From: flex@camelot.bradley.edu (James Cook)
Subject: Anybody out there remember Stimuli Unchained?
Date: 23 Sep 92 20:34:57 GMT


        If any of you guys out there remember Stimuli Unchained, I
am now back at school and in the process of continuing work on Stimuli
Unchained and some short stories.  To give you a taste of what's coming
in future postings, here's a short story I wrote a little while ago.
As always, criticism is welcomed - let me know what you think (by e-mail
preferably).  Enjoy and stay alive.


                        A Nomad's Story

        It was raining.  It always rained, or so it seemed.  The cityscape
was alive with activity, the videoboards and city lights giving the entire area
an almost alien appearance.  Vehicles could be heard overhead and on the streets
themselves.  People infested this place, spreading their disease, poverty, and
warfare over an unforgiving terrain.  Boosters roamed the streets, peddling
drugs and hatred.  Joygirls could be found on many a street corner, waiting
for their next "sale."  It wa a night like like this that our pack rode into
San Marquis, California.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

        We had been riding for several hours, coming down from Washington,
stopping in San Fransisco for a few days before moving on.  Yeah, San Marquis,
the place where our clan had its roots.  Now, with the pilgrimage complete,
it was time for our people to settle down.  Riding down those wet, grey,
busy streets, our caravan made its way through the center of the city and into
the Combat Zone, where housing was cheap and so was life.  A place where the
vermin that called itself human prowled like scavengers in the shadows.  Yep,
the Zone was home, if you could call it that.  It helped to keep the reflexes
up to par at least.  It was pretty simple, if you were slow, you were dead.
        The nights passed, our clan settling into some abandoned apartments in
the northeastern sector of the Zone.  We didn't look for trouble, but it always
seemed to find us...

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

        Freez slowly wiped a rag over the semi-glossy, black gunmetal barrel of
his 12 gauge shotgun.  As he caressed it, feeling every detail beneath his
fingers, he remembered how many times it had saved his life.  Yes, it was a
part of him, a very integral part.  "Speak softly and wield a big gun" was his
motto, and he personified it from his black leather cowboy boots to his Sintech
mirrorshades.  He had been through a lot in his days, each and every event
sculpting him.  The enhancements helped, too.  They removed the "humanness" he
shied away from.
        Slowly slipping his shotgun into its belt holster and donning his
black longcoat with a flourish of effortless grace, he stepped into the world
of pain in which he existed.  He trudged down the streets, flipping his collar
up as the drizzle began to hit him, his boots kicking through small puddles on
the sidewalk and pavement.  He was off to the bar he usually visited when
in need of some extra cash to make the days go by a little faster.  But money
wasn't the only driving force in his psyche.  He lived on the edge, that
undefinable and undistinguishable nebulous zone on the border of control and
anarchy.  It drove him, pushed him, made him alive.
        He walked toward his destination with a ruthless and monotonous
efficiency, eyes scanning the shadows for any signs of danger as his mind
raced with memories of past experiences.  At last, he arrived, the overcast
gloom and darkness not powerful enough to block out the intense neon glow
from the building known as The Asylum, a bar and dance club on the edge of
the Zone.  Not bothering to brush the water off the surface of his worn, black
longcoat, he ran a hand coolly through his spiked, blonde hair as he approached
one of the bar's bouncers.  Slipping the large man a twenty, he was waved on
with a nod.  As he pushed the doors open, the rush of smoke, sweat, and activity
flooded his senses.
        "Hot night," he thought to himself as he looked around for a place to
sit, his face stone-cold as he removed his shades.  Finding an open stool
next to the bar, he gave his legs a rest and ordered something to quench
his thirst.  His eyes performed a quick but thorough scan of the area, failing
to spot anyone he recognized among the mass of people busy dancing their lives
away on the main floor.  A few drinks later, Freez became aware of a person
approaching him from behind and to the right.  With a turn of his head, he gave
the man his eyes.  The figure was wearing a modular jacket and pants, "gotta be
armored," thought Freez.  The man's hair hung long in the back and sides, but
was pulled away in front to reveal an expensive pair of mirrorshades.  He stood
about 5'6" and sported a good sized ring on his left hand.  Then, he spoke.

        "Buyin' time, choomba?" the man asked, a grin-like shape crossing over
his face as he spoke, his eyes locked directly in Freez's direction.

        Freez's eyes narrowed as he considered that last statement.  "Who wants
to know?" he asked at last, trying to find the figure standing before him in
his memory.

        "Name's Dredge," the man said, extending his hand and flashed an
expensive set of pearlies.

        "Freez," he shook Dredge's hand.

        "Yeah," interjected Dredge as he pushed away some hair that had fallen
across his face.  "I know.  And I also know that you're good at whatcha do.
Real good," he added, emphasizing real.

