>From: snarler@MAPLE.CIRCA.UFL.EDU (Drifter...)
Subject: REPOST: The Unnamed Storyline - Part 1
Date: 10 Jul 91 08:21:36 GMT
The Unnamed Storyline - Rico Arrives
========================================
"All the thinking never done,
all the murder all the fun.
Wash the blood from your hands,
bury your secrets in the sand...
and forget!"
--"Skullcrusher" by Overkill
"Comin' up on the site," the pilot said. Her voice was muffled from Rico's
position directly behind her. The jump-copter was cramped. He had spent most
of the voyage sweating and idily studying the silicon slivers protruding from
behind the woman's ear. The piloting chips were long and gray, streaked with
yellow and black.
Chuffing, the copter swooped in a mild arc towards the sand below.
Styrations of pale tan, dotted with black, blurred underneath. The copter's
blades were tilted forwards to accelerate the vehicle.
"Watch closely and you'll get a look in the testing compound," the pilot
said. A finger flicked out and clicked against the transparent plastic on the
left. Rico looked past the circuited fingernail and saw a cluster of gray
boxes that were resolving into the organization's Mexican desert project site.
About a kilometer in front of the buildings was a hexagonal area marked by
just the shadow of some sort of fencing material.
The area inside the hexagon was the same sort of sand, only flattened out.
Heaps of scrap metal were littered inside. "I don't see anything," Rico said.
"Guess they're on break. The heat gets to be a real bitch. Glad I don't
have to stay out there fucking with the 'bots." The pilot flicked her fingers
and the jump-copter was dropping suddenly, as if the hand of gravity had just
reached out and started pulling them down. Rico nervously closed his eyes and
imagined he was perfectly still. Until the imapct of the landing.
It felt like his liver was shaking hands with his esophagus.
"Shit. Sorry about that." The pilot offered no explanation for the
harshness of the landing. Rico struggled with his harness.
"How the hell--" he said. The pilot turned around, watched Rico for a
moment, than reached out and pushed against the locking mechanism with her
palm, popping it open. "Thanks," Rico said, slightly embarrased. Blue hair
waving, the pilot just nodded. Rico opened the door on the right of the
vehicle and pulled himself out with a bit of grunting. He slammed the door
shut behind him and lumbered away from the copter. Rotors still cycling, the
copter's runners compressed with a faint whine and then snapped open, and the
machine was tossed into the air. Without a wobble, the pilot pulled it up out
of its downwards arc and headed back to her port.
Rico watched the copter grow smaller, sweating in his desert survival
uniform. The supply people hadn't had anything in his size, so they had
assembled several smaller uniforms into the uncomfortable and ill-shaped thing
he was wearing. Something in the synthetic heat-reflector made his skin itch
terribly.
Eyes stinging, Rico started plodding towards the nearest building.
High wind strummed against iron girders. Flakes of rust drifted off the
beams as they vibrated, harmonics just at the low end of hearing. Moans of
ancient Vulcan, forging his element.
Sand whipped across the desert floor, hugging it like a cruise missile as
the wind shifted suddenly in zig-zags. The particles made a low hissing sound
when they hit Rico's boot tops. He trodded slowly on, passing underneath the
roof of what was once a storehouse for the agricultural factory that had
closed up years ago. The desert reclamation project had died when the fallout
drifted through.
Now partly shaded, Rico's breathing slowed a bit. His bulk shifted
ponderously, the fabric of his uniform stretching and wrinkling in contrasts.
Dark stains ran under the armpits, on his front and back.
Looking into the corners of the vibrating, murmuring structure, Rico
observed discarded farm equipment. Much of it was somewhere between working
whole and total disassembly. Tractors, threshers, planters, and cultivators
formed a great framework of rusting scrap and discolored plastic. Debris of a
lost dream.
Rico slowed to a stop near the middle of the building, the fabric-rubbing
sound of his movement dying out. He turned slowly, brow furrowed. A small
breeze, splinter of the stronger wind outside, cooled the sweat on his face.
The quietness was oppressive, an invisible rime.
\---Something else would work better than "fabric-rubbing sound",...maybe
\---something like "the sound of his movement, synthetic fabric rubbing in mild
\---protest against his girth, fading to silence."
With a loud clatter, a sheet of paneling fell off a water purification
system. Rico jumped at the noise and then froze as something worked its way
out from behind the hopelessly decayed machinery. Clouds of reddish tinged dust rose slowly and sifted through the breeze.
