From: jgoodric@dante.nmsu.edu (GOODRICH)
Subject: Oh God, not again! 1/2
Date: 22 Oct 92 00:12:03 GMT
UglyJack: Man of our times. 1/2
c copyright 1990- John Goodrich, Dave Nolan, Joey Cote
Based on R. Talsorian's Cyberpunk 2013
Characters portrayed in this story may or
may not live down your street.
UglyJack walked his beat, looking for trouble. Jack was
no stranger to San Francisco, but he had been away for four
years, and the streets change. He doubted anyone would
recognize him as the street brat John Buchannon. Who would
suspect that this scarred hulk had once been a slim, fast
and optimistic kid? More then just flesh had been burned
away when Pvt. Buchannon had stepped on a phosphorus mine in
some South American jungle. The MASH unit hadn't had enough
American cyberlimbs to go around, so Jack had gotten a leg
off a dead Soviet soldier. It was a primitive monstrosity;
barely cybernetic and nearly fifty pounds. Its one advantage
was that it could kick like an express train. Jack had
demonstrated this new ability on an MP, and with one
crescent kick, Jack had smashed most of the MP's ribs. Four
weeks later, Jack was back in the gutters of San Francisco
where he had been born.
The Army didn't pay for "purely cosmetic surgery" to
cover the phosphorus scars, so Jack gave up looking in
mirrors. In this age of synthetic, surgical beauty, Jack
was just plain hideous. He didn't have much of a reputation
yet, but he knew the streets. He had grown up in the neon
glow of the combat zone, knew its pulse, and knew how to do
things people payed for.
Jack Speaks
Our grim little group sat in a dark but reasonably
calm bar. The booster gangs stayed away from the Prophet's
Doom, and the 'chromers were reasonably harmless. "We"
consisted of Min-Black, a young and fairly naive reporter
for Network 54; Jean-Pierre, the best Med-tech that money
could buy; Frost, a solo who covered my butt pretty well,
but didn't know the streets too well; Slate, a Netrunner who
was real fast on the draw; Kyril, a big nomad who was good
all around, and me Ugly Jack, the ugliest street samurai
SanFran has ever seen. Anyway, we were discussing the last
pickup we had in the Pizza Wagon. I rescued and undamaged
people for the San Fran Fast Drive Trauma Team franchise
until I had a real rep. If you think that two killers in an
ambulance is bad, you're dead wrong. Whatever damaged the
client is usually still around when we get there.
Some guy walked in. The rest of the group ignored
him, but I notice little things, like the fact that he was
headed to our table pulling something from his jacket. As
he approached, my hand dropped to the place in my Sov leg
where the 9mm is kept. He just put a card on the table and
left.
I watched him as he walked out, then Frost and I
made simultaneous grabs for the card. We're both boosted to
the max, but I'm stronger than he is, so I got it. All it
said was "Go to the Vigil." The Vigil is a sleazy little
strip joint inside the combat zone, giving a live-sex show
about once a month. I knew about it, but had never actually
been there since it was a few blocks off my regular beat.
After a short debate, we decided to go.
The Vigil was a cute little place, but my attention
was attacked by the glommer sitting in the corner. He
clashed so much I could have shot him in the pitch dark.
Gold Kevlar, red silk, and white leather all fought for
dominance on the garish outfit. Worse still, he was waving
to us. Jean-Pierre had a little trouble when he tried to
order a non-alky drink, but that was soon over with. As we
sat down, he introduced himself as "the Kid". I rolled my
eyes. Then he ordered seven Hackers, the latest drink. I
pointedly ignored it.
Always the blunt instrument, I asked him what Ugly
Jack could do for him.
He gave a queer sort of laugh. "The question is
what can I do for all of you. I represent a powerful
organization, and you as a Trauma Team have an excellent
record."
Frost snorted, "So we're fun in a Pizza Wagon, so
what?"
"Trauma Teams seldom work together as well as you
do. I am prepared to offer you contracts as a group or
individually."
Frost leaned over and whispered "Jap crime. I know
the style."
"Of course you do." I thought as my mind geared up.
Japanese big crime, "Sons of the Neon Crysanthemum?" I
whispered. We didn't need trouble or contracts with the
Yakuza.
"No, not their type of offer."
