From: bryan@cornwick.win-uk.net (Pat & Richard Bryant)
Date: Sun, 27 Nov 1994 01:07:04 GMT
Subject: Long Time Coming (I)
The sign on the gate read "HMG Maidstone - Penal Correction &
Reform Facility". Scrawled underneath in neon pink graffiti, some
'punk or other had translated this officialspeak as the more
sombre "Welcome to Hell".
The graffiti was recent, and Danny Fielding had been resident in
Maidstone for five years, but had he ever seen it's message, he
would cetainly have agreed.
Danny's regimen went like this.
05:30hrs WAKE-UP SIREN PROCEED TO EXERCISE ROOM.
The exercise room was a small, grey, empty room. It's floors were
smooth plas, always warm to his bare feet. Here he performed
calisthenics as directed by a harsh inhuman voice that seemingly came
from nowhere. The grey walls were unrelieved by loudspeakers.
Failure to comply with instructions was always met with an electric
shock from the floor.
After five years of shocks, Danny had learned to comply.
06:00hrs RETURN TO DOMICILE. WASH. PERFORM ABLUTIONS.
Return to his stark white cell. Follow instuctions. The floors
here were also wired to shock, as was his styro sleepmat.
Bedwetting and wet dreams were not advisable.
06:05hrs NUTRUTION
Grey sludge. Nutritious, certainly, but even less appealing than
masturbation on the sleepmat. SoyMilk to wash it down with.
FAILURE TO FULLY CONSUME NUTRITION RATION WILL INCUR CORRECTION.
More shocks.
06:10hrs PROCEED TO LABOUR CUBICLE
A blue room. An old style keyboard and monitor on a bue plas desk.
A metallic slot in plas wall, through which neat printed paper
sheets of data oozed. Danny had to manually type the data from the
sheets. Meaningless figures. No text. As he finished each sheet,
he placed it into an identical slot in the desk into which it
crawled silently, another four minutes of his life sliding away.
Thoughts came and went easily during work period. After a couple of
months he had mastered the art of working at full speed, hands and
fingers only, while his mind floated free.
Danny was nineteen years old, arrested and convicted at the age of
twelve for grand data fraud. Sometimes he wished had been an
the adult his colleages had thought him. ICONs are easy to
manipulate for a genius, and Danny had gained his Doctorate in AI
and Virtuality Programming at age 11, attending the Virtual
University with a modified image.
It was after that he joined the Democracy League, busting
government secrets in the name of freedom of speech, kidding
himself that he could help save his country from the twenty year
Martial Law Committee.
And got caught.
An adult would have been implanted with a correctional chip. If
his mind were to reject the chip's "corrective" impulses, he would
have been executed. A child, however, could not have cyberware
implanted into his growing body as it would inevitably be messily
rejected, and execution? well, even the Committee balked at some
things if only due to the public loss of face involved.
Hence the extensive "reprogramming" treatment. Recidivist youths
were assessed at age 21, and either released onto parole, or
implanted with chips. Again, mental rejection meant execution, as
did a breach of parole conditions.
Thoughts flew through Danny's head, fingers flew over the retro
keyboard, paper came and went. Uncouted by any visible clock, the
seconds ticked by. He allowed his mind to drift easily, and
longed for night, for lights out.
13:00hrs PROCEED TO EXERCISE ROOM
13:30hrs RETURN TO DOMICILE. WASH. PERFORM ABLUTIONS
13:40hrs NUTRITION. REST PERIOD.
Repeat of breakfast. Sit about in the silent cell.
14:00hrs PROCEED TO LABOUR CUBICLE
Back to work. Sit and dream while you let your fingers do the
walking.
19:30hrs PROCEED TO EXERCISE ROOM
20:00hrs RETURN TO DOMICILE. WASH. PERFORM ABLUTIONS
20:10hrs LIGHTS OUT
Danny, a master by now at sleeping on command, closed his eyes and
drifted into - freedom. And a meeting with his mysterious tutor.
**********
Dream, drift, float, exert the feather touch of control so
painstakingly learned. Don't make him come to you, FIND him.
There.
London. Danny sits on a park bench next to Marble Arch, hearing the
metrocars and gravbikes roar past, seeing big red buses, watching the
tall man in the black armourtrench and australian bush hat feed the
pigeons.
Feeling his star pupil arrive, the magus turns, smiles, a flash
teeth in the dark beard. Eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat, he
walks toward Danny.
"Good," he says. "You found me. Your proficiency in dream travel
is growing every night. I must say, I'm pretty damned delighted."
His voice is deep, perfect aristo english. Danny realises that he
has never seen his master's eyes. Hell, he's never even heard his
name. He decides to ask, pushing aside the passivity of dream
state.
