From: friedman@wizard.cis.ohio-state.edu (Mark "Crimson" Friedman)
Subject: Klone Crimson's Unity.Leftovers
Date: 18 Nov 92 00:18:22 GMT

Well, I haven't posted a new "21st Century Schizoid Man" issue in, oh,
about 3 months now.  Kinda sad at that, since everyone was really up
for it when I was still writing...

In the meantime, I sorta fell into the Legion of Net.Heroes by
accident (check out alt.comics.lnh, eh?).  That was a lot of fun.  I
also joined the Internet Comic Writers' Workshop and have been slowly
(but surely) hammering out my project: "Starplot".  That's a lot of
fun too, but I'm starting to feel guilty about neglecting the folks
here at Chatsubo...

So here's a leftover that I found tucked away, compressed in a
directory.  It was my contribution to the big ol' Unity.* crossover
that several writers jumped into a while back (hey Tim, guys and
goils!).  Anyway, my part never saw "print", since the project was
sort of short circuited by conflicting time commitments.  Oh well, it
was fun while it lasted...

So here's that story-bit that I wrote for it.  Heck, I haven't even
resolved it yet, but it's an interesting read nonetheless.  For those
of you 3oaPP and 21CSM, this starts off in tandem with 21CSM issue 1,
but then diverges to a time 20 years later (after 21CSM and even
"Trance Entrance"(/"Deuces and One-Eyed Jacks"), which is also getting
neglected).  Twisty plot and the usual stuff.  Enjoy!

							- Mark

PS - Reading through this old stuff, I found and remembered the
offhanded reference to my friend Nino Silverio, who unfortunately I
had found out died the day before my graduation.  I was totally
crushed by this, seeing has how Nino was always the one with the
sunny, enthusiastic view on life and I'm the closet nihilst with
sucidal tendencies.  Needless to say, I contracted a bad case of
"should've been me" for a couple of weeks.  I still cry for him at
night occasionally when my mind starts to wander...but then I start
wondering if the tears are for Nino or for myself.

Oh well, I'm sure my alter-ego Freddy Marx will try to work out an
amazingly parallel psychosis during his stay at the asylum at the
close of 21CSM.  I'm sure we'll both find it extremely therapeutic to
talk it through.

Well, I better stop: I'm getting teary-eyed in the middle of the lab...

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\


	24743576.7

	That was the number on Freddy's terminal.  Not a very
interesting number: it wasn't even palindromic.  But when said aloud
with the appropriate units attatched, it was quite impressive.

	"Twenty four million, seven hundred fourty three thousand,
five hundred and seventy six credits..."

	Freddy couldn't stop repeating the figure, thinking it might
slip away if he didn't keep complete concentration on it.  "Twenty
four million, seven hundred fourty three thousand, five hundred and
seventy six seven big ones...and change!"

	"Cryminee..."  He computed the figure one more time on his
workstation.  It was certainly correct.

	Freddy smiled wryly, "I'm a multi-millionaire," and
immediately passed out.

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	When he came to, the number was still sitting on the terminal
screen.  He was afraid it was all a dream, but smiled widely when he
checked it again.  They were indeed the most significant digits he'd
ever seen in his life.

	"Cryminee."  It still made his head spin, but the kick was
better than any amount of screwdrivers he'd ever consumed.  Better
yet, it numbed his body against the aches and pains he received in
order to acquire that special number.

	The electronic credit was found amongst the random information
he had stolen from the Yarrow Point Arcology CPU on a Shadowrun three
nights earlier.  Essentially, he had blown his part the mission (with
the samurai on his team getting their backs waxed as well) but he had
been able to download some major files before he was forcibly ejected
from the Matrix.

	Back at his apartment, he feverishly worked away at the ICE
he downloaded from the matrix. The ICE was attatched to the file he
had found when searching for an alias he had remembered in connection
to Robert Travis.  One wrong keypress and the ICE would scramble the
file.  After 2 nights with no sleep, he finally defeated the ICE.
Certainly, the loss of sleep was well worth it.

	Of course, some would contest that the money wasn't all his.
Sure there were others on the Yarrow Point Arcology job, but they
hadn't helped him a bit (just as he hadn't given them expected backup,
either, he mused).  Still, they'd want to get their greedy little
mitts on his prize.  But he wouldn't let that happen, and he knew
exactly how he'd pull if off.  Well, maybe Mortis, the dwarf deserved
something: he operated the van that Freddy had jacked in from when
breaking into the Arcology.