It came towards Rico in steps. The sand was a difficult surface for it to
move on; its tripod form pulling itself forward several feet at a time. First
the front leg, and then the rear legs, leaving a set of parallel lines framing
a perforation in the sand.
Clusters of dusty black limbs made up the legs that stuck out from the
bottom half of the central oblate. The top half bristled like an ancient art-
deco lighting decoration. Rico shifted his weight from one leg to the next,
trying to relieve the ache in his ankles. For some reason, it didn't occur to
him to walk closer to the tripedal robot.
Everytime the machine intersected a beam of sunlight, the layer of dust
and rust particles coating it would be highlighted. Scratches formed a lacy
pattern under the film of dirt. Rico could hear the clattering sound the limbs
made as they bent and flexed. He wiped the dripping sweat from his brow with
the edge of his hand and waited until the robot stopped several body lengths
away from him.
"RiccckKKkrrRRkkKK... Ricckkco Rodrickkuezzzk?" Badly distorted, the
voice came from a crackling speaker attached somewhere to the body sphere of
the robot. Someone relaying through their slave. Rico could not perceive the
gender.
"Yes," Rico said. "Where is Senor Bathfellow?"
"FollockkkCKCKKK! ckck-kkkcch..." A pause. "Follow."
The machine started moving again, at a tangent to Rico. Its speed was
moderate and Rico didn't follow until it had gained several meters on him. His
feet seemed to be slipping on the inside of his boots. He hoped there would be
athlete's foot treatments available.
They stopped at a grimy, disused lump of an automobile. The robot
clattered noisely and seemed to fall over. Then it was lifting a buried steel
plate out of the sand, several groups of limbs lodged through holes in the
plate. Other limbs at the opposite side of the body were wedged into the
fender of the Grayson Sabre. The robot resembled a giant hinge from one angle.
Sand ran down the steel plate as it tilted further up and revealed a black
pit in the ground, ringed by concrete. With a few twitches, the robot stopped
and held the plate in place.
Rico paused to look in the pit. "Can you turn on some lights?" he asked,
wondering if there was anyone even listening on the other side of the robot.
"CkkckckkkkkkKCKCKCCCHH--" Silence.
Rico shifted his weight. He looked into the hole and could see reddish
rungs sunk into the side of the concrete well at regular intervals. Sighing,
he laborously turned and got on his hands and knees at the edge of the hole.
With the silent, plastic machine holding rock still, Rico managed to lower
himself downwards and onto the rungs. He stepped downwards carefully, barely
able to see below himself more than a yard. He started to climb down.
\---earlier description of the robot makes it seem more metal than
\---plastic...maybe "silent, rust-ridden machine" or some other descriptive
\---term would fit better?
A horrendous bang caused him to nearly lose his grip on the corrugated
iron rungs. It was pitch black. Rico's heart thudded for several moments until
he realized the machine had simply dropped the steel cover into place. He
heard echoing thumps from above.
Breathing hard and still sweating, Rico started climbing downwards again.
Slowly.
Above, in the deserted and dishambled warehouse, a collection of rods and
plastic wiring flicked sand back and forth over the stained plate of metal it
had dropped, until it was once again buried and hidden from sight. Then, with
ticks and clatters, the thing climbed inside the hull of a never-used dust
cropper and settled flatly on the floor. It became silent.
Slowly, the dust shining in the air drifted away on a wind shredded by the
intrusive formation that humans had wrought.
* * * *
Stuffy darkness engulfed Rico like molasses. The cones and rods in his
eyes misfired from lack of stimulation, making irritating fireflies float in
the blackness.
He had to work totally by feel, carefully putting his right foot down
until it would tap on a lower rung. Then he would feel for the next rung below
the one he gripped tightly, palm sweating against the coarse metal. Each step
down was a cautious process.
The tedium of the descent was broken only occasionly by the odd missing
rung. As he went, Rico noticed the air cooling, becoming bearable. He was
lower than the sun's radiation could penetrate through Mexico's sea of silicon
He breathed the smell of old, dry concrete, the bitter taste working its
way into his mouth. And he descended.
"Taking the fat fuck long enough to get down here."
"Hey, you told me to have him come down the shaft. You wanted him here
quick or slow?"
"Can't let anyone see the shit down here till they're cleared. If you and
your fucking buddies would keep things organized we wouldn't have to *make*
time to put it all away."
"Hey, fuck you Claire. It's not like there's a chance of it being anyone
but the overseer. Shit..."