"What's your name?" he manages
The magus smiles again, more broadly.
"You really have learned well, Daniel. Remember what we spoke
about before." It is not a question, but a command. "Remember it
also when you awake. Do it tomorrow night. Come here."
He points to a power socket hidden the gravel by the bench.
Danny leans forward.
"Right there" says the magus. He waves a hand, negligently. Danny
feels the currents of the dream swirl around him, pulling him away.
Exerting all his will, he manages to croak out "Name?"
The magus laughs.
"Persistent, aren't you? Good! You can call me Taylor."
*********
Part two follows. *ALL* opinions gratefully received.
P'Charnkov! the other day upon the stair
i met a man who wasn't there
he wasn't there again today
Bryan i think he's from the CIA
just because i'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me
^^^^^^^ (for VJM)
paranoia means never feeling alone
From bryan@cornwick.win-uk.net (Pat & Richard Bryant)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Date: Mon, 28 Nov 1994 12:58:38 GMT
Subject: Long Time Coming (II)
(Chapter1 part 2)
[Recap]
[Taylor has just met Danny Fielding through Dream Travel. Now he's
back in the waking world, preparing for a meat-meeting with his
second student]
Taylor snapped his eyes open, and rose from his lotus. It had been
a risk to meet with Danny tonight, and he would have been unable
to merely intrude on the boy's natural dreams as he had done so
many times before.
Fortunately, Danny had learned extremely quickly in the isolation
of Maidstone Hell, his brain starved of any other meaningful input,
and the boy had managed to find Taylor's astral location. Taylor
wondered if the boy had any conception of how difficult most
people would find such a feat, especially with the safeguards the
magus had set.
Had he remained unaware of Danny's intrusion, the wards would have
shredded his mind. Taylor himself had studied for almost fifteen
years before reaching the level of proficiency his student had
achieved, and he was frankly amazed, amazed enough to show his true
appearance, a mark of respect from one Dreamaster to another.
Still, young Daniel still had many more things to learn, and, with
luck, the next night would enable teaching to begin.
Taylor turned his thoughts from one young prodigy to another,
Fortunately, with the state of interference in the higher planes
these days, this one would come to him.
****************
She called herself Vixen, had done for years now. She used it for
her NatCred account, on her contracts, among her colleagues. She
had been baptised Jennifer Foxworth, but Vixen, she felt, was more
*her*.
The Inspector eyed her shrewdly from behind his antique oak desk.
She didn't the part, all red hair and russet synth-leather, more
like a streetgirl trying to look tough, but there was an
undeniable hard quality about the eyes and the set of the mouth
that belied this.
"The contract is worth 45,000 sterling." he told her. "If you
decide to accept it, I will require proof of the subject's
termination. We don't pay for warm meat. There will, of course,
be no investigation and no trial. I have a disclaimer to that
effect right here, and you may, if you wish, keep a copy should you
require one."
She shook her head. "Just tell me who, where and when."
The inspector smiled. She even sounded harmless, a lilting
local accent, typically Aberdeen. Taylor wouldn't even know what
had hit him.
"He calls himself Taylor. No first name. We have firm evidence
that he's in Aberdeen at the moment, though he travels constantly,
so you'll have to work fast."
"No problem." She shifted easily in the leather interview chair.
"Twenty-five percent up front?"
"Not a chance." he said. "No corpse, no credit. That's the way it
works with MLC contracts, as you should know very well."
Vixen laughed. "Aye, I know, but there's never any harm in asking,
is there?"
"I'll expect you soon, then. Good luck."
She got up and walked. As the autodoors slid open, she said, over
her shoulder "Luck is for amateurs, I don't hold with it."
*****
That's all i've got time for now, folks. Part3 follows.
P'Charnkov! the other day upon the stair
i met a man who wasn't there
he wasn't there again today
Bryan i think he's from the CIA
just because i'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me
^^^^^^^ (for VJM)
paranoia means never feeling alone
From bryan@cornwick.win-uk.net (Pat & Richard Bryant)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Date: Wed, 30 Nov 1994 18:03:31 GMT
Subject: Re: Long Time Coming (III)
The Blue Moon on Union Street was packed, as always, dark and noisy as always,
dangerous territory as always. Vixen felt completely at home here,
even though the bar was full of people who would flatline her in
less than a second had they but known who she was working for.
It was widely known as a bar where, if one spoke to the right
people, the hidden and highly secret Democratic League could be
found.
Vixen had no real beef with the Demos, to her they were people just
like anyone else, but 45,000 sterling for offing just one of them
was the wrong kind of money to pass by.
