>From: antischutz@st1.vuw.ac.nz
Subject: The Killing Edge, Part 1 (Introduction to Rachel)
Date: 21 Aug 91 10:47:40 GMT

The Killing Edge Part 1 (of 3 projected)
An Introduction to Rachel

   The buzzer rang, penetrating Rachel's daze. Another night snatching at
rest, her body telling her to sleep, her subconcious telling her to wake.
She felt something approaching while slipping off, some change which would
affect her, something that would kick away the shaky foundations of the
life she had built for herself. She didn't know what. She never knew what.
   She looked at the crude wiring across the room. The telltales gleamed
green, indicating that no-one had tripped her clumsy alarms. In the Sprawl
you took what protection you could get. Still, she felt no danger, despite
the nagging worry of a vague threat in the future. Pulling on a kimono,
and grabbing for a handgun, she padded to the door.
   "What ?"
   "Rachel ? Need to talk."
   Shit. Woodsmoke. Just who she needed. He may run the local turf, a
defacto landlord, but Rachel disliked dealing with him. She sensed that his
devil-may-care attitude hid a more lazy nature. She couldn't afford lazy,
not in people her life may depend on, but equally she couldn't afford not
to cope with him. The Baggers ran this area, and the protection they gave
allowed her to feel as safe as she ever did.
   She opened the door, moving aside to let Woodsmoke stride into the room.
The bastard walked as if he owned the place. It was her home, her gear was
scattered around. It was bare, a simple wooden floor, and what little she
had was scuffed, old. But functional. Always functional. And she made sure
she could relocate at a moments notice.
   As he sat, his eyes crawled over her. She pulled the kimono tighter and
wished she could return to bed. More sleep was what she needed.
   "Need your help. Got something being setup, want someone who can handle
themselves, and knows the East Greenway area."
   And of course she did. She had lived there for 6 months, and as Woodsmoke
well knew, she always scouted out areas she stayed in. It had given the
Baggers great amusement to watch her scrambling over roofs, and checking
drains. Bastards were young, secure in themselves. Although not much older,
she was years ahead of them. She had found at an early age that there was no
real security, no-one you could depend on but yourself, nothing you had that
couldn't be taken away from you.
   "What ? Don't expect me to help in any games you running gainst the Blues.
I can't afford it. No wet-work, no crime, and NO bullshit Woodsmoke. You want
my help, tell me straight."
   "Relax. It affects the Blues, corporate hit, but you not involved. We is
gonna take down a shipment for a Johnson, we want someone who knows the area
to provide a watch-out, serve as a commo link. Wednesday night. Easy."
   "Overwatch ? You want a sniper ?"
   "Take a gun, sure, but you half a click from the action. Baggers do the
work, Baggers take the grief, you does your bit, and we give you some sugar.
Johnson told us what was shipping, we take it, we get out. Not a problem."
   Yeah, she had heard that before. But she had little choice. This area was
as good as any she had passed through recently, and she was tired of moving.
She needed to stay in one place for a while, needed to feel the pavement
stationary beneath her feet. And besides, she had nothing going in the next
week. She could do with some cash.
   Depending on a rogue talent was not a winning game. But there looked like
little danger. If Woodsmoke didn't have his head up his ass. She'd make sure
to badger him today until he gave out details, go over the gang members who'd
be doing it, the plans and counter-plans. She'd been burnt before on contracts
from corporates, but she was out of the way this time.
   Yeah, why not ?

More to come.
copyright 1991 Tony Quirke.
Any characters used in this are my own imagination (although Rachel should be
thought of as looking like Melanie Griffith in "Cherry 2000" 8-) ). Should you
wish to use any of them, please email me. Rachel is available for hire, but
she prefers bodyguard work. She's good at it too.

--
Tony Quirke c/o ANTISCHUTZ(Christian Grams), antischutz@ST4.VUW.AC.NZ (or ST1)
"If I only could, I'd make a deal with God, and I'd get him to swap our places"
"Be running up that road, be running up that hill, with no problems..." K Bush


From: antischutz@st1.vuw.ac.nz
Subject: The Killing Edge, Part 2 (The Best Laid Plans...)
Date: 21 Aug 91 10:50:07 GMT

The Killing Edge Part 2 (of 3 projected)
The Best Laid Plans...