	"Naahh.  Screw 'em," he said aloud, just as he did on the
night of the job.  "Screw 'em all."  If he gave something to the
rigger, then he'd tell the rest, and then they'd all want some.
"Yeah..."  Hell, they weren't even *looking* for the embezzled funds
on this part of the run...

	The job was supposed to pay everyone on the team 42500 or so
credits each.  Of course, that was figured off a 1.5 million credits
figure that Bitchy Travis (who *he* wasn't missing) had initially
given them, and they hadn't anticipated Rael getting killed on the run
either.  That was chicken feed compared to the electronic credit
revealed in glorious monochrome letters on his computer screen.

	But there was no way he'd take a mere sixth of 20% of the
two-four million credits he now held.  No way in hell.  Not when he
could have it *all* to himself.

	"They'll have to kill me for it, first..."

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	"Sheesh, Freddy, that's a hell of a lot of money!" Rache
gawked as he examined the LCD readout on the credstick.  "What's it
for?  You tryin' to weasel somethin'?"  He eyed him suspiciously.

	Freddy laughed and shrugged.  "Naw, this is on the up and up,
man.  I owe you a lot for all those 'little' favours.  You pulled my
ass out of too many tight spots before.  Now it's payback time."

	Rache grinned evilly.  "So I suppose you're not going to deck
me free utilities for next month?"

	"You got that right, ya weasel!  Hell, from now on Klone
Crimson is no more: Frederick Marx is now a legal man."

	There seemed to be three kinds of deckers in the world.  The
first did his work for kicks, the rush, the high, the danger, the
excitement.  The second pulled a multitude of small jobs, making
enough cash gradually and (relatively) safely enough to eventually
retire.  The third had his sights on the ultimate end-all job: a
mega-heist that would bring the decker into fabulous riches in one
fell swoop.  Freddy had done the later, though inadvertently.

	"Sorry to hear it, old chum.  You'll stay in touch though?"
asked Rache as Freddy stepped out of the door of his flat.

	Freddy looked back and nodded.  "You bet.  Hell, consider
yourself on retainer from now on."  They both laughed as Freddy
disappeared down the stairwell.

	Rache smiled and shook his head as he closed the door behind
him.  "Well don't that beat all..."

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Kelly wasn't at her place or at Club Penumbra.  Freddy didn't
worry about her safety often, but he was almost sure he was losing her
again.  So maybe has *was* a bit dishonest with her before: it was
usually in her best interest.  He cared for her more than any other
person on the Earth (and all its colonies, for that matter).

	He spotted a florist shop while walking home and entered after
looking in the front window display for a while.  The woman at the
desk smiled at him.  "What can I do for you tonight, sir?"

	He handed a small card to the sales clerk.  "I'd like a gross
of deep crimson roses to be sent to this address."

	"A gross?"  Her eyes opened widely.

	"Yes.  A dozen dozen roses.  One hundred and forty four of them."

	She smiled and filled out an order form.  "Who should I say
they're from?"

	Freddy paused for a second, looking towards the floor.  He then
looked up and said, "Nobody.  Just write on the card: "I'm sorry.  Maybe
we can work things out.  I'm willing to try again.""

	The woman smiled as she wrote.  This kind of transaction was
why she entered the business in the first place.  "They'll be delivered
by ten in the morning."

	Freddy paid with his credstick, said a brief "thank you", and
left the shop for home.

	A block away from the shop he found an old man begging for
change on the corner.  Freddy averted his eyes and walked on by as
was his habit, but for some reason he stopped this time.

	He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of paper
currency.  It was illegal in some sectors and made any transaction
with it null and void.  But in some circles it was the only means of
payment, being untraceable.  It was the language of his old life.  He
wouldn't be needing it anymore.

	He handed it to the mendicant and smiled.  "Take it all.
Get yourself a nice hot meal."  It was a considerable amount of
money.

	The beggar's face lit up.  "Muchas gracias, senor!"

	"De nada."  It actually was, in Freddy's book.

	The old man hobbled on down the sidewalk, waving back and
feebly calling out, "Vaya con Dios!"

	Freddy turned around and continued home.  He muttered to
himself, "Sorry, but I don't believe in him, sir..."

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	He woke up after sleeping sixteen hours that night.  After
two nights of no sleep he had lots of catching up to do.  Luckily
he had all the time in the world now.