She simply could not understand why someone would put their life on
the line for a principle. Principles, she had long ago decided,
were for corpses. They had no business sitting on the living.
The problem with the Demos was that when they needed a removal
done, rather than pay money and get it done properly, they’d do it
noisily by themselves, and usually get .zipped in the attempt.
This upset Vixen’s professional sensibilities. Most amateurs did.
A voice hailed her from a corner booth, yelling over the retro-eighties music.
"Hey, Vixen! Decided to join the cause at last?" She made her way
over to the booth. In it sat a young guy, barely more than a
juve, nursing a scotch on ice.
"Hi Jamie. No, I’m not really the joining up sort, you know?
Still, no one’s paying for your head so it’s safe from me. Some of
those young girl’s fathers might have a different idea though. If
you ever need a watchdog, you can call on me."
"And after I put your arm back together, too." Jamie winced. "You
could consider it building up credit for the next time you get shot
up on duty if you like."
"Forget it. I pay my bills cash on delivery."
"Fine, OK, leave me to die by shotgun wounds, ye heartless wee
berrizene." Jamie stuck his head out of the booth and checked for
heat. Then he pulled a flat box from his jack pocket and swept it
over Vixen.
"Hey lay off!" she protested. "I’m nae wired!"
"May be not that you know of, but these things only need brushing by
to fix." The box started to emit a piercing whine near Vixen’s
shoulder. "See?" said Jamie, peeling off a clear piece of plas that
had been stuck to her coat. "Some bastard wired ye right enough." He
tore the bug in half. "I need to speak in private, so you’ll not mind
if I frag this wee beastie." All semblence of joking had passed now.
Jamie actually looked older and much more tired.
"Carmichael spoke to me tonight," he said, wearily. "You’re on a
contract. For one of our people. I don’t like this, but
Carmichael says I’m to help you find this chap, and then leave you
to it. He didn’t say who, but I’ve a feeling I already know.
It’s the guy up from Glastonbury yesterday, isn’t it? It’s
Taylor."
Vixen leaned forward, used to treachery and its resultant
punishment. "Aye, it’s Taylor. So you want him dead, the MLC wants
him dead, probably the Boy’s Brigade want him dead. I don’t care
what the guy's done, or how you Demos know about government
contracts. Just tell me where to find him, and then the job gets
done, I get paid, and we all go back to normal."
"He’s staying in ‘Coulter. At the missionhouse, so no guns, you’ll
have to use a blade. Even I can’t rig a scrambler to fudge the
gunsensors in that place. Are you any good with a monoblade?"
Vixen laughed. "Even better than I am with a gun. Don’t worry your
head, this’ll be over before you know it. Let’s just go get done
with it."
Taking Vixen’s rented MetroCar, they made their way out of Aberdeen
proper, into the seemingly endless suburbs that had grown up over
the last twenty-five years.
‘Coulter or Petercoulter as it was properly known, had developed
into an "out of city centre" since the EuroWar, with blessings from
the Church and the State. The ‘Coulter missionhouse was a good place
to stay if one had clean papers and a clear record, very bad for
anyone even suspected of possible subversive activity. Now that the
Anglican church had been assimilated into the state machine, missions
were fully equipped hostels offering the homeless and shiftless food,
shelter and recreation in return for unqualified worship and
obedience. Thanks be to God, and the Martial Law Committee.
Taylor, Vixen mused, must have extremely good papers to even get
through the door. Probably conned them out of the MLC or persuaded
some Demo forger to surpass himself. He must have been playing both
sides to his own advantage somehow for the two enemies to cooperate
in his removal. The fact that she could be perceived as doing exactly
that herself did not occur to her.
They pulled up in front of the mission.
"How do you want to play this?" asked Jamie, nervously.
"As naturally as possible," Vixen replied. "I’ll walk in, ask the
priest on duty where I can find Mr Taylor and take it from there.
No problem. You, WAIT HERE. If I’m not out in half an hour, get a
message to your boss and get out the hell away."
She got out of the door, went to the car’s boot and took out a
sheathed monosword in the classic katana shape, and stowed it
carefully in her coat. Then, making sure that her papers were in an
outside pocket, she walked up to the mission and opened the door.
Inside the lights were blinding after the darkness of the town.
The smell of wood floor polish and a mild tang of wine filled the
air, accompanied by a soft hymn playing in the background. It
would, if one could overlook the mindcontrol purpose of the place
be rather pleasant.
A priest behind a polished mahogany counter looked up politely.
"How may I help you, child?" he asked.
"I’m visiting an old friend, Reverend," Vixen replied replied
meekly. Could you please tell me where to find him? His name’s Mr
Taylor."