   Wednesday evening. A slight drizzle making things difficult. Still able
to see through to where the team was prepared though. Just had to look out
for the equipment. Electronics, and her weapons, were wrapped in plastic
where possible.
   Old apartment house roof. She'd been here earlier, checked out the fire
escape and internal stairways. When she had lived in this area, there had
been people here, as the smell of old urine attested. But the damp and the
thrill-kill gangs had driven them away. The gangs didn't bother the roads
though. The Blues got interested if they did. Fucking corporate cops only
gave a shit about the paying customers.
   Cheap Russian FM equipment. Woodsmoke supplied it, told her it would
work. She had to babysit it, stick what couldn't be wrapped under a
groundsheet to keep the rain off it. It was crap. Still, it should survive
tonight, which was all she was worried about. Ferroconcrete and steel
buildings made a relay necessary. Woodsmoke had decided to go for the human
touch rather than just an electronic echo. Lucky her.
   "Hammer to Madonna. Radio Check."
   "Piss off Woodsmoke. It was going 5 minutes ago, it's going now."
   "Now, now, Rachel. Just see if you're still talking to the boys. Humor
me, ok ?"
   "Madonna to DMC. The Boss is getting broody and wants to know if you
turkeys got your act together."
   "DMC to Madonna. Sure. We's just sitting here jerking off. Want to come
and help ?"
   Everyone's a comedian nowadays. Still, Rachel could still feel that
nagging worry. With a sinking feeling she wondered if it could be this
little operation that could be slated to go sour. Woodsmoke's Johnson had
said light security, two guards, one driver, not looking for trouble. She
didn't have much faith in Johnsons, but it seemed like a legit setup.
   "Hammer to Madonna. Party time. We got it coming in, armor but no
weapons just as the doctor ordered. Tell the boys to get ready."
   "Madonna to DMC. Get your hands off your dicks, and get ready. Here they
come."
   Rachel peered through the binocs. Pretty good view, but this was her own
gear, not more of Woodsmoke's factory seconds. She had a IR enhancement to
her eye, but couldn't afford anything that she could use reliably through
binocs. Drizzle would have degraded it anyhow. She could hear nothing on the
AM monitor, but that just meant the Blues weren't using it.
   The van approached. As it reached the ambush site, an explosion bounced
it. The tires may have been armored, but they couldn't handle the plastique
hidden in the road. Flat tire and the road in front of it was cut up. No way
past that unless they got out to work. The Bagger team set off the AM jammer,
cutting the van off from communications. Two of them went to threaten the
driver, the other three clustered around the back. The Blues musta been
rattled, and the boys would give them a chance to surrender. They had a
cutter, and superior firepower, so there -
   Fuck. The driver's door flew open, and Rachel heard a thin rattle through
the radio. Silenced automatic, perhaps gauss. One of the boys went down
without a sound. The other screamed till another burst hit him in the head.
   The three at the back scattered and moved to cover the front. Rachel
screamed into the radio "Watch the back" but too late. That door also flew
open, and two figures emerging, gracefully rolling onto the road, and firing
single bursts directly into the boys. They went down without a reply. Rachel's
blood chilled.
   "Madon -". Shit, wrong channel. The figures appeared to notice the cut-off
transmission and looked around. Two more were emerging from the rear, and one
from the front. They were dressed in black, including their faces. They didn't
see anything, and returned to poking at the Bagger's bodies.
   "Madonna to Hammer. Emergency. Your boys just got wasted."
   "What the fuck do you mean wasted, Rache ?"
   "Wasted, Woodsmoke ! They got their bloody asses kicked. I don't know who
those Blues are, but they are NOT security types. They had their act together
and they fucking well blew your people to pieces."
   "Shi - Are they all gone ?"
   Rachel looked again. The Blues had the bodies lined up and were searching
them. She could see two going through the pockets, while one stood guard. The
others had to be off finding the jammer.
   "Yeah. None of your guys made it. I'm telling you, these shitheads had
their routines pat. They're elites, man. I'm still watching out".
   The AM Jammer stopped. Through the monitor Rachel heard a situation report
in Japanese going out. She watched as two of them replaced the tire and lay
rubble in the road ahead. Two others were watching, submachine guns in hand,
and the fifth was at the wheel. They all got back in, she was watching
carefully, and the van departed.
   "Madonna to Hammer. They gone. Fixed up the van and took off. I tell you,
these -"
   Nerves screamed. Rachel's adrenalin pumped as she twisted away , bringing
her head back. A sword flashed through the air her neck had occupied a moment
before. She hadn't heard him, hadn't felt him approach. Somehow he had erased
himself from her peripheral awareness, and only her rogue talent had saved her.
The sword hit concrete nearby and Rachel back-kicked a heel into his mid-
section. It rocked him, sprawling him backwards, but Rachel had felt the body
armor beneath the black garment. She dived for the stairwell, knowing that she
couldn't deal with him here, couldn't guarantee disabling him with only her
automatic, couldn't take the time to grab her shotgun.
   He was better than her. He had the killing edge.
   And she was in deep trouble.


