From: atmpas@vax.oxford.ac.uk (PAUL SHERLIKER)
Subject: Two fragments
Date: 11 Jan 94 16:23:04 GMT

	Hmm.  I've got two fragments here that someone might like to read, both
set in a slightly alternative cyberpunk world (I posted a complete story about
a year ago).  The first is the first chunk of an attempted collaboration that I
need someone to help with, and the second is the first section of a story that
disintegrated.  If anyone wants the previous story (The Inverse Square Law),
just send email.  The second story requires a basic understanding of German,
and a tolerance for poor German to go with it.  The first fragment contains a
variant on the Chatsubo, although I'll wager that many of it's common
inhabitants would find this one a bit low on action.


	___Robbing the Kong___

	'La vie; c'est comme un jeu de Chine - mysterieuse, secrete; une
	enigme.'  -  Jean le Malchanceux

	The figurine bobbed in the breeze from the taxi's air conditioning,
writhing its arms to the beat of an unseen drummer.  It looked like an expensive
one, with electric light eyes and tiny gold bangles rattling on the blackness of
its arms.  The skulls that adorned its belt looked like real bone, or even
ivory.  Adam glanced over at the driver, who sat immersed in her trade, peering
out into the seamless flow of traffic that blared past the intersection.  All
the drivers had the dancing figurines, whether for faith, superstition or
status symbol, but most of them chose a god of travel or protection - perhaps
death was all the driver thought she could depend on.  The car jerked forward
into the stream, filling with the songs of protesting horns and rubber.
Perhaps she was right.

	The traffic was slacker in the New Quarter.  It hadn't changed much -
the mouldering old mansions and once-prestige shops were still mouldering, the
wine and sushi bars were still heading relentlessly downmarket, ancient notices
still proclaimed that this or that building was for hire.  The people were the
same too - old ex-Japanese still pretending that the Indians hadn't bought out
their megacorps and made them redundant, old ex-Americans still flying full
sets of stars and stripes.  They were like seaweed on a beach, the high tide
mark of their cultures.

	The jolt of the brakes snapped him back into the present.  He handed
over his rupees and got out into the turkish coffee night.  The bar was still
the same too, just a little more run down, with a little less paint and a little
more flicker in the neon sign.  The door still swung with the faint halfway
resistance.

	Inside, the air was cold and clammy with cheap heat pumps, and it was
dark, except near the door.  He watched the reaction, the expressions on the
faces that turned to him, took in the white suit, the brown face with the
expensive skin, reached the black chi-brand on its forehead and turned away
quickly.  The conversation stopped, and then began again with artificial
vigour.  The girls by the bar - did the same guy still run them? - turned
pointedly back to drinks they'd been ready to surreptitiously dump a moment
ago.  One, who had gone so far as to get up and start for the door, stood
stunned long enough for her bleach-blond hair to stop waving from the motion,
then snatched her grey eyes away from his to the grubby mirror behind the bar.
The usual mixture of fear, hatred and curiosity.  He noted all the ones who
might be dangerous - spaced, desperate or crazy - and walked over to sit by the
bar, angling himself on the sticky plastic of the stool so that he could keep
an eye on them.  The bar filled with the clattering of tiles as a group - two
anglo, two japanese - in the near corner started a new mah-jong hand.

	The barman was over at the other end of the bar, serving another round
of drinks to a slumming indian businessman who was laughing excitedly with a
couple of the girls.  The barman was still the same as well, just ten years
greyer and grubbier, with a new overtone to the whine from the old mechanical
arm and a little more metalwork to show when he grinned indulgently at the
indian.  The way things were going, the man might be encouraged to buy a round
for the whole bar.  The mah-jong players started building their walls in a
series of brisk clicks, and then pushed them together carefully over the
uneven table.  South wind - a little japanese man in a dark suit and a silver
trimmed shirt - was prevailing.  He picked up the dice and tossed them over his
wall into the city, where they clattered against north's wall and came to a
stop, five and red-eyed one.  West picked them up and peered briefly at them
over her sunglasses before casting them vigourously back into the city.