The priest looked down at his desk and tapped a screen. He smiled.
"Mr Taylor is currently in the gymnasium. He seems to be praying,
but I’m sure he would welcome a visit. He seems to be a most
popular and enlightened man. You’re the fifth person to visit him
today. If you’d just care to follow that corridor to the end, and
go through the last door."
"Thank you very much, Reverend." Head bowed, she made her way down
the indicated corridor. Popular? She thought. I’ll just bet he is.
Opening the door, she saw, kneeling on the floor, a white male, about
thirty, with long dark hair falling over his lowered face, stripped
to the waist and hands placed firmly on wide parted knees.
He rose easily as she entered the gym, standing well over six feet
tall. She noticed the compact muscular torso, and the many old scars.
"Hello, he said, deep voice resonating in the polished gym.
Without a word, Vixen drew the monokatana, and approached
carefully, point held low. This man looked dangerous, even
unarmed.
She closed and lunged, a perfect thrust, honed by years of
execting training, but the blade failed to connect.
"Nice." said a voice. She spun, blade raised defensively and cut in
a sweep, again on nothing. Taylor stood, arms folded about five
yards away with a slightly mocking expression.
Vixen lowered the point of her katana, and decided to wait for the
man to come to her. Battle instincts ruled, the apparent
teleportation or illusions could wait. Her only concern was for
the spy cameras located around the gym.
Taylor laughed. "Don’t worry about them," he said. "The priests see
us sitting contemplating the greater glories of God."
"All right," Vixen spat. "We’ll play it your way. Why don’t you
want rescuing, and whats with the mindreaders act? Not to mention
the little ‘he’s-behind-you’ stunt."
"Just playing tricks on you, Jennifer, " Taylor replied. "Just
showing you that blades and guns don’t have all the answers.
Because that’s what you want isn’t it? Answers?"
"Aye, I want some fucking answers all right. Who the hell are you?
You’re pulling some hefty strings to set me up for this wee
practical joke session. And who the hell told you my name?" Vixen
was now becoming geuinely worried. Who were the Demos and the MLC
working to remove? Could this "Taylor" be a top MLC hitter? Would
she leave this room alive?
"I’ll tell you what," announced Taylor. "We’ll try and get some
answers you way first. And if that doesn’t work, well, we’ll have
to try my way, won’t we?"
He strode easily to a kitbag against the gym wall, and drew from
it an archaic medievel style broadsword. Turning, he hefted the
blade, thirty inches of solid gleaming steel. Vixen guessed it
must weigh about thirty pounds, but Taylor held it like a willow wand.
"Left, or right handed?" he offered.
Vixen was ambidextrous, but preferred the right hand for fencing.
She dropped her left hand from the hilt of her sword.
"Fine." said Taylor in response, shifting hands. "Whenever you’re
ready then. En garde!"
Vixen swung toward her tormentor in a blur of controlled
frustration. Taylor blocked easily, using the broadsword like a
rapier. Vixen began to fall into a routine as if she were
practising kata, speed increasing with each blow. Taylor merely
blocked them all, his breathing slow and easy.
Finally, when fatigue began to set in, she fell back a couple of
steps and took a defensive stance.
Taylor smiled. "Steel only knows how to plough and how to kill. I
suspect the answers you want are a bit more complicated." He turned
his back, heading toward the kitbag.
Vixen stepped forward, blindingly fast, lunging at the broad,
scar-crossed expanse of unprotected back.
The delicate monomolecular blade shattered into pieces against the
steel of the suddenly interposing steel broadsword.
"First lesson," said Taylor. "Old swords know more than new ones."
***********
Perhaps I should start Chapter 2 now?
As usual, all comments will be greatly welcomed.
Thanks for reading.
P'Charnkov! the other day upon the stair
i met a man who wasn't there
he wasn't there again today
Bryan i think he's from the CIA
just because i'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me
^^^^^^^ (for VJM)
paranoia means never feeling alone
From bryan@cornwick.win-uk.net (Pat & Richard Bryant)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Date: Tue, 06 Dec 1994 19:13:00 GMT
Subject: Long Time Coming (IV)
0:500hrs
Maidstone PCRF
Danny woke to the familiar siren. A synthesised voice, familiar
in it's flat inhumanity, demanded that he proceed to the exercise
room for morning calisthenics, and warned of impending
"correction" should he fail to comply. Automatically, he rose
from his styro sleepmat, and pulled on the clean pair of nylon
work trousers laid out, as always, in what he liked to call his his intray.
As he pulled on the loose grey trousers, a different, human voice
rang out in his head. "Remember what we spoke about before.
Remember it also when you awake."