Darkfist then. They were one of the top three
syndicates in SanFran. Darkfist was good to their
employees; advanced cybernetics, good treatment, and Trauma
Team coverage were just a few of the benefits that they gave
permanent employees. Of course, nobody had ever left them.
You sold your soul, but you got a taste of heaven.
Slate was thrilled, he was hot to get into the thick
of the action. Great.
"Slate, I said, speaking across the table, but not
loud enough to carry across the bar, "This here's a
representative of Darkfist. You never leave them. Ever."
"I know" he said quietly, and didn't meet my eyes.
After about fifteen minutes of negotiation, we came down to
a price on the current job. They wanted us to pick up a
ground truck full of something on pier eighteen.
"Two-fifty bucks per."
Frost didn't like it, "What's in the truck?"
The Kid didn't twitch, "You don't need to know."
I don't like bullshit, "You're not paying us enough not to
know."
"Three hundred"
"Done"
The wharf was about twenty minutes away by monorail,
but I wanted to go get my Sternmeyer M-95A assault weapon.
It makes me feel better when I don't know exactly what's
going on.
We regrouped an hour later at a station. Slate was
going to have a bit of a problem, his M-60 was going to be a
bit conspicuous. Frost took the barrel in his own satchel.
No problem.
One guard came up and gave us some nasty looks, but
Kyril and I snarled at him. He left us alone.
We arrived at pier eighteen an hour and a half
after accepting the contract. Our first problem was the
tall chain link fence with barbed wire on top.
I grinned; my Sov-wear leg may not be pretty, but it
can abuse damn near anything. I snapped a steel post with a
kick, then used it to beat the fence down to a manageble
level. We all jumped over except Min-Black, who hadn't
taken gym since kindergarden. We left him there with the
agreement that we would pick him up as we broke out.
A little way in, Frost signalled us to halt. He was
looking through his IR binocs, and had spotted five heat
sources around "our" truck. After a hurried discussion, we
sent Slate along the other side of the warehouses to cut off
their retreat. Then we started quietly moving up on them.
Everything was fine until the good doctor scraped
his foot and one of the robber-boys heard it. He took a
potshot in the dark, which caused the rest of them to do the
same. Kyril flopped down and gave us some suppressing fire.
Jean-Pierre did the same. I raised my baby and cut loose
directly. Frost, hot to use his new .477 cal handgun kept
moving up.
Nine seconds later, one glom was running and the
rest were spattered across the pier. The runner dashed
around the corner of a warehouse and vanished into a red,
chunky mist as Slate emptied a full clip into him. Final
score; Kyril 1, Frost 1, Slate 1, me 2, them 0.
The messy parts done, we opened the truck with the
keys the Kid had given us and jumped into the truck. Slate
plugged himself into the dashboard while Frost and I checked
out the gunports. "How convenient." Frost had a great sence
of humor Slate rammed the gate to the wharf and then
paused long enough to pick up Min-Black. He revved the
engine and we headed off towards the bright afterglow of
town.
Slate Speaks
Slate's the handle. And that truck was sweet...ANYTHING
with an interface is sweet. I couldn't believe how clean
the truck was... well, before we all tracked the blood of
five punks into it.
Jean-Pierre rode shotgun, and the rest (Frost,
Kyril, and the ever-apocalyptic Ugly Jack) found their
places in back. If you've never patched into anything, I
heartily recommend a nice big vehicle. The feeling of
leaving your own skin behind as you peel away is absolutely
indescribable. Naturally, Ugly Jack and Frost just couldn't
help but notice the oh-so-handy gunports. I hoped we
wouldn't need them. I hoped in vain.
Wound the bitch up to fifty, and went through the
fence like Jean-Pierre's scalpel...smooth. I stopped long
enough to let the guys in back snatch up Min-Black, while I
admired the last bits of barbed wire settling down to earth.
I was suddenly so happy that we had to stop for Blackie...I
got to peel again.
Decided not to go the highway...Not only did we not
want to get spotted by anyone, it would be easier to do
something in the city. About half an hour away from the
Vigil, I noticed two big sedans pull out and follow me.
Took a hard (1.35 g, believe it or not) right to see what
they were up to. They followed suit, and soon we heard the
pitter patter of many little lead things bouncing off the
truck. Frost, Jean-Pierre, and Ugly Jack headed for their
weapons and the gunports...but I knew these guys wouldn't
open up if they weren't ready for it.
