>From: joan@uncmed.med.unc.edu
Subject: A Blast From the Past
Date: 2 Jan 91 15:18:49 GMT

I am posting this for a friend, please send any comments to him.
 aubey@gimli.asd.contel.com (Ken Aubey)

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--  {  } paragraphs are  close-up of Honey-san, soft-focus lens, subdued
    lighting
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The crowd's still building. A hot night at the Chatsubo. So far I've made a
little bit of money. Small stuff, mostly; handguns, ammo, rifles. Not bad for
the first night.

{A woman in midnight blue and cherry red approaches the table. Short, tight
dress, fishnet stockings. She looks like she just stepped out of a music video.
Her hair, eyebrows and lashes are metallic silver, as are her corneas. All of
the measurements of her face and body have been sculpted by the surgeon's knife
and laser to conform to within a millimeter's tolerance of the current cultural
concept of vidstar perfection. She takes a seat, smiles a perfect smile. Her
eyes have a different hardness, a different edge than the eyes of the
razorfolk.}

<The man in the old jacket gestures almost imperceptably to a waitress, and an
extravagent mixed drink in a plastic bamboo cup arrives, laden with soy fruit
and shoji paper umbrellas. He checks his tab.>

My account has just been debited another twenty new yen. What a surprise. I
hope she gets a reasonable cut. Suddenly, I feel very aroused by this woman. I
want her, badly, right now.

<A yellow telltale flickers on the heads-up inside his shades. The sensors
imbedded in his hypothalamus report on the presence of pheromone molecules
bouncing against his blood / brain barrier. He triggers a neural command and
the new kidneys go into overdrive, ridding his blood of the foreign chemicals.
A small synthetic organ inside his chest has completed its analysis of the
pheromones, high-quality designer stuff in the perfume, and begins to secrete
maskers into his bloodstream. Less than a second has elapsed.>

I'm no longer in love. "What do they call you, my dear?", I ask.

"Honey.", she answers. "'cause I'm *so* sweet.". The voice, too, is perfect,
surgically-altered, chip-enhanced with subsonic harmonics to a sexy huskiness
that brings an immediate visceral response.

"So, Honey-san, I'm new in town and lonely. Talk to me." I don't mind paying
for companionship. In my line of work, you get used to it. You learn a lot
about the territory, too.

{The perfect woman begins to talk. She, too, is an old friend to loneliness,
and knows that many will pay her just for her voice, her smile and her company.
She has no complaints, as long as the expensive fruit juice in the drink cups
keeps arriving regularly.}

<The conversation is inane, shallow, a bit compulsive.  A child's words spoken
in a sex toy's voice. The same people who paid for her physical perfection have
arranged for a mental crippling to go with it. Typical. Medicine Hawk feels the
red anger growing inside once again, another legacy of his father's genes. He
wants to avenge this woman's stolen potential. He calms himself, for he knows
all too well that if he did, he would be the only one who would feel better for
it.>

". . . that was a few days ago, ya' know? Things have been really, really, ya'
know, tense around here, ever since the door got shot down. It's been, ya'
know, even worse since those men grabbed Ms. Liralen . . . "

Recognition chills my bones. I interrupt the stream of words. "Ms. Liralen?
Would that by any chance be a Ms. Liralen *Li*??"

"Yeah, it is. Do you know her? She's always been nice to me, nicer than the
other samurai . . . One time . . . ". She gasps and recoils.

<The acrylic mug in Medicine Hawk's hand, guaranteed unbreakable by its
manufacturer, shatters under the pressure of his grip. Red blood and brown beer
mix on the tabletop. The bearded man seems not yet to notice the plastic shards
that pierce his glove and flesh.>

"Where are her friends? If she's been here, she's got a couple good friends.
Where are they?" I slip a credchip across the tabletop. The liquid crystal
readout blinks "1000 . . . 1000 . . . 1000 . . .".

Honey's eyes are wide with fright and surprise. Bleached sclerae scream white
all around her quicksilver corneas. "Over there, Mr. Argent, the tall man in
black and chrome . . ., and the guys he just came back in with . . . but . . ."

<Medicine Hawk gets up, ignores the rest of the words. He walks across the bar,
toward the spot where the men stand, where past and present will meet in the
Chatsubo's blue lights. Unconsciously, he falls into his drill-sergeant stride,
his centurion swagger. The razor-edged denizens of the bar, unsure why, step
out of his way, even though they are all taller by a half a meter, at least.>

I look up into the eyes of the white-skinned man in black and say, "Gentlemen,
we need to talk . . ."