	'Feeling homesick, psycho?  We are a long way from your head office
here.'

	The barkeep had wandered over to his end of the bar, all pink arm and
calculated grin.  Adam left a note to himself to stay alert - it wasn't safe to
be distracted.  He turned lazily over to Ratz, setting his expression to cool
and tough, beaming back an even icier smile.

	'I'm no further from home than your friend over there.  I'll have
tea.'

	'He is not irritating my trade like you do, psycho.  My trade do not
like to be irritated, and maybe you will get to hear about it if you stick
around.  Besides, we do not serve tea here any more.'

	'My name's Adam Weissman, Ratz.  You ought to remember me, I drank
enough here when I was a kid - give me a drink and a name for old times' sake,
and I won't bother you for long.'

	He stared hard at Ratz, turning the smile up a notch.  Recognition and
a little suppressed fear showed through the barkeep's mask.  Eventually, Ratz
gave in and shrank back a little from the bar.

	'Alright, psycho, you'll get your drink.  But I remember what happened
to your sister before they took you away, too, and you don't remember me if you
think I'll give the corps a name for the asking.'

	'Kong!' shrieked the girl with the shades.  Adam glanced over to the
game, and watched her lay out the tiles one by one, a kong of one bamboo, four
brilliantly coloured ricebirds peering out of the resin.  North wind's face was
a mask of suppressed indignation - more than Adam could understand, even if he
had made the discard.  The girl shone a beaming smile over the bar.  Then south
said 'mahjong' in a quiet voice, tipping over the two and three of bamboo
before he reached over to rob the kong.  The girl's jaw dropped six inches, and
the four of them set about the scoring and exchange of money. When Adam looked
back, Ratz was holding out a bottle of the same old Indian beer he had always
drunk.

	'I'm hiring, Ratz, not hunting.  And I drink German these days.'

	'I do not mind what you drink, psycho, if you pay and drink up, and
don't come back.  But I will not help you find them, whoever they may be.'  Ratz
shrugged, and then winced slightly at the crunch from his artificial arm.

	'Okay.  But if you happen to know of someone who has a way with a
keyboard, and wants a bit of cash, have them get in touch with me at this drop.'

	He pulled out a number on a square of white card, wrapped up in a few
rupees. Ratz passed over a bottle of lager, and took the card resignedly.

	As he left the bar, he glanced over at the girl's hand.  She was trying
for Thirteen Unique Wonders.

	Outside, the street still bustled.  He tuned out the memories and called
up a purposeful walk and fierce stare from the MTC training.  Taxis didn't pick
up much in the New Quarter, and he wouldn't be safe until he was out of it.

				******

	Malone waited for the alarm - he always waited for the alarm.  Once it
hadn't gone off, and he'd watched as the sun slowly lit the mirror over the bed,
from darkness to a dark blot on the pillow and two dark sticks heading south
over green silk.  He'd spent the time worrying, trying to remember what his
face looked like.  Was it smooth and boyish fresh, with dark curly hair and
a straight nose under the green eyes?  Did he still have that scar that made him
look tough?  It had been a shock to see it when the light finally crept over
the bed, an old man's face patterned over with thin lines, like a child
scrawling with a hard pencil.  A face they'd given him for undercover.

	There was a click and the disc started.  He counted the bars and flung
the cover aside on the fourth, rolling out into firing stance with the gun from
under his pillow.

	'See that laser girl - she's lookin' good,
	 See that laser girl - red hot for blood,
	 See that laser girl - dressed for despair,
	 See that laser girl - she's something rare.'

	He slipped on his silver shirt and the holster, and covered them with
a pale blue suit.  Over by the sink, he shaved carefully.  His face was
rugged, and the black hair grew fast - he didn't quite know his way around it
yet.  Looking up into the mirror, he decided to try the scar again.  And blue
eyes definitely weren't him.

