that Kelly brought about."
Tears brim my eyes, anger inside. "I can't believe this!"
She continues, "Stop being so Fapping idealistic Coil. This is real.
It's life. A game. And we're out to win. Joined is out to win. Besides
you're not exactly in the best of company."
"What do you mean?" I think of Print.
The man behind the desk starts, his voice simple, direct, "Your
friend, Kathy, hasn't told you everything either. She's not exactly the
innocent one."
I turn to Kathy in utter disbelief, "What does he mean? What's your
connection!!"
She holds her hand back, staying me, "You've got to be kidding, I'm
not with these jerks."
My anger peaks, "What are you with!?"
She smiles a little and settles, "Well, It's really hard to explain.
You see, you're . . . well, uh. You're bloodline is very important to certain
things, very complicated. I was assigned to you, to make sure you . . ."
She cringes a little, "This is a mess!"
"Go on!" I chide.
"I'm your 'jone', it's what we call your begetter. I am to make sure
you survive at all costs till your twenty-eighth birthday . . . I wasn't told
what was to happen then, but I think my title says some things."
'Begetter'? I don't even want to imagine! I'm not having children!
I try to go on, "This is really stupid."
"I know," Kathy laughs. Odd.
"But who are you with? I'd at least like to know whose protecting me."
"We're called Passive."
I turn back to the man, "Why me? You've got the data disk. That's
what you wanted, now let us go."
He stands, his suit unwrinkling, "That's no problem. But we also want
your friend's codes. We do not want anyone else possessing the Prime project
but us. GWA cannot have the same access we do."
I anger more, "Why! I'm tired of this! It's just a stupid program to
find prime numbers. You're all talking about it as if it were the answer to
the world's problems!"
Frie enters, "Or the world's taking."
"How?"
The man walks near us, "Do you know anything about fractal history?
The propagation of time based on specific events in the past and present? The
events in history follow a pattern. Before now only unique individuals have
been able to predict future events, such as Nostrodomas and a few prophets
during the age of Christ; had they not dallied in politics and mythos some of
their predictions wouldn't have been perceived as ridiculous. Certain
individuals possess a special kin to pattern, they are like strange
attractors, causing special events to fall around them. Other's perceive
these patterns and to an extent can predict their coming. It's all in the
mathematics. Chaos theory and fractals. In this case you have unique events
taking place in history around the nodes of prime numbers occurrences. With
this code, we can determine certain events. We can gather and store
information and prepare for the times to come. The more information we have,
the better able we are to distinguish what the event might actually be. It
was no accident that the Cold War broke causing the uprising against the
Japanese; same with the Haiti-French skirmish. More than information was
fought over, much more. History is its own proof of pattern."
It is a game. A game to see who wins. I fear. "What's my part?
You still didn't answer that."
The man continues, "Coil, you can't be hurt. Kathy can't be hurt.
Rather, certain things won't happen to you. Coincidence you call it. Strange
attractors we call you. That's why Passive is protecting you. Thinks it is."
I look to Print; he seems a little hurt for some reason. This all
sounds too much like a big cosmic dice roll. All I can think of is how
ridiculous this sounds. But as I ponder it more, the more it kind of makes
sense. Why all the odd things happen to Kathy. Why the drug never affected
me, the 'luck' as it were of finding Print. Everything is so complicated, so
interwoven. How can anyone expect to predict such complexity!
The man walks up to Print, "The codes."
Not having anything but his slimsuit on, I watch as Print pushes up
his legging and peels a section of his skin off near his ankle. A thin
monosheaf of clear contac is held in front of the man. The man reaches for
it; Print spits on it.
We watch as the sheaf burns in chemical heat. It disintegrates.
"Just as well," says the man. "We knew when you coupled the data disk
with your computer you stored and compressed the code. When we didn't find
it within your device's memory, it was figured some other way you had
contained it."
His words make sense because Print did have the data disk when I fell
unconscious. So much for his effort.
The man finishes, "You are free to go. Any attempt you make to bring
this to the public's eye will be shot down. We basically control all the
information flow through the Information Market. You'd be tapped and found.