	He walked over to his printer and tore off a sheet of paper.
On it was a printout of his last three days of electronic mail which
he had no chance to check while cracking the ICE.  He checked the most
recent arrivals.  He frowned when he found nothing from Kelly yet.
When he checked the earlier messages he found only one of some
interest:

>>>>>>Gentlemen, I have grave news.  Today my significant other was
kidnapped by what I believe to be a member of the Trog Crushers, or
someone close to them.  I know we're all tired from the run, but this
time I need some big help.  Help me end this once and for all.  Thank
you.  Xavier Moran<<<<<<

	Xavier was one of the muscle-heads on his team for the Yarrow
Point job.  Freddy supposed he'd have to play out the rest of his
contract to avoid arousing any suspicion.  He'd just sit back and take
the easy ride until it was all over.  Then he'd never have to talk to
the rest of the group again.  The money would be all his.

	But what if he caught a stray bullet in the action?  He
wouldn't be expected to walk into heavy heat, but he still might get
tagged.  It was a dangerous business even in the back lines.  Plus
there was the question of where in the hell Tacoma Bob got all that
credit in the first place: Freddy could be in something deep now, if
he wasn't careful.  If there was only a way he could be *assured* that
he wouldn't get killed before he could enjoy *his* money...

	It then hit him that he might be able to afford immortality
now.  Cloning was now a part of life...for the ultra-rich.  They could
grow you a new body in about six months (as well as making it look
however you want: different looks, height, weight, musulature, and
even gender).  Combined with a memory recording scheme and an infinite
cash flow, one could live forever in whatever body you desired.

	And it wasn't that kind of immortality only protected you from
natural aging.  Someone could still ventilate your skull with a MAX-50
and you'd be dead for good.  But with the new cloning, they record
your memories every so often.  When you died (or felt like having a
new body), they took your clone out of cold storage and inserted the
recorded memories into it.  Then you'd wake up and go about your
business.

	And there was this one place that had commercials on the trids
all the time.  What was it's name...?

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Freddy parked his Rapier in front of the Genetic Services
Multinational office, gathering in quite a few "superior" looks from
other customers entering and leaving the building.  He just grinned at
them smugly: they had no way of knowing he had just become a multi-
millionaire.  He still dressed in his old street clothes and hadn't
shaved recently.  He didn't want to *look* rich until after he was
done with the Trog Crusher job.

	He entered the massive white building and walked up to the
front desk.  He greeted the girl with the headset there.  "Howdy."

	She looked at him suspiciously.  He didn't smell like the
usual clientele.  "May I help you...sir?"  He was sure she was using
the term loosely.

	"Yes, I have an appointment at 2:30?  That should make me
right on time."  He read the name tag: "Hi!  My name is _Bernie_!"

	She looked at her terminal screen.  "Frederick Marx?  You
have some ID?"  She was still a bit wary.

	He produced his identification plates.  "There ya go.  Oh, and
it's 'Freddy'."

	She put them through the scanner, ignoring his personal
comment.  "That checks.  Now could you please put your hand on the
flashing surface?"  She handed the plates back simultaneously.

	Freddy shook his head and put his hand on the palm-print
verifier.  "Geez, can't you take my word for it?"

	"No," she said flatly.  The verifier chimed a happy major chord
and she sighed, almost disappointed.  "All right."  She still wasn't
convinced.  "Follow Vince through the door on the right."

	He walked over to the muscle-graft barbarian in the white lab
coat and indicated his readiness.  As they walked out of the room he
called back to the girl at the desk, "What, you don't even want a
urine sample?"

	If there was one thing he hated, it was "red-tape".

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	He woke up in a white room.  Everything in it was white: the
floor tile, the sheets on his bed, his clothes, the walls, the
curtains (not black, to his chagrin), the ceiling, and everything he
could think to check.  Well, besides the chrome, but that reflected
the white everything anyway.

	Soon a white nurse entered the room.  It appeared to him that
she was sneaking around by the way she walked.  She had a white
clipboard in her hand.  After checking a few white cabinets in the
room she shuffled over to his white bed.  "Mr. Marx, how are you?"

	He stared blankly at her for a second until it finally
registered in his brain: that was his name!  "Errrr, I'm feeling a
little dizzy.  Everything's so...white."

	She appeared to notice his slight hesitation, "That's all
quite normal, Mr. Marx.  You'll have a day or so where memories will
come a bit slower than you're used to.  But it'll come..."

	He nodded absently, "Thanks."  Oh yeah, he came in for a
clone and memory recording.  Must be some sort of side-effect.