	Over on the table, he started laying out his stuff and checking it
against the list.













	Second story:
			Live Electric

			=============


	'Running on the power of a stolen mandolin - steal a little
		inspiration, steal a little muscle'

			- Jethro Tull

			****************


	Black as night, sweet as love and hot as hell.  Turkish coffee was
the only vice Suzanne allowed herself.  She was alone in the cafe, lured in by
the prospect of quick service and the promise of the waiter's dark eyes from
beneath the street overhang.

	The room was already hot - blissfully so after the icy, air-conditioned
car - and filled with the scent of spices and strong coffee.  A sleepy insect
buzz filtered across from the counter.  She allowed her eyes to drift over to
the bell glass where a lone wasp struggled vainly to reach a pile of seductive
little iced pastries.  To one side, the waiter stood attentive guard over the
coffee, watching her from over his neat moustache.  The blush of sunburn stood
out on his left cheek.

	Suzanne gave him a smile and thought for a moment as he smiled back,
averting his eyes almost shyly but without quite enough speed.  She could take
another three quarters of an hour without risking being late at Leipzig.  If
she risked a thousand Deutschmark Strafe, she could take one and a half hours.

	'Herr Ober!  Noch einmal Kaffee, bitte!  Ich will auch ... zwei Kuchen!'

			*************************

	The day had been ordinary so far, which meant bad and getting worse.
The sky was naked to the sun, and Dieter, since Hans had stolen his last
allcover, was cowering in the shade of the street overhang.

	Looking down at the grey paving slab, he saw one of the last October
wasps half mired in a patch of gum.  He squashed it for no particular reason
and wiped the stickiness off on the slab.  The movement sent another wave
of pain through his stomach, and he sank to the ground where there would be
some shade from a cafe sign.

	'I hate you, Hans.  I'm gonna shove that allcover so far down your
throat they'll have to take it out the other end.'

	It helped a little. Delicious, scary images of Hans, tied down and
being force-fed metres of green plastic, played across the pink inside of his
eyelids.  Dieter let them play until the first prickles of sunburn started on
his face.  As he got up, he saw the car.

	It was obviously a Wessi car - that or foreign.  The long, sleek sides
were covered with a dark green metallic paint that shone unbearably wherever
the sun caught it.  'Volkswagen Nirvana' read the label - one of the export
models.  He wondered if the gentle orange upholstery was real leather.

	A car like that, left alone in a deserted street, was begging to be
stolen.  The owner was probably in the cafe, though, and the alarm would
bring him out in seconds.  Dieter wasn't quick enough to manage it - but he
wasn't about to leave the Nirvana without giving it a good look over.

			*************************

	The waiter's name turned out to be Manfred.  Suzanne had to suppress an
urge to giggle at him - the name seemed outrageously small for those burning
brown eyes.  It should have been an exotic, Arabic name or else a wonderful
open-voweled German monosyllable.  She let him prattle on about how the
honeyed pastries were made for a while.

	He started to demonstrate the folding of the pastry with a napkin.
Suzanne noted that he had nice hands - small and clean, with well manicured,
nimble fingers.  That was enough to make her decision - Manfred would be a good
enough catch for a boring afternoon.  She leaned a little closer and allowed
their eyes to meet.  He paused in his speech for a moment and then smiled a
little more broadly.

	'Langweilen Sie sich, gnaedige Frau?'

	'Du darfst mich duzen, Manfred.  Und red' mich als Suzanne an!'

	Manfred beamed pleasingly at her, and held her gaze.  She was almost
disappointed that it was going so easily.

	'Gerne, Suzanne.  Wir schliessen aber waehrend des Siesta von...'

	He looked theatrically at his watch.  Suzanne suddenly noticed a shiny,
taut patch of skin across the knuckles of his left hand.

	'14:20 bis...'