To be continued (In the Killing Edge part 3)
Copyright (c) Tony Quirke 1991. All characters come from my imagination, and
from what those little voices tell me to write. If you want to use them,
email me and we'll arrange something. Rachel is for hire, preferably as a
bodyguard, assuming she gets out of this alive.

--
Tony Quirke c/o ANTISCHUTZ(Christian Grams), antischutz@ST4.VUW.AC.NZ (or ST1)
"If I only could, I'd make a deal with God, and I'd get him to swap our places"
"Be running up that road, be running up that hill, with no problems..." K Bush


From: antischutz@st1.vuw.ac.nz
Subject: The Killing Edge, Part 3 (The Killing Edge)
Date: 22 Aug 91 07:01:43 GMT

The Killing Edge Part 3 (And an epilogue to come)
The Killing Edge

   The ache of overstressed muscles is like a cello, soft and low and always
with you. A tendon complaining is like a flute, high, sharp. A body in motion
is a symphony of sensation.
   Rachel's was a rock concert.
   Speed and reactions, the twin moons that determined the tides of her life.
She was fast, a heritage of genes, and conditioning that was second nature.
She had a nerve booster, a chip implanted in her spine. It was out-moded, if
she could have afforded to get better she would have. That and the eye were
all she had, in a world with human enhancement getting better and better.
Those that could afford it could transform their bodies into machines, with
reaction times in the microsecond range, legs that could pump for ever. Add
that to training, discipline, the myriad arts of combat and you had a killer,
matchless, unable to be taken on by one such as her.
   Someone such as the man behind her.
   Rachel pounded down the stairs, not so much running as falling with her
feet fighting gravity. She jumped, rolled, her thoughts leading ahead of her
body, towards an exit. An escape.
   But only up to a point. If the man behind her was the killer she thought he
was, he would pursue. And he would catch her.

   Tadashi recovered, rolling back and accepting the impact. The gaijin moved
down the stairwell, and he followed. She was fast, this street rat, and she
had won a breathing space. Yet he was faster, and would hunt her down.
   He smiled to himself as his body fell into a natural rhythm. They called
themselves "street samurai" these trash. But the samurai had fallen, while he
and his had prospered. He would enjoy bringing the hunt to the hunter, preying
on such as she.
   The gaijin had run out an open doorway. He grudgingly gave her credit for
having prepared an escape route. He came to the door, and saw the open drain.
The sound of flowing water below was disturbed by a new splashing sound. The
"samurai" was in a panic, moving through the water in a wasteful and tiring
pace. He let himself into the sewer, activating his thermographic eyes to cut
through the blackness, and continued the pursuit.