	Nurse Silverio (the name tag said) looked over both her
shoulders and then back at him.  "I'm really not supposed to do this,
but I couldn't resist."  She blushed a bit as she took something from
under the clipboard.  It was a picture of an unfamiliar person playing
some sort of musical instrument (which, after a second, he remembered
was called a "Chapman Stick").

	He looked up from the picture back to the nurse.  She read his
eyes.  "If you would, please write on it 'To Nino, Keep on tapping,
signed Freddy'."  She produced a pen.  "He's going to love this: I
swear he's your biggest fan!"

	He wasn't sure what was going on, but he went with the flow.
He took the pen, signed the glossy black and white photo, and handed
them both back to her.  She smiled at him, "Thanks, Mr. Marx!"  She
almost skipped out of the room.

	After the door had closed, all he could do was mutter, "Damn,"
and fall back to sleep...

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	When came to consciousness again there was a small group of
people sitting in chairs around the bed.  "Mr. Marx?", an Asian,
doctorly looking gentleman asked.  The two others appeared less
erudite and more like bouncers squeezed into business suits.

	Freddy wiped the sleep from his eyes.  "Errr...yeah?"

	"Good."  The other "spectators" smiled.  "There was some
concern as to how this would turn out..."

	He raised an eyebrow.  "Whaddya mean?  You tryin' to say this
is all still experimental?"  His lip twisted a bit.

	The doctor folded his hands and explained, "I can assure you
it's not.  Our process has been declared flawless for the past 15
years."  He sounded lack a bad advert on the trideo.  "However, the
memory cube we used to revive you was quite old..."  He cleared his
throat.

	"Whaddya mean, 'revive me'?  All I came in for was a bloody
clone and memory recording..."

	The doctor sighed.  "I can't put this in any other way, Mr.
Marx: you have died.  We just brought you back to life."

	Freddy lept from the bed and grabbed the doctor's throat.
"Bastard!  You *told* me this was safe!"  He started to choke the life
out of him when the bouncer types jumped up from his seat and pulled
him off, almost throwing Freddy back into the bed.

	The doctor fell to his knees and held his throat.  Soon two
nurses rushed in, surveyed the situation, and escorted him from the
room.

	Freddy sat back in his bed and stared at the other men.  "Do I
know you?"  They looked to each other, nodded, and left the room.

	When he was left alone once more he drifted back into sleep...

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Freddy awoke again to find only one person standing by his
bed.  The man was dressed in black and held a K&R manual under his
arm.  "Good morning!", he smiled.

	He snarled in return, "So how are *you* gonna try to screw me
over?"  He now expected the worst from everyone and was on the
defensive.

	The man replied, "I don't mean you any harm.  In fact, I am
here to help you.  My name is Davis X. Makina..."  He extended his
right hand.

	Freddy warily shook it.  "Damn, you got clammy mitts..."

	He smiled.  "Yes, they always are."

	"So why are *you* here?"  He arched an eyebrow.

	"God sent me to watch after you.  I am now your guardian angel
until He says otherwise."

	Freddy rolled his eyes.  "Damn, it figures: since I never
found religion, it finally found *me*..."

	"He *does* work in mysterious ways."  He chuckled.

	He really didn't think it was that funny. "So, 'Davis', what
is it you're supposed to help me with?  If you get me the hell outta
here *now*, I'll listen to any religion crap you have to shovel..."

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Freddy wasn't one for hospital cuisine (if that word could be
used in the context), but anything that crossed his tray was
disappearing almost immediately.  When he finally started to slow
down, he addressed Davis, who was sitting across from him.  "Okay, so
tell me what I need to know."

	"Well, first of all, Dr. Robert See was indeed correct: you
did die, and they did bring you back to life..."

	"Bastards..."

	"But what you never gave him the chance to say is that there
were no complications during the memory dump: you died outside of
your apartment."

	"Huh?"  Cream of broccoli soup dribbled out of the corner of
his mouth.  He wiped it off with the sleeve of his red (or more likely
crimson) satin robe.

	"This is correct.  You assumed that you died in the treatment
room simply because the passage of time in *your* mind is continuous."

	He put down his spoon in his bowl.  "You know, I got my
Master's in Matrix Theory, and I *still* don't know what you're
saying."

	Davis sighed and put his hands on the table.  "To you, no time
has passed since you came in for your memory recording and when you
were revived, besides a period of sleep.  However, it has been almost
twenty years to everyone else."

	Freddy gaped, "Errr...twenty years?"

