From: chandler@alaska.net (Chandler)
Subject: tension builds
Date: Sun Feb 19 00:49:51 MET 1995



Ludwig squints, trying to get used to the thick slabs of memetic plastic
floating on the surface of each eye. Contacts are very sheik in reality
simulation these days. The really hot agencies, the ones who take
federally subsidized kickbacks from the cases they bust, they all use gear
like this. 'Ready?' a soft female voices whispers into his right ear. He
gulps and nods. The effect is like being placed in a narrow tunnel with
the light of an oncoming train rumbling clearly into view at Mach3. Just
before your able to focus and make out the details, you're smeared into
surgically white room. Just sitting in some avant garde chair, waiting for
something to happen. Ludwig turns his head, playing with the tracking.
It's good. About the same as real life after a couple bottles of
JackDaniels. The voice speaks to him again. 'feeling okay now?' He turns
trying to locate the source but fails. A new voice sounds from somewhere
in front of him, it begins to read file names and sources. A car sized
interactive spread erupts from the walls tagged with hypertext references
spanning a whole universe of database and agency organizations. The voice
shows him where to begin.

Ludwig blinked. 'How long was I in?' he asked. '14 hours.' the voice
replied, masked underneath the meatsuit. Meatsuits were developed for
agents working deep cover in 3rd world countries where the NEA,CEA,CIA,NSA
and the like needed a source of information which could withstand many of
the biological extremes of the environments. The result is something like
a human seal covered in strapping, cables and a slimy ooze used to pour
tactile data into the onboard computer. 'Nothing to get hot and horny
over.' Ludwig thought. 'You'll find the rest of the materials you need,
including your operational orders in the dash box of your new car.' the
voice came without the fluttering of lips. Something which was beginning
to unnerve him. He stammered an okay and tries to look professional
leaving, walking out to his new sedan, a different shade of blue. A silent
groan rolled off his lips when he saw it was exactly the same make and
model as the one he left behind.

'407!' A large chunk of red plasticboard sat in his lap, covered with
407s, his operation code. Everything was coded in the agency, part of the
effort to make life as the leading law enforcement agency machine readable
and easily digitalized. He was being sent on an extraction. A run behind
the red tape to save someone's life. And he was going to drive a sedan
doing it. He cringed. He spun the wheel, gunned the engine and pulled out
into the cul-de-sacs of texan suburbia, heading across town for the
Mariott.

They were onto him. He found the first signs on a mob contract database,
updating the information on his whereabouts. They gave a listing of hotels
in town, and the mariott was one of them. The local union of hired goons
would dispatch two 'representatives' to each location to check them out
and then call in the heavyweights. He shoves the remains of a weekends
meals onto the floor and begins to clear a spot on the bed to gear up.
Five minutes later, he's the baddest boy on the block with more hardware
than nasa, more conviction than the entire southern baptist church and a
contract on his head which just went up to 1.3 million dollars. 'Time to
party' he whispers recalling some TV Movie he watched in another hotel a
while back.

Agent Wess is wrong about the car and he's just realized it. The machines
is packed. Enough bandwidthe pouring in to give him live HDTV feeds of all
500 of the basic cable channels, enough CPU musclepower to calculate taxes
for the state of New Hampshire, and the kind of weaponry you only see on
tv. The day is looking up considerably. He pulls off the freeway into one
of the little corporate loops which are home to hotels, carwashes and
office supply stores, the raw materials for todays corporate world. It's
one of those streets all planted with little streets held up by stakes and
wire, with green grass and a gun toting handyman riding the lawnmower
forever out in those emerald seas. You can't approach or leave unnoticed.
The buildings are all topped with security cameras, the roads with thermal
and seismic sensors. The air has the crisp metallic edge of a laser
targeting grid. Ludwig swings the car into the underground garage and
files with the automated valet service. He walks into the lobby with a
bullshit smile plastered across his face. He's on top of the world.

Jonee is done up quite differently from when he was swinging at the mall.
His 28-times-slicker-than-teflon-skin now is covered by big black patched
of shiny black bioplastic membrane, each contorted and stretched like tar
dipped origami mutants. It would be very hard to describe Jonee much
better than that at the moment. He's sliding down the elevator shaft.
Jonee stops, using his hands to brake his descent. Jonee's only half there
right now. He's looking up the CADprints on the building. He pauses,
swings his head around a little and punches a hole in the drywall with his
hand. He fumbles around for a second with a knarl of cables and extracts a
universal interface jack. Most people who know how to do this would be
prepared to spend all day watching the patrons credit histories scroll by.
Jonee would love to do that, but right now he's got an appointment to
make. So he takes the easy way out. He sticks a widespectrum encrypted
transceiver. Then he lets go and enters a sort of controlled freefall down
30 stories before he gets the feed to jive with his hardware.

A halfsecond later he's asking himself why there are 30 identically
dressed business men all carrying the same rolled newspaper wearing the
same ties scattered through the stairwells and lobbies on each floor.
Jonee cringes a little bit. What he needs is a ride out. He pulses through
the security camera feeds until he finds someone who isn't wearing italian
shoes and carrying a S&W.9mm. Crewcut, blonde hair. Cheap suit. Packing a
cellphone and a GLOCK. FED! The fact that the feds would send a
representative into a hotel where 30% of the occupants have the surname
'SMITH' says something about how bad they want to reach him. Poor bastard
doesn't realize he's expendable. Jonee sighs, checking the distance to the
helipad on the roof and dismissing it as too long a climb. He passes his
hand over one of the distended patches on his bodysuit and listens as it
withdraws and slides into his hand a skeletal machine pistol. Jonee's got
some new bioware. His reflexes have been jacked up to the point where he
no longer lives in our time stream. For brief moments, he enters into a
sort of slow motion universe, where you can still see the bullet leaving
the barrel, where you can dodge the sucker punch and most of all, where
you have that one chance in a million of getting out alive. He grinds his
teeth a little and swings down from the elevator shaft onto a catwalk
above the hung ceiling.