   Thinking. Breath shouts in your ears, your heart is felt throughout your
body, yet it is the brain that determines whether you live or die. All combat
is first fought in the mind. Panic leads to death.
   Rachel was not in mindless flight. She knew herself, knew what she was
capable of. She guessed at what her opponant was capable of, compared the two
and found herself lacking. To go up against him, either with guns or hand to
hand, was death. The tunnel here was winding, cutting back and forth. She was
running down it and he was unable to fire at her. But it inevitably led to
larger tunnels, straighter. She had studied these a year ago, moving through
them. But she could not see a way to avoid the straight areas.
   She fell into a more comfortable run. pacing her self, and conserving her
energy. She had a single handgun, wrapped in plastic with an airspace so the
trigger could move. A silencer, also wrapped in plastic. Two spare clips, a
knife. The sawn-off was left behind. Against a man in body armor, she could
be sure of killing only with a head shot. And long before that happened, he
would have snuffed out her life. THINK dammit.
   An answer ? A possibility dredged from her memory of the sewer area she
was running toward. Small, very small, but she felt the first rasp in her
lungs, and knew her options were running out. As she ran, she began to strip
the plastic from the silencer.

   Tadashi followed. He was getting closer. He could see the disturbed water
she had ran through, sometimes still catch the heat traces of her breath. But
the sound of water was getting louder, louder than the stream they ran through
could account for.
   There, ahead. The tunnel exited into a far larger conduit, with a pathway
above the waterline. The water was no longer a stream, but a river. Tadashi
carefully looked in both directions, seeing the gaijin running faster, turning
a corner in the pathway. Tadashi knew that the pace she was setting would wear
her out in a short period. He felt her panic, her fear, and knew with a certain
compassion that she had nearly run herself out. He ran, still pacing himself
towards the curve.
   No sign of her. Tadashi briefly considered the water, but her head would
still be visible to his thermographs. If she had given herself to the current,
she would almost certainly be dead. He cautiously moved down the pathway,
staying away from the edge where the water had eaten at the concrete.
   There. Another feeder tunnel, and from it's mouth he saw heat radiating. A
body, standing there, trying to control it's panting and panic would produce
such heat. He slowed, moving closer. As he reached the right point, his hand
moved to a hidden pocket. A mini-grenade flew towards the tunnel mouth, and
Tadashi squinted his eyes to protect from the flash. Shrapnel rained the
feeder tunnel, and Tadashi sprung forward, submachine gun in hand, to cover
   Nothing !
   Tadashi felt a movement behind him. He tried to turn, tried to spin, but
was rocked by blows to his body armor. A brief pain as a bullet lashed at his
arm, and then the world turned brilliant white, and then instantly black.

   Rachel pulled herself, shivering, from the water. The current had torn at
her, but she had gripped the concrete. She had placed her trust in the
overhang and the cold rush to hide her, and used the silencer to allow her
head to remain underwater, breathing through it. Not very well, she thought
as she coughed out the water swallowed, but it worked. As she had seen the
flash and heard the muted thump of the grenade, she had swiftly emerged and
pumped the clip into her pursuer.
   She hoped he was dead. Wrapped in plastic as it was, there was no way to
replace the clip, and she threw the handgun onto the pathway, drawing her
knife as she moved towards the prone body. A useless gesture if he was faking
death, but the only one she could make.
   No need. A bullet had entered his face, moving back and killing him in an
instant. She turned and retched, telling herself that it was because of the
water. Although she had killed to survive before, deriving a living from the
acceptance of violence, she was still uneasy with the results of her actions.
She pushed the nausea aside, burying it under a blanket of unnatural calm, and
squeezed a light stick to supply a dim green glow.
   She glanced into the tunnel beside the corpse. Hot water, from God only
knew where, leaked out of a small pipe. It had been doing so for years, as the
algae build up testified. Rachel suspected it came from a hidden area somewhere
above, but those who had constant electricity in the Sprawl did not appreciate
inquiries. When she had first explored this area, she too had been fooled into
suspecting a lurker. Those who put their faith in tech such as IR detectors
had better be aware of the limitations.
   As she had thought, the hunter had been carrying much of the latest tech.
Even the sword appeared to have a carbon filiament epoxy for a blade, sharper
and tougher than any normal alloy. Although she could expect only a small
percentage of it's true worth, the street markets would supply her with quite
a lot for what she could carry out, enough to replace the abandoned equipment
and far more besides. She sliced open the black suit, looking under the body
armour. And froze.
   Covering the skin of the arms were intricate tattoes, snaking up to join
a design on the back. Although she could not see his legs or buttocks, she
knew they must too be covered in the designs. She snatched at his left hand,
to find the two upper joints of the little finger missing.
   Which meant ...