Memory started to flow into his consious mind, astral reality,
practical telekinesis, the equasions, the truly higher mathematics
that his master had drilled into his sleeping mind over the past year.
"Do it tonight" repeated Taylor's voice.
Danny smiled. Today was his last day in Maidstone Hell. Tonight
he would make the first escape in twenty-five years.
After seven years, he could wait one more day
*****************
Vixen sat crossed-legged on the richly carpeted missionhouse
floor, her head spinning, her worldview suddenly inverted. In the
past three hours she had seen a man she had been paid to kill defeat her easily in combat, unheard of in itsself and then offer to take her on as a pupil.
Taylor hung in the air easily, sitting on molecules as if it were
the most comfortable of armchairs, a living demonstration of things
she had believed were patently impossible. "Now do you understand?
I've been to a great deal of trouble to arrange this meeting. You
have raw potential and some minor discipline in martial arts, and I
can build on those foundations. Wouldn't you like to fly?"
"Aye, of course I would, " she replied, still dazed. "But, well, why me?"
"Why not?" Taylor said lazily. "I chose you as part of the three.
There are always three, it's traditional." He slowly lowered
himself onto the bed. "And third, so they say, pays for all." He
started, eyes suddenly wide, and then relaxed. "Daniel's woken up,
and remembered. He's the first of the three, you're the second.
Let's get a train to London. Meet your new partner."
"Fine, London, whatever you say, " she managed. Questions rose
like beer bubbles through her clouded mind. Couldn't he just
"magick" them London? Why bother with a train? and who was the third?
Taylor laughed. "One at a time then. First, yes I could but why
should I? If magick exists, like technology, to make lives
easier, why should I exert myself in flashy wasteful magicks when
I have no reason to? Secondly, a train because I wish to get
some rest. We've been up all night, remember? And third,"
suddenly grim, he looked away. "Third is my business, until the time."
Vixen felt suddenly cold. And yet, how could she say no? The lid
of the box had opened a fraction and she had briefly glimpsed a
whole different world. Who could just walk away from that?
"Come on, then" she decided. "Let's get us to London Town."
They found when they arrived at Aberdeen Station, that the
Aberdeen-London train was at the platform, and leaving in two minutes.
"Coincidence." said Taylor, smugly. "Gives us time to pick up some breakfast."
The real reason he had decided upon slow train travel as opposed to
a quarter hour jetflight was that Taylor needed time to check on
the Third, and arrange certain matters for the coming night. A
train offered the perfect surroundings to pretend to sleep, while
still traveling.
As the train pulled away, he let his head fall onto the rest, closed
his eyes and sought out.....
*****************
Maidstone Hell. Gavin pushed his trolly easily along the empty
plas corridors, delivering the food into into cells while their
inhabitants worked. The right front wheel had developed a
noticeable squeak over the last few months, but Gavin liked it that
way. Using the rythm of the wheel and his own footsteps he mumbled
a repetitive wordless tune as pushed. It kept him happy. Gavin
was easy to amuse, these days.
Almost mindless, idiotically happy, he pushed his trolley, put
trays into hatches, hummed his wordless tune.
It had not always been this way. Once, Detective Inspector Gavin
Waters had been the best at everything. Tall, handsome, strong,
undoubtedly a genius, he would have been the best at whatever he
put his effort into. As it turned out, murder was his chosen
field. No-one solved murders like DI Waters. One look at the crime
scene, and he could tell the identity of the killer with a chilling
accuracy. One of the few "honest" coppers left, Waters saw his job
as to protect the public from maniacs who would harm them. In his
naivite, he sought to hold to the system, use its benefits. He had
honestly believed that if everyone was lawabiding, everyone would be
happy. It was inevitable that eventually he would try to catch the
wrong killer, put the wrong people in the dock.
The powers that be had objected. Through their effors, Waters
literally lost his mind. Now he was gone, and in his place simple
Gavin pushed the trolley, working for his food and his bed, happily
singing along to a squeaky wheel.
The trolley trundled on.
*******************
i decided to leave Ch2 for next time.
As usual, all comments rapturously received. I just so chuffed at
the idea that any *reads* this stuff!!
later
P'Charnkov! the other day upon the stair
i met a man who wasn't there
he wasn't there again today
Bryan i think he's from the CIA
just because i'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me
^^^^^^^ (for VJM)
paranoia means never feeling alone
From bryan@cornwick.win-uk.net (Pat & Richard Bryant)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Date: Mon, 12 Dec 1994 22:54:57 GMT
Subject: Long Time Coming (Ch2, part1)
Chapter 2
Waterloo station throbbed with the usual hustle of busy people.