O.K...time to show these cocky little Caddies who
was boss. And we were headed straight for the middle of
town. Looked like it would be a good show. First
intersection -- 35 mph; Second intersection -- 49 mph; Third
intersection -- 61 mph in what could be described as an
armored UPS truck. Fourth intersection: Cute little broad
in a Datsun started to pull in front of me (Bitch...just
'cause she had the right of way...) ... Red lights are for
cops anyway. Swerved left, then right, and nailed the gas
just enough to squeak by in front. Think I scratched some
paint off her license plate. Could've bought the farm right
there, but didn't.
The first sedan made it through, but behind the poor
chick (No balls at all...); the second sedan? Well, from the
sounds we heard we figured the malls would be selling a few
extra faces this weekend. The first sedan was still firing
on us, and the guys were ready to do some damage.
Time to lay some more skin down. Brakes engaged,
and with the wheels locked, the gears found their way neatly
into reverse. Left a nice fifty-yard patch (anyone else
would have rolled the beast at least twice) with the wheels
grinding backwards. Almost lost control (Just think about
what I'm doing)...take the other sedan, for example. It
tried the same thing I did, only with a much lower center of
gravity. Perhaps this is a bad year for Physics, 'cause it
did a nice 80 degree skid, then about two flips in the air
before coming to rest around a rather unforgiving network of
steel poles. For a moment, some dark part of me wished that
they were all patched in to that land yacht.
Jack Speaks
Delivery was made, and so we close our first deal with
Darkfist. The second time was much less... fun.
I had a less than ideal day. Two bullets to the
head just doesn't put me in a pretty mood. When I saw The
Kid drive up in his uglymobile, a pink BMW limo with a
purple racing-stripe, I figured I was going to have a bad
day. He had a job for us- we get rid of, either by blowing
up or stealing, a hundred Zetatech crates from a downtown
warehouse. Wheee. We even had three days to do it in. I
was so thrilled I nearly rolled over and went back to sleep.
Ugly jobs after a bad day get under my skin.
Well, Frost putzed around the warehouse for a day
and a half and found out there were several guards. Then
Slate went into the Net to hack the place and see exactly
what was going on. He found out all sorts of neat shit, all
about Zetatech and Militech, their bedfellows, and what they
were shipping.
Sounded like a knock-off, Slate would slice back on
the day of the raid, we would just go in, blow away the
guards, and escape in our loaned truck. Sounded simple.
Five minutes after Slate jacked in the second time, we
busted into the warehouse.
I figured Slate hadn't gotten in when the alarm went
off. It was pitch black inside, and the assholes in the
place were wearing IR goggles. Kyril and Frost did a butcher
job, blowing away the various guards and other assorted
moving objects. One asshole chucked a concussion grenade
that didn't improve my headache at all. I had some problems
getting through their armor with my 5.56mm so I resolved
when the third guard didn't die that I needed a bigger gun.
Kyril lost her leg to a burst of fire and fell screaming.
Then this cybermutt popped up. It was fast, faster than me.
It jumped me and chewed up my chest, just getting through
the kevlar jacket. I guess it had injectors, 'cause I
started seeing pretty colors.
From: jgoodric@dante.nmsu.edu (GOODRICH)
Subject: Uglyjack, 2/2
Date: 27 Oct 92 17:10:32 GMT
UglyJack: Man of our times. 2/2
c copyright 1990- John Goodrich, Dave Nolan, Joey Cote
Based on R. Talsorian's Cyberpunk 2013
Characters portrayed in this story may or
may not live down your street.
Slate came to talk to me after I woke up- seems that he had
saved my bacon after I fell down-emptied a clip of M-60 onto
that fucking dog. He and Jean-Pierre pretty much cleaned up
with Frost. They had taken out about thirty of the boxes,
and seven thou Euro had been deposited in my account. The
first thing I did was pick a new left eye with infared and a
targeting scope. I do learn if kicked hard enough.
Then I bought a new, smart Fabrica del Armes M-2012
assault rifle. Very attractive little piece, lots of power
and plenty of penetration. Kicks like Hell, but I like lots
of kick. It reminds me that I'm killing people. The flash
was pronounced, but I like flash, too. Things started
looking real good through my new eye, I tell you.