   The Bagger shouted at her "Where the fuck you think you going ?"
   Rachel didn't stop in her packing. Get the gear, re-arm, put it on the
Patriot. "I told you, the guys who offed your team were Yaks. Tell Woodsmoke
when he gets back. Better still, get the hell out of here. They don't hold
grudges, but they will be looking to make a short sharp example of the
Baggers."
   The Bagger blustered. "So YOU say. Fuck off then, Woodsmoke ain't gonna
think you so flash, pissing off just cause you yellow-shit."
   Rachel didn't reply. She had come to the conclusion that the only Baggers
left here were the brain-dead. If the Yaks hit this place, all they would get
would be the poor bloody squatters around this area. She didn't let herself
think on that. Just survive. That's all.

   And as the roar of her Patriot filled a lighted and relatively safe
roadway, she heard the faint sound of automatic fire from behind. And turning,
she saw a red glow reflecting off the low overcast a click away. Where she had
forgotten herself enough to call a rundown shack home. Another quick, sharp
object lesson. Such as the powerful always give to those who interfere with
their plans.
   And she told herself that the water in her eyes was due to the wind and
rain.

Copyright (c) Tony Quirke 1991. All characters are from my imagination (and,
yes, Woodsmoke DID survive). If you want to write about what was in the van,
or why the Yakuza were transporting it, or who hired a bunch of amatuer gang
members to try and hijack it, go ahead. If you want to use Rachel (available
for hire in a bar very nearby 8-) ), email me and we'll sort it out. But read
the Epilogue coming up soon...

--
Tony Quirke c/o ANTISCHUTZ(Christian Grams), antischutz@ST4.VUW.AC.NZ (or ST1)
"If I only could, I'd make a deal with God, and I'd get him to swap our places"
"Be running up that road, be running up that hill, with no problems..." K Bush


From: antischutz@st1.vuw.ac.nz
Subject: The Killing Edge, Epilogue
Date: 22 Aug 91 07:22:22 GMT

The Killing Edge
Epilogue

   He watched her. She had paid in advance, and he liked customers that did
that. She was carrying, as did most who entered here, but she had a sawn-off
shotgun hanging under her arm, hidden by a coat. He hadn't seen many people
adopting that particular fashion, and it either bespoke an extreme crudeness
or a recognition of the elegance of brute force at times. He didn't think she
was crude.
   The flatscreen blared. An announcer was commenting on the violence in the
East Sprawl that night, describing the incident as "another gang war" and
pushing the estimate of the bodycount to over 40. Someone at another table
guffawed loudly "There goes my entry in the lottery", and he saw her wince
and close her eyes as if to fight off a headache. He knew the hallmarks of
gang fighting, and this looked more like a corporation job, teaching the gangs
their place. He walked towards her.
   "You want anything else ?"
   "No, I think I've drunk enough for one night"
   Attractive piece too. Red hair. Not striking though, a little too round for
that. She didn't look like the latest hot body-type. Moved well, gracefully.
The handgun at her belt was enough warning to keep the hustlers off. Samauri
was his bet.
   "Still got eight fifty left"
   "Give me five. Keep the rest yourself"
   "Thanks. Mucho gracias"
   Funny accent though. Almost corporate, but if so, she had been speaking in
the streets for a long time. It was only because she was tired that he had
noticed it. She looked around. Another typical night.
   "Get a lot of transactions, biz going through here ?"
   "Quite a bit, yeah"
   "Might be back. Need a new place to be seen in"

   As Rachel walked back to the coffin hotel nearby, she looked up. The rain
had stopped, and a rare patch in the smog that always covered the city had
appeared. The stars gleamed hard and bright against the sky, and Rachel
whispered to herself:
   "Yeah. Getting closer"
   And walked on.

Copyright (c) 1991 Tony Quirke. If you want to hire Rachel, send me some email
and we'll sort something out. She prefers bodyguard work.

--
Tony Quirke c/o ANTISCHUTZ(Christian Grams), antischutz@ST4.VUW.AC.NZ (or ST1)
"If I only could, I'd make a deal with God, and I'd get him to swap our places"
"Be running up that road, be running up that hill, with no problems..." K Bush