	"Yes: nineteen years, six months, seventeen days, and eight
hours.  You see, you died yesterday morning and were brought to
Genetic Services Multinational.  Unfortunately, there had been a
terrorist attack on the memory bank the previous day and all the
memory cubes were smashed to pieces..."

	"Uh-huh..."  He stared blankly.

	"You hadn't had a chance to make a new recording, so there was
a fear that you might be declared legally Mindless: your clone
would've been destroyed and you would cease to be.  That is what these
kinds of terrorists intend to cause."

	"Oh..."

	"Luckily, though, it was found that you had held on to a copy
of your very first memory recording as a keepsake or something.  They
found it in your safety-deposit box.  Since this recording was your
first one, you have no memory of the twenty years that have passed in
between..."

	Freddy's head spun.  "I think I'm gonna be sick..."

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	He worshipped at the porcelain altar for a long while.  When
he got done with his "business" he turned to the mirror to straighten
himself up.  What he saw more than surprised him: it shocked him.

	The man in Nurse Silverio's picture stared back at him.
"Cryminee..."  He brought a hand up to his face, and so did the
reflection.  His visage used to be dark and slightly rounded, with
a mop of wavy black hair on his head.  Now he had a longer, angular
face and blonde, almost white hair.  He was also a bit taller and
definitely more muscular.  "Awwww..."

	His nausea returned.

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Later, after a short rest, he sat in the hospital lounge with
Davis, who continued talking about the recent events missing from
Freddy's memory.  "Anyway, I was the one who found you.  I was waiting
for the MetroBus outside Yarrow Point Arcology when you dropped to the
ground beside me.  It was an awfully long fall..."  Images of Rael
plummeting from the same building came into Freddy's mind.  "Suicide
was ruled out immediately: there were obvious signs of forced entry
and gun play.  Murder is the obvious choice, with assassination being
the more precise classification."

	Freddy wasn't pleased with the info. "Trog Crushers?"  That
was his first choice.

	"Pardon me?"

	"Trog Crushers: racist blue-collarville inbreeding
Klan-bastard Humanis mo-fo's?"  He spoke through clenched teeth..

	Davis stared into space for a second, but came out of it
knowing the answer.  "Ahhh: no, the Trog Crushers have not been in
operation for...nineteen years."  He drifted off again, but returned
with.  "And it seems you had a major role in that."

	"Good."  He grinned widely.

	"Anyway, no suspects have been charged yet.  In fact, the
authorities are still rather clueless.  It seemed to be a *very*
professional job."

	He watched the misfits in suits across the room.  "And who
the hell are these guys?  They really don't make me feel too safe,
hovering around like that..."

	Davis turned and looked over his shoulder.  "As a matter
of fact, they are expressly here for that purpose: they are your
bodyguards."

	He raised his eyebrows.  "Really?  Cryminee, what did I
do to deserve that?"

	"Well, it seems you acquired a large amount of money at
approximately the same time you bought your clone contract."  This
happened practically yesterday Freddy's memory.  "With this capital
you managed to build a medium-sized independent music label."  He
looked into space again and came back.  "You've personally produced 56
top-ten albums...79 top-forty singles...and manage over one hundred
bands and artists, besides your own personal recording projects."

	Freddy was impressed, but wondered if he'd sold out his
integrity to garner a small amout of popularity (the "Genesis
Syndrome", as he called it).  He glanced at Davis and questioned about
the pauses.  "You know an awful lot about me.  Headware memory?"

	He smiled.  "Of a sort.  There have been vast technological
improvements in the past two decades.  Anyway, back to the matter at
hand."  He motioned toward the bodyguards.  "These men have been with
you for at least ten years.  The one on the right is Ken."  He had
yellowish-blonde hair, but with black eyebrows: an obvious bleach job.
"He is a disciplined martial artist: he spent a while in Japan, but
then moved back to America to train for street fighting tournaments.
The other," who had a spiked blonde hair style which he constantly ran
a comb through, "is Guile.  He's an ex-military jock who's also into
street fighting, with a twist of wrestling technique."

	"Wow," was all he could manage.  He waved at the men, and they
nodded back to him.

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Freddy's taste in clothes, he found, had become rather
extravagant over the years.  He wore expensive, custom-tailored suits
made with the finest materials.  "Well, for a guy that's missing half
his life, I sure am doing okay!"  He was glad to find that he had
never given up high-tops as well.

	Davis was waiting outside the hospital with Freddy's bags.
"Ready?"  A limousine pulled up to the curb.

	He took a look at the license plate: KRIMSN-3.  "Mine, right?"