Couple of days after I got out of the hospital,
Kyril's family, a nomad pack called the Santiagos paid us a
call. Seems that they were getting a little screwed by
Petrochem, one of the big boy corporations. Ungood. We
decided, since we were nasty bad people, to do something
about it. They couldn't offer us much, but they were
Kyril's family, and I know the value of a good friend.
Rumor said two hovertanks and a good deal of infantry. I
went out looking for depleted uranium rounds. Guess a lot
of the party went out to do the same thing.
Stingray, the manager from Fast Drive decided that
he wanted some action, too. When we all got the week off
from pizza duty, I figured something was up with Darkfist,
like maybe they had a hard-on for Petrochem.
Stingray got us there in a rented piece, so we got
to relax on the way in, but when we got there things looked
ugly. The Santiagos had managed to pick a semi-defensable
position, so there were only three possible avenues for the
panzers. I had an unpleasant flashback to South America,
where I had lost a lot of my left side and my pretty looks.
The tech boys puttered around juggling this, setting up
that, shifting these things around. I dug a pit for the
women and children to hide in during the attack, then
patrolled the perimeter.
Sure as shit, half a day later, a panzer came
churning up the little dirt road that led into the
encampment turned fortress. I hid in the woods to the right
flank. Just after the panzer blasted past, I saw what I had
not expected- ten grunts sneaking in to mop up any remaining
Santiagos.
I popped from behind my tree, unzipped one of them
at medium range, and ducked behind the tree as lead rattled
around me. A few shots pegged my leather-over-kevlar
jacket, but they didn't get any penetration. I repeated my
last maneuver amd removed another one. Everything was
dreadfully quiet for a second, then I heard the plink of
grenade pins.
I threw myself on the ground as eggs landed all
around me. With a whoosh, I was engulfed in white
phosphorous. I screamed as blinding white fire engulfed me
for the second time.
To my surprise, I woke up.
I was in pretty bad shape as far as humanity goes,
but not bad for me- I was alive. A good deal of my chest
was gone, and my meat leg was nothing to rejoice about. I
could still smell my own burning meat as I came out of my
coma. I called Darkfist and asked one of their doctors to
come over and reinforce my abused bones and muscles with
steel and polymer. Had to pay the bastard extra so he
wouldn't make me look prettier. I'm Uglyjack, so I better
stay ugly with a capital U. Then I went back to sleep for a
week or two.
Woke up a little early, the doctor had a present for
me. Seems Slate had iced some bitch with a Soviet arm, so
he gave it to me. Told the doc to slap it on, improve my
image. I took the nail polish off first, though.
I woke up again feeling much better. Better than I ever
had since South America. I had bulging new muscles and a
huge new arm, and I was bad.
First day home I was called at 3 AM by Min-Black,
who was on security for the Obsolete Men, one of Fast
Drive's rockerbands. Meatgroup, no enhancements. Lead
singer, handle Chokka, had been snatched professionally, so
they called me. Requested an AV-7 with a minigun, and went
over to the Zetatech building. On the way, Stingray gave me
mission input; Chokka was a write-off but Fast Drive
couldn't loose face. No problem. Wanted to use AV-7 as
distraction, then invade building from bottom. Didn't work,
Exodus Thrash, writer for Obsolete Men, cashed in. Decided
different approach was necessary.
Stingray picked us up, and took us outside SanFran.
In half an hour I had what I wanted; high explosive rockets
and Binary nerve gas. Went back to Zetatech, and I got to
blow up the top four floors of the building. As I was
getting out the Bianary, something big slammed the bottom of
the AV-7. I pointed the first chemical round straight down,
where the only exits were, and fired. Must have iced more
than four dozen corporate loosers. Planted Binary in each
side of the building, then flew off, mission accomplished,
lots of people dead.
Got to be a big boy after that- Fast Drive (legal aspect
of Darkfist, I now knew) decided that I would make a good
man of internal security. Called that bullshit. I'm just a
grunt, and asked to be put on head of penetration team- I
can shoot real good, but I don't think so fast.
My team sized me up, all nice and clean, respected
but weren't crazy 'bout my looks. Tough.