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--   Ken Aubey   ( kaubey@europa.asd.contel.com )
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From: aubey@GIMLI.ASD.CONTEL.COM (Ken Aubey)
Subject: A Blast from the Past
Date: 24 Jul 91 16:41:01 GMT

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--    (for the movie in your head):
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--   unmarked paragraphs are narrator's POV, voice-over soundtrack.
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<Running Wolf sits up bolt upright in bed. Sweat beads his forehead. There is a big Bowie knife in his hand. It is not a knife he uses against material foes.
As quickly as it had come, the disturbance is gone. Ylse's long fingers massage
the tension from his knotted shoulders as he chants quietly in Cherokee.>

<Medicine Hawk gazes down at the slim figure beside him. Silently damning those
who have done this thing to his oath-sister, he adjusts the heavy restraints on
her arms and legs, smoothing them to lessen the irritation to Liralen's bruised
and abused flesh. The big, scarred hands move with more gentleness than their
appearance would ever imply.>

Hell, starting to get sleepy. Hope one of the Mechanics takes over soon. I been
awake for goin' on too damn long. Need some rest so I can take this itchy shit
off sooner.

<The shirt opens. Medicine Hawk annoyedly scratches at the tape that supports
his damaged ribs. On the skin and muscle beneath that grey shirt, long years
of war have sculpted and painted a monstrous masterpiece in the medium of scar
tissue.>

<The greying head snaps up. Nostrils flare like a hunting hound's. Fear's
icy fingers play along his spine. Something is definitely up. Something wierd.>

[The pale sun rises over the mist-covered moors of Caer Myrddhin. Below the
castle's walls an army is camped, the first cookfires spreading orange glow
through the early morning fog. The Twenty-third Legion would break that siege
this morning.]

[An Elf child screams, then weeps at the sight of her father, bloody and
limping, led into the castle by the grim-faced Dwarven soldier who had amused
her by pulling coins from her ear the night before. She had watched him in
wonder, for he had not used any magic at all. "He'll be all right", the soldier
says, in a musical language that falls clumsily from his tongue.]

[The same child, now grown, rides through the forests. War or no, she feels
safe, guarded by the same strange soldier who rides beside her. Awfully tall
for a Dwarf, short for a Human. Rough and crude compared to the Sidhe nobles
she grew up knowing, but very unlike the mad dogs in man-form who often sell
their swords in wartime. And from the lands aross the Border, as well. An
altogether fascinating combination.]

[Glistening Sidhe tears run down smooth cheeks and the slim chest is wracked by
fierce sobbing. The bearded soldier looks up into the tear-filled eyes of the
fine-featured face he holds between big, scarred hands. "Lass," he says, "it
could never be. Would you expose all of your companions to your father's wrath?
The soldierin' life would never fit you." The powerful hands wipe away the
elven woman's tears with an old black bandanna. "My kind of life's just not
right for you." A quick kiss and he is gone. The tear-and-old-blood-stained
bandanna is clutched tightly, a talisman against the loneliness.]

[Eyes of liquid silver, fingers so slim and elegant. The eyes look across the
crowded, smoky room, filled with Human strangers, toward an ugly man with
a metal and plastic prosthetic arm. There is wonder, and a little fear in those
beautiful eyes as they gaze out upon a room full of alien strangers.]

<Medicine Hawk stumbles toward the red call button on the wall, hits it open
handed. Two armed Mechanics rush though the door seconds later, followed
closely by Running Wolf, grasping a stone-bowled pipe hung with eagle
feathers, as well as an automatic shotgun.>

<Hawk sits sprawled on the floor, back against the wall. He looks up at the
three who have entered with an expression partly shock, partly exasperation
and, strangest of all, part mirth. He searches for the right words, the right
expression. Finally, he says, "HO - LEEEE SHIIIIIT." and shakes his head.>

"We got a vehicle I can use? I gotta go find somebody."

"Yeah, but you really ought to stay hidden until we can find a doc for Liralen
and get you all out."

"Damn, Belladonna, y'er bein' practical again. Even better idea. I'll make
a phone call. Let her cousin pick her up. Surprise her like she surprised hell
outta me."

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-- Ken Aubey (aubey@gimli.asd.contel.com)
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