From: apd@math.ufl.edu (Alexander P Durham)
Subject: STORY/IDEA: Golem.part1
Date: 2 Sep 93 18:31:26 GMT

I decided to post the first part to rgfc too, to try to drag more ppl
to the Chat.

So here we go, a rather improvised effort on my part, to explore two character
concepts. I wouldn't mind cooperation, comments, etc, though the characters
are mine and shouldn't be mutilated without my permission. Anyway, the story
thread is called "Golem." The first post introduces some characters.

				Golem

		by Jeremy Lakatos (apd@math.ufl.edu)

Copyright 1993 Jeremy Lakatos and all that legalistic crap.

Part 1:

The girl was young, about 13. She wore a shapeless grey sweatshirt, several
sizes too large, and nothing else it seemed. What she was doing in
the Unicorn was a mystery, until you looked into her eyes. Then it was
a total mystery. Her eyes showed a control only achieved with great
age, along with an innocence unattainable by children these days.

The girl stepped from the doorway into the dive proper. Her long brown hair
was matted with grime, her pale skin visible in spots through dirt-filled
scratches and drawn tight with hunger. The shirt looked like it had been
dragged from a dumpster. Likely was.

She spoke in an emotionless voice--"This person needs help. She needs a
place to sleep and food to eat. Please help her."--and waited. The bar
patrons ignored her, going about their drunken business. One man stood,
however, always ready to help a young girl in distress.

His chains, steel with zinc plating, jingled as he separated himself
from his fellow gangers. The fat man pushed through the crowd toward
the door.

Uh oh, Elvis thought as he logged off of the Net and thrust his pocket
comp into his pocket. He got up and circled to the edge of the bar.

The fat man crouched in front of the girl and put his hands on her
shoulders. "Do you need help? Here, come with me." He smiled as the
girl looked into his eyes.

Suddenly the man was on the flo coughing up blood, the girl backed into
a fighting crouch. The gangers surged to their feet and Elvis started
running.

"Please don't kill me," he mumbled as he ran to the girl and caught her
under his arm. He dived out the door into the night, left and out of the
light into the LA smog. He stumbled, dropping the girl. He didn't hear
her hit the ground. Elvis tried to peer into the dark.

"Take Tarmissa's hand," came her voice from the pitch as a hand was placed
in his. "Follow." She started pulling him forward.

Someone was going to be pissed. Elvis was supposed to meet someone
who was interested in hiring him for a slightly low-key job. Elvis
would have never come to this part of town otherwise, across the sludge
river from the slums, much more upscale. Though you could not see it in
the night, beyond a stand of mid-range apartment buildings six miles away
stood the bright lights of Sony Inc. Elvis couldn't see his proverbial hand
in front of his proverbial face right now, though the girl seemed
unimpaired. What the hell?

"Down." The girl pulled Elvis under what felt like a flipped car from
an accident earlier that day or week. A piece of sharp metal cut a track
down the side of his face but the girl put her hand over his mouth to
keep him quiet.

Blood ran down the side of Elvis's face as he flicked a crawling roach
off his hand and pulled out his pocket computer. IBM. Sure, they
built crap, but better than the crap the corps sold today. Elvis turned
on the computer under his coat, located his position by satellite, and
called a cab.

Soon, the Armored Cab arrived and Elvis and the girl--Tarmissa, she said--
got into the back seat--more like a padded cell. Elvis told the cab to take
them to his studio.

"So, where did you escape from?"

Silence.

"Oh please. You can't tell me you are just some kid run away from home
or some outcast juveganger. You've done crap a sammie would be hard
put to do."

More silence. Tarmissa looked at Elvis with unfocused gaze, like she
didn't care about his saving her life, his help, anything in the
world.

"Okay, I'll shut up now."

Elvis shut up. Tarmissa watched Elvis watch Tarmissa watch Elvis watch
Tarmissa for the rest of the ride home.

The cab arrived at Elvis's studio. Elvis took his card from the cab's
slot and led Tarmissa up to his seventh floor apartment. They called
it a studio, and Elvis guessed it was rather large. 3 meters by 3 meters
by 2.8 meters, though mostly filled with electronic junk. The only
furniture was a chair, a desk, and a bed platform above the bed.