	He smiled, looking up at her in a vaguely calculating way.  She was
pleased to still see the same smouldering heat in his eyes, though perhaps it
was a little diminished.  The pause grew a little too long, and she realised
that she was supposed to finish the sentence - or rather, the "contract" between
them.

	'...15:30 Uhr, glaube ich.  Gefaellt das dir?'

	The answering kiss was slightly too hard but that didn't matter -
Manfred tasted of Turkish coffee.  He had hardly begun when he pulled away
sharply, as if he had been stung, and stared over at the window.  Suzanne had
to quell an urge to slap him for ignoring her.

	Following his gaze, she looked out over the green and orange livery of
her car to the far side of the blazing street.  There was a boy there, a scrawny
little maggot in dirty brown leathers, with a Niteglow tube around his wrist.
He was staring in at them with a curious intensity.

	'Entschuldigung, Suzanne.  Wir schliessen jetzt.'

	Manfred stalked over to the front of the cafe and drew the blinds down
vigorously.  Suzanne watched him with rapt attention as he bent to turn the
sign to 'SIESTA'.

			************************

	The glaring waiter was just begging for the knowing grin that Dieter
gave him as he yanked down the cafe blinds.  Once he was shut out of the cosy
little scene, Dieter returned his attention to the Nirvana.  Manfred was a
talented shark, and the owner would be occupied for about a half hour if he
was running true to form.  Dieter remembered betting with Hans and the gang
about Manfred's 'take' for the week and grimaced.

	It wasn't safe to go too close, let alone touch the thing.  A car like
that would have a proximity detector and might be able to electrify its
bodywork.  Deiter sidled up to it, as if walking past, running his eyes over
the smooth metallic paint.  He glanced in through the window - the upholstery
really was leather.  Nice.  Then he saw _it_.

	The sight of it shook him so much that he almost stalled next to the
Nirvana, almost stopped to stare in through the windows, which would have been
fatal.  Instead, he managed to carry himself out beyond range of the proximity
detector, to collapse contemplatively under the overhang.

	An electric guitar, lying on the back seat of the Nirvana.  A beautiful
electric, all shining steel and glass and black plastic.  If he couldn't steal
the Nirvana, surely he could steal that.  He tried to work out how much it
would be worth, but his head was spinning.  He didn't want to sell it, he
wanted to own it, to hold it and play it.

	All his life, Dieter had wanted a good electric.  He had a synth, of
course, and he had managed to pull together enough money to buy an ancient
acoustic on the Xnet, but what he really wanted was an electric.  A synth
had the power, but it was just too easy.  If anyone can play an instrument,
noone can play it.  You couldn't get any life from a synth, not even if you
played punk in a Turkish market.  An acoustic was the other way - all so
fine and thin, always threatening to die on you.  And here was this beautiful
electric - how was he going to get it?

	It would take a really big bash to get through the glass, which was
certainly toughened and probably bullet proof.  He needed something heavy with
a bit of a point.  He looked at the Nirvana again.  Whatever he used had better
not conduct electricity, he decided, and he might need to swing it more than
once.

			************************

	It's dark.  I'm dreaming.

	The world is brilliant grey, a neon freezer.  My white allcover is
too thin to keep the cold out.  The light is too bright and there isn't
enough of it.

	I'm walking.  I think I'm dreaming.

	The tunnel is grey tiles.  The walkway is stained with smoke and
vomit.  To my right, there is a black void, and the smell of oil.

	I hear voices.  I must be dreaming.

	I can only see their faces.  One by one they walk towards me, a
steady ribbon.  I know each and I've never seen them before.  The announcer
calls out instructions.

	I'm crying.  I hope I'm dreaming.

	She's been proud, kept herself well.  Not wealthy, but knows how to
spend it.  We're both mistaken.  The announcer garbles 'strangle', so I do.
Her sad eyes turn blank as she falls into the void.

	My shins ache from the kicks.  Am I dreaming?

	He's a bully with the breaks and cruel with booze.