	"Right."

	He laughed, "Man, this *is* rich..."  Ken stepped out of the
front of the car and opened the door for him.  "Thanks."  He stepped
inside and was followed by Davis.

	After the door closed Davis punched an intercomm button.  "To
Mr. Marx's residence, Guile..."

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	By some twist of fate, Freddy now inhabited the exact same
space in Yarrow Point Arcology that Robert Travis did 20 years
earlier.  "Cryminee.  Nice."  His personal living space was located on
the 18th floor, while the offices and studios for his music company,
"None of the Above", were on the 19th and 20th.

	Davis looked around as well.  "The furnishings are well done.
However, Yarrow Point Arcology is an older building: it is swiftly
becoming obselete.  The newer complexes have better appliances and
other conveniences."

	Freddy walked over to a couch and plopped down on it.
"Whatever, it still looks good to me..."  He up looked at the
interlocking ceiling tiles.  "Kool: Escher-mania!"

	"Would you like a tour of the place?  I've been studying the
area while they revived you.  Classic Greco-Germanic design..."

	Thought about the offer.  "Heh, kinda weird having someone
else showing you around your own place..."

	Davis smiled, "Your disorientation is quite normal, but you
should adapt quickly, according to your profile."

	"I hope so..."

	|	|	|	|	|	|	|	|

	Freddy kept slapping his cheek to test if it was a dream, even
though Davis assured him it wasn't.  He had found the refrigerator and
was looking for some non-hospital food.  "So Davis, why the hell are
you following me around again?"

	"Well, hell has nothing to do with it.  In fact, it is quite
the opposite: God sent me to watch after you.  I am now your guardian
angel until He says otherwise."

	"Yeah, you said that before.  But, *really*, why are you doing
this."

	"Because He told me to help you.  You fell to the ground by my
side.  I needed to ask no more."

	Freddy stopped his foraging.  "You know, that's really weird.
Honestly."

	"Still, if it is the way of my Lord..."

	He laughed and continued snack-hunting.  "Man, and I woulda
figured religion woulda bit the big one by now.  Cryminee, I don't
know what I'd do without my freewill..."  He pulled out some salami,
corned beef, and pastrami and put them on the counter.  "I mean, what
you think is what you are, right?  So if you think like everyone else
in your religion, then you're just a carbon copy of them."  He fished
out a jar of mayonnaise.

	"I still have a certain amount of freewill.  I also consider
myself to be quite unique."

	Freddy found some bread in a cupboard.  "Well, sorry about
what I say, but it's how I feel.  Religion and racism both raise my
ire: I get pretty violent when the topics are brought up."  He
gathered up all his sandwich fixings and sat down at the table.
"Want some?"

	"No, thank you."

	"Man, they don't do good deli cuisine in the hospital, that's
for sure."  He distributed slabs of meat liberally on two mayonnaised
slices of bread, folded them together, and took a huge bite.  "Mphff.
Goood stuphhff..."

	|	|	|	|	|	|	|	|

	After Freddy finished off three immense sandwiches he asked
Davis to show him where he was killed.  "I just gotta know!  I mean,
this just came out of the blue?"  He looked up at the floor readout
while waiting for the elevator to reach their floor.

	"There are no obvious motives in this case.  It is possible
that one of your competitors wanted revenge for something.  Or possibly
an artist that you rejected became mentally unstable."

	"Those don't seem very likely..."

	"Exactly.  However, the party that killed you, whomever it may
be, hired a team of professionals to do the job.  It was a very clean
hit, as you had minimal security."

	"Wonderful.  Hopefully they won't come back..."

	"Yes.  In the meantime, your partners have stepped up
security."

	Freddy was relieved when the elevator reached their floor.
"Man, you'd think that in twenty years elevator technology would
improve..."

	The elevator doors slid open and the occupying party stepped
out.  A little girl being led by the hand by her mother spotted
Freddy immediately.  She beamed, "Dadeee!", and ran up to hug his leg.

	He turned to Davis.  "Daddy?"

	Davis smiled widely.  "I suppose introductions are in order:
this is your family..."

	|	|	|	|	|	|	|	|

	He awoke on a couch with a nasty pain at the side of his head.
The woman from the elevator was sitting beside him.  She wiped his
forehead with a damp cloth.  "Are you okay?  You just keeled over and
passed out!"  She ran her fingers through his hair.  "You had me so
worried."  She bent down and kissed him full on the lips, and Freddy
found her tongue probing his mouth.

