Subject: delurk&NEW STORY: Light Sleeper
From: James Longhurst <jimlong@micron.net>
Date: 14 Jun 1996 10:17:08 GMT


hope this works . . . . 





Light Sleeper



   It was far too late in the night, the best marks already having been plucked, the last
few street predators getting a little edgy, and Tasker was trying to project a 
dont-even-think-about-it attitude in his walk: something he had to copy from that martial
arts guy, Sony Mao, Charlie Chan, whatever his name was.  He knew it wasn't working, what
with the company approved suit and tan raincoat. The weight of the gun pulled the coat
off-center, his tie was gone, and the collar of his shirt was brown from sweat and dirt.
 
   The crash of a thrown bottle echoed out of an alley, and Tasker hurried forward, into 
the still streaming flow of the main strip.

-----------------------------

   The ancient Serbian in the all night espresso chain sold him a shot in his coffee for a
couple of crumpled New Yen, (his last) then returned to screaming unintelligibly at the 
equally wizened woman behind the counter.  Tasker hurried into the lurid plastic corner of 
the tiny shop, the flouri-strips glinting off red and orange checked laminate tabletops.  
He put his back to the wall and sucked the stuff black, stared back out the shopfront, and 
tried to plan.  As he fingered the heavy grips of the gun--only a few rounds left--all that 
came to him were memories of a life he knew was gone.

-----------------------------

  Less than twenty-four hours before, the light had dawned thin and watery across the city.  
He had left the middle-level management apartment complex just like every morning, at a 
quarter past six.  Japanese work ethic still prevailed at the office, a hangover from the last 
site manager (recently, and some said, violently removed), and most people were in their 
offices before seven.  Tasker was on his way up in the company, and he had recently learned 
to affect an air of dominance as he stepped into the mini-limo.  Everyone else from the 
complex hopped a company shuttle, or even worse, took personal transport to The Campus.
 
  "News summary, Mr. Tasker?" chirped his personal daemon, a busty redhead Tasker had 
designed himself, from the vid in the limo.  

  "Not yet.  Gimme a stock update, set up an appointment with Sid sometime before noon, check 
mail, and inform me when Mr. Ishiro gets on-line, 'kay?  And take that dress off."

  "Oh, Mr. Tasker!" she bubbled.  "Mr. Ishiro signed on eight minutes ago, and is currently 
in the task group meeting room."  The simulated jade green dress slid toward the simulated 
wood veneer floor.  "Seven pieces, no personal, all below level three priority, appointment 
confirmed, New York opened at 124 and a quarter, up an eighth since, you have a luncheon date 
with Miss Malloy from Inten-Secure."  She pursed her lips and looked pouty.  "Oh, please, can 
I put the dress back on, Mr. Tasker?"

--------------------------------

  Once on the Campus, the corporate mega-plex, Tasker breezed through lobby security while 
his fellow workers submitted to the electro-flouroscoping and the magnetic-anomaly detectors.  
The bounce tube shot him upstairs past the mobile-fountain-sculpture in the shape of the 
zaibatsu logo, past the coder levels, and into management.
  
   "Hey, uh, Tony, Mr. Ishiro in there?" he asked.  The hulking personal bodyguard looked 
like an advertisement for moderation of synth-steroid intake, and although Tasker thought he
was all meat, might as well have been programmed by an autistic.

   Tony lagged a sec to access his brain, then opened the door to the meeting room.  Tasker 
was a highly trusted employee.

  Ishiro bellowed from inside: "'Zat you, Tasker, you redneck?  Get your stupid hick ass in 
here and explain this bullshit proposal to me, and don't give me any of that MIT technospeak, 
capisch?"

  Jimmy "Moneyman" Ishiro was third generation Mafia, despite his confused lineage, and only 
affected the goodfella gig when it suited him.  Tasker tried on his best smile and walked on 
into the conference room.  Ishiro was at the far end, surrounded by floaty vids, people or 
daemons peering out, and a complex 3-V Space-Time graph taking up most of the conference table.
Two others from Tasker's department, communication and engineering, sat on either side of 
Ishiro.
 
  "Well, Mr. Ishiro, I'm sure you know that this proposal is from that new tech boy, and I 
had to have him explain it to me maybe seven or eight times," said Tasker, grinning, while his
hands tapped out a complex code on the chord board at the near end of the table.  "If you'll 
look at this graphic, what we're attempting is a simple variant on the venerable 
piggyback-slurp process, with a . . . "  He provided a voice-over for the rest of the file 
that he had called up on the vid, performing his function as tech-management liason.  He had 
known it even in the grueling coursework at MIT:  tech was not where the money was, even in 
his field of communications protocol and development.  The jump to organizational science had 
suited him: his boyish good manners, impeccable fashion sense, lanky six-foot frame, and 
short-cropped blonde hair had slid him into many an upper-level meeting.