"Ah, home sweet home. Let's see what I can find for you to wear."
Elvis ruffled through the crate with his clothes in it and caught
his image in the mirror. Same as always. Bony face, spiky brown
hair, long sideburns, plastic cokebottle glasses, long bloody gash
from eyebrow to chin. Okay, maybe not that long, though still pretty
bloody.

"Ah, here you go. Best I got." Elvis fished out one of his smaller T-Shirts,
proudly proclaiming "I got lost down the Infinite Corridor and all I got
was this lousy T-shirt," and a pair of belted shorts. He looked over
at Tarmissa--she hadn't moved since she entered the room. "You see
something you don't like?"

"This person sees no problems."

"Ooookayyy. Well, saving you turned a deal cold, and so I'm rather short on
yen right now, and probably will be for some time. You need to
wash that grime off you, and so do I, but I only have enough money
for three minutes. Looks like we'll have to share the same water. Do you
mind?"

Tarmissa looked at him that way again, like he was a chimp.

"I guess not. Well, follow me, then."

Elvis took Tarmissa downstairs to the pay shower. The room stank--they
only cleaned the place once a week. Tarmissa took off her sweatshirt
and stepped into the shower stall. Elvis slipped out of his sequined
white jumpsuit, trying to be as collected as she and failing. He ran
his card through a slot, set the shower for three minutes, and nervously
stepped in.

Elvis pushed the start button and hot water filled the .75 meter square
cubicle. There was no room to do more than stand and let the water wash
the dirt and dried blood through the grated floor.

Click. Elvis stepped out of the shower, towelled off, and put on a clean
white jumpsuit. Tarmissa, still wet, put on the borrowed clothes. Clean,
she looked no longer the street urchin. More like a runaway from a
rich home.

Except the eyes.

"It's dangerous having you out here," Elvis said. He hurried Tarmissa
up to his studio before he met one of LA's regulars. Up at his room
he threw the dirty clothes on the pile and turned on the CD player. Dream
Theater. All the best songs are from 30-40 years ago, the late 20th century.
Too bad they can only be found on Compact Disk. The quality of the media is
rather low but the quality of the music is unbeatable. Elvis sat for a
minute, enjoying the melodic metal music.

"Hungry?" Elvis asked unnecessarily. He was starved himself. No reaction
from the girl though. She moved with a perfect grace as she meticulously
examined each piece of miscellaneous hardware which filled the room. Well,
at least she seemed interested in something. Elvis found himself watching
her for several minutes. He shook himself and put three packs of noodles
in the microwave with some bottled water--he usually only ate one for
dinner, hence his gauntness, but he for once considered someone else
above himself. Gotta stop doing that.

Ding. Elvis took the bowl of ramen from the microwave and pulled out
another paper bowl and two plastic forks. "Tarmissa?" She looked up.
"Dinner." Elvis motioned with a fork. She came over and ate the ramen,
and when she was done she returned to examining the equipment, eventually
ending with the workhorse computer on the desk, Elvis's Amiga 7500C
RISC booktop computer, from 1998, Elvis' birthdate. He was 24.

Elvis was busy on the IBM palmtop, trying to convince Cuisinart that
he had been forced away by unforseen circumstances and that he was
still the best for the job. It did not go well, though at least he
kept on good terms. Elvis sighed as he folded the computer up.

"You can look at the computer tomorrow, Tarmissa. Please, it's time to
go to sleep."

That uncomprehending look again.

"Um, I don't think I introduced myself. I'm Elvis. The King, you know....
Maybe not. Well, you can take the bed. I'll move some equipment and make
room on the floor, okay?"

"Elvis, why is everything in here out of date?"

"What? Out of date? Why, this stuff is far superior to the crap that the
corps put out today. Technology is obsolete in weeks instead of months,
so they don't need robustness in production. The corps make me sick.
Don't get me started. Tomorrow. Sleep. Okay?"

"Yes."

Tarmissa climbed into the bed and Elvis turned off the fluorescent lamp.
He stared at the darkness, listening to the music until he fell asleep.

	"...God give me the power to take breath from a breeze
	And call life from a cold metal frame..."