	A teenage girl from the elevator walked up behind her.
"Cryminee, mom, you should let him up for air *sometime*..."  She
giggled and walked towards the kitchen.

	The woman finally stopped kissing him and went back to simply
smiling at him.  Freddy almost whined over to Davis who was flipping
through books from a shelf on the wall.  "It's a joke, right?"

	Davis turned in his direction.  "No joke.  Mr. Marx, meet your
wife, Lisa Marx."

	He closed his eyes and moaned.  "Ohhhh, this is too much..."

	Lisa sighed, "It'll be okay honey, we got through this once
before, and we can do it again..."

	Freddy opened his eyes again.  "Once before?"

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Freddy sat at the kitchen table while rapidly smoking a pack
of cigarettes Davis had produced on request.  "Mega-suckage.  This
really blows me..."  He stubbed out his current dwindling butt and lit
up a new one.

	Lisa nodded, "Still, you must continue with your life.  Many
people rely on you: your family, friends, business associates..."  She
reached across the table and grasped his free hand.  "And I *know* we
can do it, together..."

	"Like the time you mentioned before?"  Freddy pulled his hand
away.  "I'm sorry, but you just don't understand how difficult it is
to learn of your past in the third person!"  He moved the cigarette to
his other hand and stood up.  "So there I was, twenty years ago,
locked in an insane asylum..."

	Lisa closed her eyes while she repeated her earlier
revelation, "I had you committed there, as you weren't acting like
yourself.  Or rather, you weren't acting like my previous husband,
Dirk..."

	"...whose body my thoughts now inhabit," he shook his head in
disbelief, "through the transfer of my memory recording, just as if he
were one of my clones.  What the hell possessed me to do *that*?  I
mean, even if he *was* a Trog Crusher..."  He paced across the room
for a second and then stopped.  "Essentially I took his life, both
literally and figuritively."

	She opened her eyes and stared at him.  "Yes, there's no doubt
about that."  Then she smiled, "But now those days are gone.  It's
history.  Forget about it.  I have."

	He walked to the table, placed his hands on top of it, and
leaned over towards her.  He spoke softly, "But doesn't that *bother*
you?  I *killed* your husband..."

	She sighed.  "I felt his loss at first, but it faded.  After
all, Dirk only married me because he knocked me up.  He was a good man
in that respect: he had strong feelings of duty and obligation.  Plus
the sex was good."  She smiled broadly, "But now it's even better..."

	Freddy almost blushed, "Heh.  I'll take your word for it."  He
sat down again, stubbing the cigarette out.  "Still," he extended his
arms across the table, his palms turn upwards, "How did you end up
with me?"

	Lisa laughed lightly at this.  "Because you were a much better
man."  She looked into his eyes and took both his hands.  "I only
married Dirk because it was what I was *supposed* to do.  My mother
told me this, and I followed her every instruction.  I stayed by Dirk
and *served* him simply because that's what a wife *did*."  She squeezed
his hands tightly.  "But *you* told me different!  You said I could be
my own person...an option that was never presented to me before."

	He shook his head, "So like what: I became a feminist in the
loony-bin?"

	"No, you just believed in freedom, the thing you missed the
most during your stay.  You made it clear to me that everyone should
value their freedom...and even fight for it."

	Freddy smiled wryly, "Oooh, the great philosopher Marx hath
spoken..."

	She ignored the sarcasm.  "We talked for hours while you were
at the institute.  I'd visit you at least three times a week, hoping
the old Dirk would come back.  He never did, but I liked the man who
took his place better."  She closed her eyes and dropped her head.
"We grew very close during the year of your confinement.  Eventually I
had the insitute release you.  I gave you your freedom, as you gave me
mine: imagine my happiness when you decided to stay with me as my
husband."

	Lisa looked up again to find Freddy shaking his head, unable
to comment.

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	"Long way down..."  Freddy leaned his head out the frame of
the shattered office window and looked down at the parking lot below.

	"Yes: nineteen stories."

	"You know, it's not the fall that kills you," Freddy smirked,
"It's stopping very, very quickly..."

	The dark humour was apparently lost on Davis.  "Yes, but it's
quite likely that you were dead from bullet wounds before you even hit
the ground."

	He walked away from the window.  "Yeah, it sure looks like a
war-zone in here."  Glass, papers, and other assorted debris littered
the floor.  "Man, this'll take a while to clean up..."

	"It has already begun.  Maintenance started with the lobby
this morning and are working their way inward to your office.  The
path of destruction was quite evident: they headed straight toward
you."