Here and there Vixen could see the small robotic drones used for
routine maintenance rattle forward and backward across the platform
picking up litter. Brought in soon after the advent of true robot
tech, some wit had named them "scutters" after an old flat-vid 90's
tv show. Metallic pincers flashing in the florescent striplights.
Here and there, broken loudspeakers hummed like a static
discharge, while the new holoboards displayed their messages and
the inevitable subliminal "law and order" instructions.
It actually took a special kind of mind to ignore these flashes of
social engineering, the kind of mind that gave rise to net
hackers, hired guns and the other random factors that the Martial
Law Committee so despised.
Not, Vixen thought, that they'd ever expect a mind like Taylor's.
"Actually," Taylor replied to her unspoken thought, "that's where
you're wrong. They know all about people like me. Some of the
committee actually are people like me, if a little younger."
Vixen merely stared at him. It was well known that the Committee
members themselves, five women and four men, were old indeed, at
least into their seventies. Surely Taylor wasn't suggesting that
they were made up to look older than they were? He could only be,
what thirty? Forty?
"Looks can be deceiving, " Taylor said sourly.
Exiting the station, they hailed a metrocab from the taxi rank.
Taylor climbed into the back, settling his kitbag in the luggage
rack. "Oxford Street please," he said.
"No problem, guvnor," answered the cab driver, a short asian man
with a pronounced cockney accent. The door alarm bleeped as Vixen
climbed in. "Could you just pop your shooter on the front seat,
please love?" Vixen did as she was asked, and then sat next to
Taylor.
"Brung your daughter down to the Smoke for your Exmas shopping,
then guv?" asked the cabbie, conecting the jackleads from the
dashboard into his arm.
"Neice," Taylor replied. "Jennifer's never been to London before,
have you dear?" Vixen, used to playing many different roles in her
professional capacity, merely nodded. "How are thing in the city
these days?" Taylor continued. "I've been away for a while,
business you understand."
"Bloody awful, same as usual. Laod of South African exiles tried to
burn down most of bleedin' Brixton the other night, 'spect you heard
that on the news. Bloody immigrants is always a bugger to 'andle,
they ought to repatriate the whole bloody lot of them, mate. Don't
you reckon?"
In the back of cab, the bearded face struggled with repressed
laughter and said something non-committal, allowing the familiar
London cabbie's litany to wash over him. Plus ca change, he
thought, and settled back to enjoy the ride.
A quarter of an hour vanished in much the same fashion, while the
cabbie skilfully guided his vehicle through the scrummage of London
traffic. Vixen watched out of the window, looking at the shape and
feel of the Capital. The new plas and chrome mingled incongruously
with 20th century glass and concrete, Geogian limestone and
Victorian redbrick. The ubiquitous neon lighting glared down on
everything as always. Here and there, a bombsite served as an
unpleasant reminder of the EuroWar of a decade ago. These were
marked with flowers and memorial statues, usually carved from the
very remains of the building. At least, she thought, people still
care about something.
"What's in Oxford Street?" she asked.
"Shops, mostly." Taylor replied. "Also cafes and teahouses. You
amuse yourself with some shopping. Purdey have a rather good
outlet here these days, and you could also pop down to Harrods.
Their range of weaponry has to be seen to be believed. Here."
He handed her a gold credchip. "That should cover your shopping."
"And what will you be up to?" Vixen queried him, pocketing the chip.
"Oh, meeting an old colleague."
The cab pulled up at a busy kerb. Neon shaped to look like
oldstyle Exmas decorations glittered overhead. Taylor slotted a
credchip into teller in the back of the cab.
"Cheers, guv!" exclaimed the driver. "Can't remember the last time
any bugger give me a tip!"
"Merry Exmas," said Taylor, climbing out of the cab. As the door
autoclosed, he heard the cabbie reply "Same to you, mate!"
He turned to Vixen. "Meet me in the restuarant in Fortnum's at seven
o'clock." Then, noting her puzzled look, he corrected himself
"Nineteen hundred hours. It's in Knightsbridge. Get a cab, the
holomaps will show where the interesting shops are."
"Check. See you." She vanished into the crowd.
He headed for the tube and took a train to Piccadilly, enjoying the
crowded carriage, the familiar smell of the tube trains, partly
disinfectant, partly sweat, partly cosmetics mingling in a miasma
of civilised normality. Sometimes, he felt, it was good for a man
to remember that despite everything, he was still just that, a
man. It was something people should make the effort to do more
often, particularly with the current fad for trying to look like
machines. At least the MLC had banned the practice of cybernetic
enhancement except for medical reasons. Probably, in Taylor's
considered opinion, the only thing they had ever done of any use to
the people of Britain, except for making the trains run on time.