"You just keep it up you little street-rat asshole and I'll be shifting
your sorry ass back up with the grunts on the surface. Comprende?"
"Yes... *Ma'am*."
It was more than surprising when he put his right foot down for what
seemed the thousandth time and it jarred against a hard surface. Rico managed
to lose his grip on the rungs and stumble. His heart was thrumming at maximum
speed until he realized he had simply reached the bottom of the shaft.
It took several minutes to let his breathing and pulse return to an
acceptable pace.
"Now what?" he said out loud, the first sound he had heard, minus his
breathing, for some time. No one answered him. Several minutes passed, and
Rico became acutely aware of the pressure in his bladder. He had a wild,
terrifying thought that there was no way out of here, that he would have to
climb all the way back up to the top and try to lift open the massive steel
plate covering the shaft.
Then he was blinded by bright, actinic light as an opening peeled wide
against one part of the concrete tube.
"Rico Rodreguez?" The voice was female, strict and no-nonsense.
"Um... Yes." Rico was blinking rapidly, his vision badly blurred by teary
mucous. Through tightly dilated pupils he could only see a blurry form against
the light in the doorway. "Are you--"
"We must have confirmation of your identity."
"Uuhh, yes." Rico fumbled with his uniform, still semi-damp with sweat. He
took out a small, unlabled cartridge from one of the chest pockets. He held it
out to the blurry form, which took it and fiddled with something. "Uh, could
you turn down the lights?" Rico said after a moment.
"Please wait until you are confirmed before speaking," the voice said.
Rico sighed and kept his eyes trained to the side of the concrete chamber. He
heard the tapping of keys broken by several short pauses, then a long silence.
Rico shifted his weight, the pressure in his bladder starting to reach the
point of being painful.
"Ok. Give me your hand." The blur reached out and Rico lifted his right
arm up. His hand was grasped immediately by another that felt cool, strong,
and boney. It made him instantly aware of how sweaty and large his own hand
was.
"This'll sting," the voice said, sounding a bit distracted. Rico nodded
and felt a sharp, precise pain at each finger tip. It lingered only briefly
and was gone by the time he could hear the DNA analyzer being clapped shut.
Another short pause.
"Sir. Glad to have you here, Mr. Rodreguez."
"Thank you," Rico replied distractedly. "Um, do you think it would be
possible for me to use your waste facilities?"
"Uuuh, of course," the voice said, sounding faintly amused. Or disgusted.
Rico wasn't sure.
"I am afraid I can not find the way there myself," Rico stated, gesturing
vaguely to his tearing eyes. It was an awkward moment.
"I'll take you to there." The cool, strong hand grasped Rico's again and
led him out of the shaft.
Rico finished washing his hands in the tiny shiny steel bowl of the
chemical waste recycler. He pulled the worn flush handle and watched the water
drain away with a sucking noise. Behind one beige-painted steel wall he heard
something revv up to a steady rattling hum. The bowl started to refill with a
slow trickle.
His hands smelled of sterilizing chemicals.
Using the same system for both waste and cleaning was a necessity, with
only one well feeding the refurbished nuclear shelter. It had never been
intended to support as many people as it had for such a long period of time.
"Mr. Rodreguez?" the woman's voice inquired from behind the thin metal
door. Rico unlatched the door and pushed it open carefully, so as to not hit
the woman by accident. He stepped out of the chemical bathroom into the
concrete travelling corridor. A shadow corridor, lit by buzzing flourescent
tubes and greenish biobulbs.
"Thank you," Rico said to the short, boney woman who had waited patiently
for him to finish. "I'm sorry for the trouble. I am, how you say, weak
bladdered?"
The woman nodded, making no comment. "You can see all right now?"
"Yes. It would be better if I could rinse my eyes."
"Can't use that water. We'll get you some fresh water for your sleeping
quarters."
"Good. Now if you please, can you show me to your commander? Senor
Bathfellow?"
The woman's mouth twitched and she said, somewhat cooly, "I think you mean
Senorita."
Rico studied the woman carefully. She was outfitted in the same sort of
uniform as his, which did nothing to indicate the form underneath it. Her
brownish-gray hair was brought up in small, tight bun. A dull glint of a
socket behind one ear. Skin sun-burned and wrinkled finely. Her face was sharp
and elongated.
One eye was natural, coolly expressive as it watched him examine it. The
other was some sort of limited implant, a transparent globe with minute,
glittering internals.
"Senorita Bathfellow," Rico said formally, "I am overseer Rico Rodreguez.