	Shivers made their way up his body.  "Cryminee...that's
serious..."

	"Yes, quite.  However, security has been tripled, so it's
unlikely that another attack will occur.  Still, the first job was
incredibly efficient, so we shouldn't rule out the possibility of it
happening again..."

	Freddy spun around to stare at Davis.  "Gee, that sure makes
me feel safe: it's like you admire those guys or something..."

	"Well, they were particularly good at their job..."

	"Hey!  Whose side are you on here?  You're making me more than
a bit nervous here..."  Freddy opened a desk drawer casually, hoping
to find a letter opener or some other sharp implement.  "How do I know
you're not in league with the assassins?"

	"You don't.  There is no way of your knowing."

	Freddy cursed mentally, unable to locate a weapon in the desk.
"Exactly.  But you're too damn convenient to have found me
coincidentally.  So why the hell am I trusting you?"

	"Because I gave you my word, which was passed down from God."

	He rolled his eyes.  "Wonderful."  He walked over to Davis and
poked him in the chest with his index finger.  "I don't know how
things are now, but I remember that twenty years ago actions spoke
louder that words.  This isn't between me and God, it's between you
and me."

	Davis nodded.  "I suppose you are right."  Suddenly he grabbed
Freddy's arm, swung him around, and held him out the window by it.
"What do you think now?"

	Freddy's eyes bugged out at the ground below.  "I think you're
a bloody loonie! HELLLLPPPPP!!!"  He screamed at the top of his lungs.

	Davis pulled him in from outside and stood him up again.  "Mr.
Marx, you must have faith in me and in Him.  I am sure that you
realize now that I am not here to kill you: after all, I just had the
perfect opportunity to do exactly that.  If you allow me, I can help
to find out who killed you.  That's what He intended for me to do.
Shall we get started?"

	Freddy couldn't answer, only hyperventilate and pass out.

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	"Cryminee, this thing isn't going to do much good..."  Freddy
was sitting at a workstation, checking over a thoroughly trashed
cyberdeck.  "Man, everything's *fused* on it...what hit it?"

	Davis looked over from his work on another deck.  "It took two
MAX-50 slugs during the gunfight.  However, someone also decided to
put a sodium-bomb on it before they escaped.  True, the deck cannot
give us any clues.  However, the fact that they bothered to destroy
this piece of equipment gives us a motive: the assassins most likely
wanted to make sure the information in that deck was never seen
again."

	Freddy blinked.  "Yeah...good theory..."

	"It is the only one I have at the moment.  Further application
of the scientific method will prove its validity."

	"True, true...and if it was stored in my headware memory it
wouldn't have lasted the fall..."

	"This is correct: the memory was destroyed."  Davis went back
to working on the deck.

	"Mega-suckage..."  He pushed the wasted deck off the table and
into a trashcan.  "WAIT!"  He almost did a double-take.  "If that
information was so damn important, and if I knew if it was, it
wouldn't have been stored in my deck: it would've been on my
PR-128!"

	Davis turned slowly toward Freddy.  "A MIDI sequencing
device?"

	"Yeah!  I used to do it all the time...now if we could only
find it..."  He started looking on shelves around the room.

	Davis stood up, left the room, and returned with a cardboard
box.  He put it on a table and pulled out a small black plastic cube.
"Roland PR-256: the successor of the PR-128."

	Freddy jumped over a table and landed next to Davis.  "Now
we're jammin'...this one's mine?"  He took the unit and rummaged
through the box for a MIDI cable.

	"Yes, you had left it with your secretary the morning you were
killed."

	Freddy plugged one end of the cable into the PR-256 and the
other into the MIDI-IN port at the base of his skull.  He pressed the
"start" button on the unit and transferred the sequenced music into
his headware memory.  "Damn, this must be it..."

	Davis cocked his head.  "Music?"

	"Raw data, stored as random music.  Actually it sounds a lot
like Frank Zappa's _Jazz from Hell_.  Heh."  He pointed over to the
deck that Davis was repairing.  "You got that thing fixed yet?"

	"It is almost ready."

	"Good.  I wanna get to work on this data as soon as
possible..."

[END OF TEXT}

--
Mark "Klone Crimson" Friedman is friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu .................
"There is nothing former  "Beat poets,    "Bite me,   "My jacket! I killed
 about King Crimson."      not children."  it's fun!"  Kennedy in this jacket!"
 - Robert Fripp, 5/11/90   - anonymous     - MST3K     - Ron Post