Reaching Piccadilly, he left the tube and headed for Simpson's, and
an overdue meeting with his own teacher.
*********
Here endeth the lesson, for now anyway.
As usual, all comments are received with rapturous joy, even the
ones that say how crap i am. Tried to be a little more
descriptive this time, but don't worry, people get killed in the
next one.
later
P'Charnkov! the other day upon the stair
i met a man who wasn't there
he wasn't there again today
Bryan i think he's from the CIA
just because i'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me
^^^^^^^ (for VJM)
paranoia means never feeling alone
From bryan@cornwick.win-uk.net (Pat & Richard Bryant)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Date: Fri, 23 Dec 1994 01:18:52 GMT
Subject: Long Time Coming Ch2 Pt2 (Brief Interlude)
Bryan glances at his watch. The Chat seems to him a little more
alive these days, and for this he is so grateful he could cry, but
he struggles to maintain the traditional stiff upper lip, and
somehow succeeds.
"Okay," he says to the assmebled worthies. "Here's a very little
more. Sorry if it's crap, but it's also late, and i'm knackered.
And thanks for the whiskey, Marcus."
Taking a deep breath, he resumes his tale.
*********
Simpsons, Piccadilly. The whole place did not seem to have
changed since Taylor had last been here, almost fifty years ago.
It was another slight reassurance, a signal that there were at
least some things in the flux of time that were constant, some
places that a man could rely on.
He nodded a greeting to a dinner jacketed waiter and headed for the
rear of the tea room. There, at the back, by a velvet curained
window sat a short, grey bearded man, industriously buttering a
scone. There were three empty chairs around his table. Taylor
took one, removing his hat, which he placed carefully on another.
"You took your time," said the greybeard, beginning to apply
strawberry jam. "It doesn't look as if you've been bored." Taylor
replied. He signalled to a hovering waiter. "I'd like a pot of
coffee, please. And my colleague will have..." he turned to the
other man.
"Tea for me, old fellow. Earl Grey, to be precise."
Taylor nodded. The waiter swished off professionally.
"What did you want to meet for, Magnus?" asked the old man, through a
mouthful of crumbs.
"A small favour," Taylor answered, pulling in his chair. "I have a
couple of new students. I wondered if perhaps you'd explain a few
things to them, tell them a little backround possibly."
"Of course. Always glad to help. What I'd like to know, though, is
why you don't simply tell them yourself."
"Because I'm no spinner of tales. I have no talent for it as you
well know. And new students, well, they need to believe absolutely.
You've had the practice, Ambrose. I haven't."
"Still underplaying yourself, I see." Ambrose grinned impishly.
"And what if I tell them your story, all the sordid details?"
Taylor looked away. "Tell them whatever you like," he said harshly,
"but make sure they know what we're trying to achieve and why.
That's all I ask."
Ambrose nodded gravely. "Vey well. Perhaps.."
He broke off with a start as the waiter returned, carrying a silver
tray. Cups, saucers and two silver pots were placed on the white
tablecloth strongly scented steam rising upward in a fluted spiral.
The waiter, task completed, backed away. Ambrose, however, continued
to stare into the space where he had stood.
"Magnus, do you see that? Can it possibly be.....?"
"Yes. And I know it's impossible. She's dead. But she still seems
to follow me." Taylor, unconcerned poured his coffee, adding sugar,
and slowing floating the cream. "I'm rather glad someone else sees
her too. I began to wonder whether my mind was playing tricks on
me"
"I don't know," Ambrose scratched his beard. "Perhaps I can help
with this little problem of yours. Maybe."
They talked of trifling matters for a further quarter of an
hour, before Ambrose left, the tutorial arranged for the next day,
at noon.
Taylor sat and watched the dead girl, and wondered.
*********************
Short, and possibly painful.
Still, I had to write _something_ tonight. There will be more,
and hopefully better to follow, but its 3:30 am here and I'm now
half asleep.
Have an enjoyable Exmas and best wishes to you all.
P'Charnkov! the other day upon the stair
i met a man who wasn't there
he wasn't there again today
Bryan i think he's from the CIA
just because i'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me
paranoia means never feeling alone
*******************
The light had long faded from the London skyline, replaced seemingly
inevitably by the reflected glow of neon on low clouds. Night
takes this, the most eclectic of cities, in a strange way, muting
the sounds of the life bustling within, dampening the throb of the
constant traffic like a board over a stereo speaker. At night, in
London, people watched warily over their shoulders, damp paving
echoing the stomp of boots.
At night in London, anything can happen.
This was a factor that Taylor was counting on.