Dicked about for a few days, then heard that an AV-7
went down. I got on, with the old team- Min-Black, Jp,
Kyril, Slate, and some newbie named Reflex. We hit site
like a hurricane, looking to deal death. Felt good to be
back with buddies again. There was a lurp with missile-
launcher gunning for us. Figured he wanted us, personal-
like. He shot once before Slate erased him with the
minigun. Removed a bit of the hotel he had holed up in,
too. Picked through what was left of him and his stuff, and
found a laser pistol. Slate wanted it in a real bad way,
but I turned it over to Darkfist. Guess they looked at it
and then gave it back to the military.
Next day, we had a problem. Our group, Slate, Jp,
Kyril, Min-Black, and Reflex were way too high profile.
They were going to ship us to South America. Bullshit. I
wasn't going back there. I hated South America very
seriously. I asked for a month's salary to prepare for
departure. 15000 Euro. Spent some time getting all of
Darkfist's junk out of me, those little "extras" that they
could track me down with. There were two tracers, a
programmed kill command, and at least three suicide
switches, and the Doc wasn't sure if he had gotten
everything. It cost me ten thou, in cash. More than I had
expected, but I needed my freedom. I took a motorcycle ride
to the East coast. Once there, I had my distinctive Sov
wear taken off and replaced with body-market parts. Sold
the bike, too, and got myself prettied up real good, almost
unrecognizable. Anyone looking for an UglyJack would pass
me right by, I was even better looking than when I had gone
into the Army.
I never realized until it was gone how much of me
was lost in that cybershit. I took a crash course in
humanity from some guy named Dr. Demento. I had lost so
much that it took me almost a month to realize exactly what
had been gone. I felt clean, 'cause I had a future on my
own, not taking any corporate scuzzbag's orders. I began to
notice things I hadn't noticed for a long time, the smile of
a woman (I was starting to like women for the first time
since my South American mishap with the mine), and the smell
of a flower shop. I was just beginning to like the Eastern
Sprawl when trouble came.
I don't know how they did it, but Darkfist tracked
me down. Some guys popped into the coffin I was using.
Said they were from Darkfist. Tried to keep 'em out, but I
couldn't do shit against their cyberwear. They stuffed me
full of some drug.
I woke up in the same cheap hotel, much to my
surprise. I was whole and un-fucked up. Something was
wrong. No way was Darkfist going to take my leaving them
lying down, especially since I had been part of a corporate
war. When I tried to pick up my weapons, the room spun and
I almost puked. Brainlock. The fuckers had put a brainlock
in me so I would never touch a weapon again. I wasn't that
good with the stuff, but it was really handy sometimes.
After several aborted attempts that left me retching, I
finally got the Fabrica del Armes and grenades into my
duffle. I sold them for cash on the street. I was getting
low on bucks, and I wasn't going to be able to stand them
for a long time. I wouldn't have the cash to get rid of the
lock anytime soon. Yeah, Darkfist had gotten the last
laugh, but it wasn't going to ruin me. They never found out
all my talents; I can rely on weapons other than rifles and
pistols. I still got my hands, and I left the Dojo in
SanFran with a black belt. I might'a been a little out of
practice, but I c'n still fuck up all sorts of people.
I've got a job as a bouncer. Pay is Eu 2000 a
month, and I don't have to deal with guns. I've still got
my improved skeleton, so I don't take a hell of a lot of
damage from meat limbs. And my eye can see cyberwear, so I
usually know when some cyber-freak is gong to try to deck
me. I'm slowly improving my lifestyle, and life is pretty
good all around. Sure, I've been mugged a few times, but
never by less then three people. The new name is Damage, by
the way. Maybe working as a bouncer isn't the best way for
a guy with my brains to go, but it's better than Darkfist's
dirtywork any day. So if you're ever in the Big Apple, come
on into the Space Cowboy Bar & Grill and say hello. Just
don't get rowdy, or I'll beat your face against the bar a
couple of times.
Credits
Featuring:
John Goodrich as Uglyjack Dave Nolan as Slate
Charles Puffer as Min-Black John Kenney as Frost
Rob McKeagney as Reflex and Exodus Thrash
J Joey Cote as "the Kid" and Game Master
C Chris Stevenson as Kyril
A Additionally:
Mike McCarthy as Jean-Paul Rompaul
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