        "So," replied Freez, his face showing no change in emotion as the
flattery struck him.  "What's it to 'ya?"

        "I might just have a proposition for you regarding some employment,"
Dredge said, cracking a grin as a flash crossed his teeth.  "If you're
interested, that is," he added.

        "What's the job?" asked Freez as he raised an eyebrow.

        Dredge lowered his voice to a near whisper and leaned forward toward
the side of Freez's head as he said, "Harlequin."

        For the first time that night, Freez's face jumped, jumped the jump of
both fear and hatred.  His memory flashed like an old slideshow gone ballistic.
"Harlequin," he thought, "you bastard."  As if the set-up wasn't bad enough,
resulting in the death of Freez's partner, Reed, the "make-up" money Harlequin
paid Freez was booby-trapped with a designer germ.  "What kind of psycho
booby-traps money?" Freez asked himself in a mental voice.  It wouldn't have
been so bad if Freez hadn't split the cash up between the clan.  Although
Freez was one of the lucky ones, many others weren't.  That made it personal.
        Dredge straightened himself, looking around as he pulled out a cigarette
and let it hang from his mouth while he searched for a lighter.  Freez
remained motionless, his eyes staring forward with a blank and lifeless gaze.
The flame from Dredge's lighter snapped Freez out of his trance.  "You there,
chombatta?" Dredge inquired as he lit the cigarette.
        Freez performed a quick shake of his head and blinked a couple of
times, trying to get the memories out of his head before saying, "Yeah, just
wonderin' what the hell Harlequin wants with me this time, that's all."

        "Simple.  He wants you to play enforcer for him and rub a guy in the
right way, if you know what I mean," he said, the smoke from the tip of his
cigarette swirling around the mirrored lenses of his glass in a dream-like
pattern.  "And he's payin' good, too."

        "His cash doesn't exactly thrill me, but how much are we talkin' here?"
inquired Freez as he raised an eyebrow.

        "Harlequin told me 4K."

        Freez, remaining perfectly emotionless, carefully weighed the situation
before him.  "Why me?"

        Dredge raised his eyebrows and slightly lowered his head as if to say,
"Pardon me?"

        Freez patiently repeated the question.  "Why did Harlequin want me?
Why not let some of his usual street trash do his dirty work?"

        "Ahhhh," said Dredge, his understanding now clear, "I see.  Harlequin
simply wanted to make amends for any alleged foul play on his part in the past.
It is merely an opportunity to "forgive and forget," as people used to say," he
stated, sounding like some college professor instead of the dealer he was.

        "Frack that, chummer.  Don't feed me no line here, man.  Everybody's
tryin' to cheat everybody else.  It makes me sick," Freez said with an
obvious note of disgust.

        Dredge looked around, as if to see if anybody was listening to their
conversation, before continuing in a lowered tone of voice, "All right.
Harlequin's been losin' ground lately and he needs a quick fix to set him
back where he used to be.  He knows that you can do it by squelchin' this guy.
That's why he wants your help."

        Freez let a grin escape from the mask of his face.  "So, Harlequin's
finally got it in for himself, huh?  Playin' a little catch up, here?  I guess
I might be able to squeeze enough pity outta me to consider helpin' him."
Dredge smiled and started to say something, but Freez continued, "But I want
10K, no less."

        Dredge's mouth hit the floor, a textbook example of shock plastered on
his apalled face.  "There's no way I can guarantee that kind of cash.  Are you
crazy?"

        "Whadda you think?" Freez asked with a grin and a sparkle in his eye as
he turned to finish his drink.

        Dredge just stood there for a while, motionless, obviously still in
shock with the cards that fate had dealt him.  He started to turn to leave when
he heard Freez ask, "Where 'ya goin'?"  Dredge turned toward a smiling Freez,
once again caught off guard by his statement.

        Freez ran a quick hand through his hair and leaned back against the
bar.  "I'm just kiddin', choomba.  I'll do it for 4K, but only if I have half
up front, right now."

        Dredge considered the options that lay before him and slowly,
hesitantly pulled out a large roll of dollar bills.  He handed the roll to
Freez, who counted it quickly before placing the cash in an inside pocket of
his jacket.  "So," he started, "who's the lucky guy?"

        Dredge sat down on a stool adjacent to Freez, once again looking
as if to see if there were people listening to their conversation.  "Name's
Logan.  He hangs out in a small club a few blocks north of here called Club
Neon.  Big chromer population there.  He's got hair down around his shoulders
and it's colored day-glo pink.  He's got a tell-tale light tattoo of a knife
on his left cheek.  You can't miss this guy."

        "All right.  I'll do it.  Anything else I should know?  Like if this
guy is really the head of some gov agency or somethin'."

        "No tricks, man.  This guy has been blowin' off payments to Harlequin
so Harlequin wants him out of the picture, as a show of his power.  That's it."