In Maidstone Hell, Danny Fielding lay awake on his styro sleepmat,
running through the events to come in his head, ritualising them,
dancing through the steps in a mental dress rehearsal. Making
himself believe it would happen.
Waiting for the sign.
Vixen paced around the floodlit bulk of Marble Arch, trying to hide
her irritation and relieve the sense of imminence that was slowly
beginning to take hold. Taylor watched her from his seat on the
park bench, his eyes vacant, his mind a long way off in space and
time. Drawing himself into the present, he sat upright, took off
his hat and wrapped himself in the black armourtrench.
"Jennifer." he called. She approached slowly.
"What is it? You finally about to tell me why we're sat out here
when it's five c below?"
"I'm going to be almost totally helpless for the next few minutes."
he answered, not meeting her glare. " I'd like you, if you
would, to make sure nothing happens untoward until I control my
body again. Just a couple of minutes."
Vixen, head on one side, regarded him warily. "What's happening?
Will you tell me, or is that you want me to guess, maybe?"
"I'm fetching a colleague. Someone I'd like you to work with, learn
with. The First. Now, will you do this for me?" He looked up and
smiled.
She nodded and watched as his eyes rolled back into his head, and
then slowly shut.
In the automated laundry of Maidstone PRC Gavin slowly fed the
grey uniform jumpsuits into a dryer. Mindless, he took each one
from the washer's outfeed, folded and placed it into the microwave
demoisturiser. One after another after another until - a break in
the robotic action. Tossing down the damp fabric, he turned toward
the door, activating it and striding purposefully down the slate
grey corridor.
Danny rose from his sleepmat, and stood on it. Muttering under his
breath, he exercised his will onto the floor of his cell. He
finished with a barked word and sharp gesture, open palmed. Then
he threw back his head as the aftershock of physical magick rushed
through him, orgasmic to the nth power. Recovering rapidly, he
stepped off the mat onto the floor. Electricity arced wildly
around his bare feet, providing a little light, but never earthing
itself through Danny's body.
Laughing out loud he gestured sharply at the door, focusing his
will upon it. Obedient, it swung open. Danny stepped out, around
a corner, and almost leapt out of his skin at the first truly human
voice he had heard in seven years. A strangely familiar voice.
"Well done Daniel." The tall blonde man before him looked nothing
like the mage in his dreams who called himself Taylor, but the
voice, well, that was, _almost_ there.
"We must hurry," continued the man. "Help me with this grille." he
commanded, gesturing at the wall.
Danny instinctively understood what was asked of him, and bent all
the new-discovered power of his will into forcing the wire mesh
hatch from the plas wall. It sprang free with a clang. The blonde
man reached in and yanked free a power cable. Then, without
apparent effort, he ripped it in two. Sparks flew, but touched
neither of them.
Throwing down one half of the cable, the blonde held up the other
in one powerful hand. Reaching out the other, he commanded
"Here! Take hold! And work the effect as I taught you! Quickly,
boy!"
Danny seized the outstretched hand and concentrated. Lightning
thoughts ran through his head. Energy equals matter. They are the
same. Electricity is energy and flows down this cable. I am
matter, but the will is sovereign over all things. Matter is
illusion. We will travel the cable. We are......... And then
there was the rushing blankness.
At Marble Arch, Vixen fought to control Taylor's suddenly thrashing
body. It jerked and spun in a manner similar to that of a _grand
mal_ epileptic seizure. She jammed the heel of her hand into the
open mouth to prevent the tongue from being bitten off, and almost
cried out at the force of the bite that followed. Whimpering, she
forced a knee into the heaving chest.
Behind her, there was a sudden bang, and Taylor's body went
dramatically limp. Risking a glance behind her, she saw two men,
one naked and barely more than a juve, the other a powerfully built
thirtysomething in a uniform of some sort collapse into the
gravel.
Taylor sat up, gently removing Vixen's knee. Opening his kitbag,
he took out a set of clothes and threw them to the juve.
"Daniel. Very well done indeed. You'll need to put these on,
though."
Danny looked in confusion at the tableau on the bench, recognising
Taylor, and then, openmouthed back to the man kneeling beside him
on the gravel. The blonde man had gone as limp as Taylor had been
before, his clear blue eyes gazing into the middle distance, his
mouth hanging vacantly of expression.
"And thank you, too Gavin" continued Taylor, taking the man's
hand. "It'll all be better soon, I promise you."
And, still speaking encouragement to Gavin as a father to a
distressed toddler, he led them into the City, and the muffling
blanket of the London night.
Pcharn'kov! the other day upon the stair
i met a man who wasn't there
he wasn't there again today
Bryan i think he's from the CIA
just because i'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me
paranoia means never feeling alone
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