Besides, who would believe you."
True, I think. The guards begin to open the door.
"Wait," Frie's voice. I turn. "Coil, my apartment has been sealed,
I've mailed all of your belongings to your PO box."
I only manage a muted, "Thanks." I walk out the door.
How anticlimatic I think. That's it?
That's it.
The guard catches me up with Kathy and Print. They walk us to an
elevator. The shaft lowers us to the SWB lobby; its stark metallic sheen
headed by a single receptionist desk. The morning light creeps through the
front entrance; solar dampers conveniently screen out particular frequencies.
We are ushered out the front and into a waiting black BMW. Tinted windows,
silver trimming. The car's door opens automatically and the three of us step
in. As I wonder where our belongings are, I see them stacked on the seat next
to me. The door closes and we don the fibrous seatbelts.
The robot car drives us off into Phoenix. Silence envelopes us.
.........
end part twelve
.........
.........
part thirteen
.........
Our transport stops at the Phoenix International Airport. All three
of us get out, grabbing our possessions.
A man with dark hair, young features and a shortcoat walks up to
Print. They talk for a moment.
Print turns to us, "We've transportation. SWB somehow contacted GWA
to pick us up here. We've got a private copter waiting to take us back to the
plateau."
Kathy speaks up, "Can your man take me back to Hilven?"
Print returns, "Yes. I wouldn't count on it being too safe at the
moment taking a commercial flight."
Kathy pinches Print, "I can take care of myself, I just wanted to save
some money."
"Oh."
We follow the man that talked to Print. He later introduces himself
as Cunner; some GWA operative I'm told by Print. He leads us through the
airport and shuttle docks to the corporate docks. We exit directly onto the
landing field, a white twin rotor machcoptor waits. Cunner allows us to
enter first and jumps in after us. The door closes and we lift off.
I watch as Cunner sits with the pilots; we're left to ourselves.
I immediately question Print now that we're out of SWB property, "How
did you do that little trick with the contac?"
He smiles, "I've got enzymes engineered into my saliva that kind of
promote chemical breakdown of that particular kind of contac sheaf.
Convenient isn't it."
Kathy jokes, "I'd hate to see what you kiss like." She smiles.
I turn to Kathy. She sits quietly, seemingly happy, as if all went
well. As planned. I simply stare in amazement at her. Passive. Hmmph.
Weird.
"Why were you actually out in the desert? You really couldn't have
been going to pay your phone bill."
She stares back at me, "Don't be silly. I was to follow you anyway.
But I did get a bill from SWB to pay in person. After all, it seems they
simply wanted to expose me to you, for what I really am. Sorry."
I return, "Yes, I'm sorry." I don't even want to contemplate the
further implications of her presence right now.
Print interrupts, "You going to stay with us Coil? We could give you
protection."
"Why?" Good excuse though.
"Think about it. Gripyard will be on your butt for some time. We
have no idea if they still want you or not."
"True," I voice.
He continues, "Kathy you can too."
"I'll think about it. I have to check in first. I'd miss the
District."
The copter begins to land. The plateau settles beneath us. Print and
I get out, the coptor's silent blades blow our hair in the early morning sun.
Dry air breaks into my lungs.
Cunner steps out for a moment, he seems almost a completely different
man for some reason. Something in his eyes. He talks to Print then waves to
us as he reboards the coptor.
.........
end part thirteen
.........
.........
epilogue
.........
Three weeks have passed since I left the GWA plateau. Print stayed
behind. I spoke to Kathy after I checked into the Gernsbach Hotel. All is
fine with her; she tells me she's moving to a new apartment more central to
the District, and she asked me to move in with her. I'm still contemplating
whether or not that is wise. I don't want to be cooped up in some corporate
holding, but I don't want to be exposed to Gripyard either. We'll see.