        "It better be.  You meet me here in an hour," responded Freez, still
not completely believing Dredge's story, as he got up and walked out the door.
He hailed a cab, telling the driver to take him to Club Neon.  He arrived
inside of five minutes.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

        Club Neon was a happening place.  Chromers to the left, the rock
band insignias covering their clothes and skin, Dorphers to the right, their
bloodshot eyes and crazy looks making them stand out like a sore thumb as they
walked along in their drugged stupor.  Not to mention the occasional
occasional "tough guy" doing his rounds.  The sign outside read:
"Admission Half Price - Rock 'til Dawn."  "All the better," thought
Freez as he pulled out a five and handed it to the attendant behind
the ticket window by the door.  The smoke was pouring out of the place, giving
the club the look of an old horror flick from pre-turn-of-the-century days.
Once inside, Freez began his search for the man Dredge called Logan.
        He wasn't too hard to find, but it wasn't the hair or tattoo that gave
him away.  It was his ego, displayed by his radical thrash-and-slash dance
style which compelled him to literally throw people out of his way if he so
desired.  The hair and other affectations just helped to confirm Freez's
perceptions.  Successful target acquisition.  Prepare for missile launch.
        Freez moved with the fluid grace of a professional killer through the
heaving crowd of bodies, slowly worming his way to Logan.  When he was within
two bodies from his target, he subvocalized the command word that activated his
boosted reflexes.  They kicked in just about the time he was next to Logan.
The world seemed to slow down instantaneously as his nerves went into overdrive.
The music sounded like a record being played on a slower speed and all the
dancers seemed only to sway around him.  His arms were a blur as he flipped his
shotgun up from its leg holster and slammed the trigger home, feeling its
comforting kick in his hands.
        Logan's body was raised off the ground for just an instant before it
fell back onto a group of dancers, arms spread out wide as if to grab hold
of something to prevent the imminent fall.  The second shot finished the job,
shredding through Logan's flimsy armor jacket and sending tiny droplets of
blood out in a spray away from the wound.  Logan's eyes seemed to stare right
through Freez as his body crashed to the ground, involuntarily convulsing in
the spasms of death.  Freez was out of the door before anyone knew what
happened.  His taxi was waiting around the corner.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *
        
        Dredge was waiting in The Asylum, as Freez had hoped.  Freez came in
and sat down right next to him, not bothering with the formality of greetings.
"It's done.  Pay up."

        "You killed him that fast?" exclaimed Dredge, quickly remembering to
lower his voice, lest anyone overhear something incriminating.

        Freez smiled quietly and said, "Flatlined."

        Dredge just shook his head.  "Man, Harlequin was right.  You are
unbelievable."  He slipped a wad of bills under the table to Freez's waiting
hand.  He could see Freez mentally counting, apparently flipping through the
bills while keeping his hands under the table.  Dredge started to leave, but
Freez stopped him.  A look of confusion with a hint of fear was painted on
Dredge's face, his mirrorshades betrayed by the rest of his face.

        "Here's my offer of friendship," said Freez as he placed both rolls of
money into Dredge's hands, squeezing his over Dredge's to prevent him from
leaving.  "You give this to Harlequin.  Nobody else.  You don't keep a penny
for yourself and you don't give any away.  I want Harlequin to know that he
can trust me.  I know I can trust him."

        "All right," said Dredge, "I'll do it.  You wanna let go of my hands
already, man?"

        "And if you don't do it," Freez continued, leaning closer to Dredge's
face, "I'm gonna flatline you in less time than it would take the coroner to
declare you dead.  Understand, chombatta?" he asked, emphasizing each syllable
in that last word.

        "Yeah, I get it already, man," said Dredge, visibly irritated and a
little freaked out.  "Just let go of my hands.  He'll get it.  Don't worry."

        "Good," said Freez as he let go of Dredge's hands.  "Catch 'ya later."
With a step, turn, and a whirl of his black leather longcoat, he was out the
door, into the rain and street he called his own.  As he walked the route home
from rote, he gently reached into a pocket of his jacket, pulling out a small
vial and rolling it around between his fingers.  He looked at the label, seeing
the small skull and crossbones insignia shine slightly in the iridescent neon
glow of the city.  "Trust you as far as I can throw you, Harlequin," he said
out loud as he threw the vial into the air.  He watched it roll and spin as it
raced along its arced path, a rooftop coming up to meet it with a crash and the
sound of glass shattering.  Satisfied, Freez took a deep breath and continued
on his way.  As he walked, he smiled the smile of vengeance and retribution.
"There's a present from Reed and the rest of my clan, chummer."  The rain
ran in tiny rivulets down the creases in his leather as he trudged his way
home, feeling the comforting weight of his shotgun on his hip.

(c) Copyright 1992 - James M. Cook - All rights reserved and deserved.