  Ishiro grunted when the file came to an end.  One of the faces on the vids behind him 
nodded and disappeared.  "Yeah, that's good stuff there.  We're gonna snag a 10 market share 
with this stuff, easy, if we can get the marketing down," he rumbled, heaving his three 
hundred pounds of kobi beef and fetuccine alfredo fat out of the chair and pacing between 
the walls, dictating to one of the other C&E guys.  Tasker relaxed at the end of the table, 
though he remained standing, ready to jump into action at a moment's notice.  This was only 
the Moneyman's second week as site manager, and he was still attempting to get a hold of the 
on-going projects.  He had begun to demand Tasker's presence in meetings more and more. 

--------------------------

   Five hours later, Tasker was being led to a table at a fashionable Thai place off-Campus. 
His temp security guy lounged at the bar, chafing because Tasker had told him to lay off.  
Miss Maggy Malloy, Inten-Secure consulting agent, was waiting at the table, and Tasker didn't 
need anything to cramp his considerable style.  Tasker allowed the unbelievebly short Thai 
waiter to lead him to the table while he adjusted his tie and checked to make sure his 
zaibatsu logo pin was straight in his buttonhole.

   "Maggy!" he cried as he appproached the secluded table.  "I can't tell you how good it is 
to see you here.  Although, I have to admit," he added conspiratorily, as he leaned over to 
kiss her on one cheek, "Seattle did suit you much more than Tokyo.  Such a sexy city, Seattle."  
Her perfume followed him over to his side of the table as he sat down.

   Miss Maggy Malloy treated him to a 3000 BTU smile and adjusted her long and slender frame 
in next year's Paris power management ensemble.  Short cropped dark hair framed an angular 
face, with wide-set dark eyes adding to her streamlined sleekness.

   "Task, honey, you have the nicest line of bullshit I have ever been in bed with," she 
purred, leaning on her elbows across the table.  "Too bad the convention's only once a year."

   He feigned surprise, arching an eyebrow.  "Oh, Tokyo's not good enough for you now?  I 
thought that we might . . . "  She laughed once, cutting him off.

   "Not this trip, Mister.  Strictly business, and this working girls' on the next 
sub-orbital out."  She could not help but break into extended laughter at his purposefully 
heartbroken expression.  "Oh, it's not that bad.  Here, look, I brought you a present."  
She offered him an expensively wrapped oblong package, eyes crinkling with her palpable 
excitement.

  "Present? Pour moi?  And I didn't bring you anything!"

  "Oh, just open it, Task, honey!  I spent a fortune on it," she said, visibly bouncing in her 
seat.

  He teased her a bit more, unfolding the origami wrap excruciatingly slowly until she 
reached over and ripped off the paper herself.  A wooden box, slightly deeper than a cigar 
box, lay exposed before him.

   "You bought me a midget coffin!  How thoughtful!  And me without any midgets," he moaned.
Maggy giggled, and waved for him to open the box. 

   Cushioned in black foam lay a pair of dark black VR glasses, their matte black finishes 
bespeaking tritanium alloys and sandwiched layers of microcomputational power.

   "What's this?" he asked, picking up the glasses and turning them over, slightly confused.  
Not exactly what he had been expecting, he had to admit.

   "Go on, Task, baby, try 'em!  It's the rage in Seattle!" she added breathily.

   He slid the glasses on and fell ten thousand miles into an explosively strobing nightmare 
of arc lights burning his corneas and focussing tightbeam lasers not on the optic nerve, no 
on the brain itself, GOD he screamed in bubbling agony, grey flesh melting, dripping, 
touching on fire itself until he fell through the light and into midnight black water and he 
could not breathe in the darkness and weight until he came to the surface, sucking air back 
into his lungs with a rib cracking explosion.

   He took the glasses off and looked into the dark, wide set eyes of a beautiful woman whom 
he didn't think he knew.

  "Subject Tasker," she said, snapping shut her purse, and gathering scraps of wrapping paper.
  "Yes."
  "Target Ishiro."
  "Confirmed."
  "Terminate immediately."
  "Confirmed."
  "Weapon in the box--Sig Tactical, caseless .403"
  "Confirmed."
  "Begin program after I leave the restaraunt."
  "Confirmed."
  The beautiful tall woman with the short dark hair beckoned to a waiter.  "I don't think 
we'll be dining after all," she said, tipping him heavily.  He bowed repeatedly and backed 
away.
  The beautiful woman in the sleek cut dress looked down at him, and hesitated before she 
turned to go.  "Good luck, Task, baby.  It's been fun."  Her dark eyes disappeared behind 
sunglasses.
  "Confirmed."
  She was already gone.
------------------------------
  Tasker stared at the dregs of his coffee, black as some cavernous pool, and tried to 
ignore the crashing sound and music from the night outside.  He could not take his sweaty, 
aching hand from around the heavy grips of the gun--only a few rounds left.







Anyway, my newsreader really sucks.  I had to do this ass-backwords,
writing in a wordprocessor, copy/pasting to the newsreader, and then
sticking line breaks in manually.  How do normal, tool-using,
21st century digital boys like yourselves do this?

Of course, all criticism warmly solicited, grammarians can kiss my
ass, and suggestions for Tasker's next move desperately needed.