At the moment I'm sorting through the things 'Frie' mailed to my PO
box. Earlier today I went and emptied my box and contacted the police. The
authorities finished the investigation a week after my little adventure began
and concluded that it was simply an overdose that Kelly succumbed to. I left
it at that. I then found that my car had been impounded too. The lieutenant
expressed concern as to why it was left in the rain. I was told that all of
the equipment was stolen out of it. No more phone, radio, jack, or tools. He
didn't seem to want to go any further into why, but he did mention rather
boldly that black alu-sheeting had smeared onto the back bumper. He asked if
it was a hit and run. I only agreed just to get out.
I pick through the items on the Hotel room bed, among them the gene
gloves and the genemapper's gun, deciding what to put into storage and what to
take with me, if I move. I push some of the things aside and lie down. On
the night stand, I've set the collection of mail I've not had time to respond
to. Throwing away half the hardwire chips and advids, I begin to make my way
through the stack.
An odd envelope surfaces, cleaved in wax paper and stamped with a
corporate embellishment of orange rectangles. Aesthetic words pop about the
filmy package. I open it with an odd feeling.
Inside is a clear contac with multiple bar-codes and black laserlines,
the paper clipped to it is a psuedochip, thin and silver. I rummage through
my slipsac and pull out my aud-deck. I slip the chip into the playslot, then
fit the audpieces into my ears. It plays:
...Something's obviously happened to me. [Kelly's' voice!] And I've
obviously screwed up. Several days before I broke the Prime code, I
logged this in and had it tagged with a 'release only when death
certificate registers'. That seems to have happened. I'm sorry for
what trouble I caused you. I'm sure I have. I hadn't realized the
extent of my involvement when I took on this project. But that's
life. The enclosed sheaf is a pseudocode to break the prime pattern.
I found out that the one I had bar coded before is off by two in the
one-millionths digit. So the pattern is only accurate for the first
two-hundred forty seven thousand cycles. Which in mathese means that
one little mistake will start causing large errors the farther out you
try to predict the pattern of primes. One of the first things I was
taught in grade school was to cut down on error. You learn this first
thing about SDIC, or Sensitive Dependence to Initial Conditions,
that's where little changes in the beginning show up in amplified form
way latter. But you didn't want to hear a math lecture I'm sure.
Anyway, the original Prime project codes are wrong. [I consciously
rub the reminder of my ordeal, the Serpenski Gasket tatoo on my
ankle.] These are the corrections. Please turn them over to Tange,
he'll understand the problem after he takes a closer look at this
revision. I hope you'll forgive me and understand all that's
happened. I had no intention to hurt anyone.
Kelly
The player stops and the chip pops out. I pull at the edges of the
correction contac and stretch the form distorting its shape. I then crumple
it and throw it into waste bin. A hard metal ping rings off the can's
aluminum base.
.........
end epilogue
.........
.........
END
.........
Newt Spills Information!
If you've gotten this far, thank you! I know's there's a
lot of mistakes, but that was ages ago, someday I might
revise it... the plans include revamping it and making it
take place in the 1950's... of course the technology would
be different, but who knows.
the 'begetter' thing about Kathy isn't really resolved... I
know that it's not really explained, but originally this
story was planned to have a sequel and you're actually
reading the first of about two or three more 'novellas'
Unfortunately, the specific-sequal to this story was never
written, the other two carry on the same 'tradition' of
corporations/company's but with significant technology
changes... that is, nanotechnological implants instead of
VR, etc, etc... but the begetter thing relates to an
organization that was set up hundreds of years ago that
was desgined to preserve a certain blood line, a clan's
blood line for specific reasons in the future, that is, those
that were relying on the FRACTAL HISTORY idea here-in,
the Wedge is the fundamental map of future/past/present
history, but as you see the one in this
story is the 'right'.
Newt Gives Credit!
I must thank my friend Ray for the Wedge idea. When we
met in high school he was working on a math project that
involved converting the prime numbers into graphical forms
one of his 'final versions' included a map of the Prime
Numbers into a wedge like shape in three dimensions using
AutoCAd and lots of translation programs... later the images
were imported into a different graphics program and enhanced
I used the idea with his permission.
Thanks again if you've really read this.
Andrea.
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Newt. Friend of Ripley's. "Put your titty back in Adel!"
Brad Pitt, Kalifornia
e-mail: st3ui@jetson.uh.edu
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