You are to arrange a full report on the status of this project, to be given
within twelve hours." He pulled out a slim, ceramic block from his other
uniform pocket. "Then, we will be hearing from the glorious Destroyer
himself."
Project commander Claire Bathfellow narrowed her eyelids, sensing the
intrusion of her power. With mildly restrained hostility, she said "Yes.
Sir."
Rico ignored the tiny wistfulness that welled up inside him. Such was the
way for him in this journey, to be hated.
"Very good Senorita Bathfellow." He placed the ceramic block back in his
pocket. "Is there food available?"
"Yes," Bathfellow replied stiffly. "We eat in the cafeteria only. We
don't have meals in our quarters."
"Commander, it is not privilege I want. Only food." Rico gestured for her
to lead the way. She hesitated only briefly before turning and leading him
down the corridor, their footsteps echoing dully.
"Do you have meat?" Rico inquired.
"Yes. Why?"
"I eat only meat."
==============================================================================
Copyright (C) 1991 by Drifter... (author) - All rights reserved.
Overkill lyrics copyright (C) 1989 by Overkill. Used without permission.
Distribution for NON-PROFIT purposes permitted. Do not upload this file to
any pay or commercial system in any part of the world. Do not alter it any
way. Do not remove this notice. Failure to abide by these rules is treason.
All traitors will be executed. Your service to the computer shall be
rewarded.
All characters are trademarks of the author unless otherwise noted and can
not be used without permission of the author(s).
This story is fictional. Any similarity to actual persons, alive or dead, or
events is purely coincidental. Some real life elements may appear in
fictionalized form and are not intended to be taken as factual.
-------------======>>>>>>>>>>>>*** Drifter ***<<<<<<<<<<<<======-------------
"Well ser." Benjamin licked his lips. "First off, there's the fact that you
aren't wearing any clothes." Robert nodded. "Good, go for the direct. I'll
even posit, for now, that the simplest, most parsimonious explanation for
my nudity is that I've gone bonkers. I reserve the right to offer an
alternative theory, though." --The Uplift War by David Brin
>From: snarler@MAPLE.CIRCA.UFL.EDU (Drifter...)
Subject: REPOST: The Unnamed Storyline - Part 2
Date: 10 Jul 91 09:03:40 GMT
Yes siree bob, here it is... The *second* part in the Unnamed Storyline.
What took so long? Well... I'm lazy. No wait, I had to combat the forces of
evil! Yeah...
Things should go a bit faster after this. I might decide to forego detail
work and spell checking and other such rot for future posts, doing the work
afterwards.
Any feedback is welcome, postive or negative. Please Email comments to me at
7%arms.uucp@ufl.edu or x9999bna%oak.decnet@pine.circa.ufl.edu
If you are interested in joining this storyline... Well, we'll just have to
see, as I already have a lot of stuff planned out. Anyone wants a cameo
though, it shouldn't be much of a problem...
---------------------------------- Cut Here ----------------------------------
The Unnamed Storyline:
Mechanically Assisted Take-off
==================================
"Fear be unknown, childish pleas,
What walks the dark beside you?
Panic as your heart seizes,
Innoculated are you!"
--"MindKiller" by Fear Innoculation
Six smooth planes of dirty off-white formed a static cube, illuminated
with the grayish tinge of bare florescent tubes. Someone had been trying to
tune out the static by slapping up posters, stickers, assorted bits of
cultural refuse. Holographs vied for the eye's attention against neonic flats
and stills. Faded posters proclaimed the biggest MegaHit sim-stims from
decades past. A collection of lost stars and distant media horizons. The
static was more pronounced for its poorly applied mask of color.
This was the converted lab that now served as the operations and control
center for the organizations mech testing site.
An Iranian woman with tightly cropped hair and eyes like dark diamonds
watched passively as Rico surveyed the operations center. She was seated on a
plastic stool at a lab bench, which had been co-opted as a cyber operations
console. She wore the unfaded pants of a desert uniform and a black rayon
sweater.
"You have no outside cybernetic connections, yes?" Rico asked the mature
operations commander. She was standing beside and just behind his bulk, a few
steps past the entrance of the lab.
"That's right. All the systems are local area only. No connections to
cyberspace at all, not even for leisure time."
Rico nodded his approval. "This is good."
Bathfellow made no response as she examined the new complication to her
command, limited though her authority was. He had been quiet during the short
meal in their stark cafeteria, chewing his vat-meat (rare) efficiently and
with little noise. When they viewed the message from the Great Destroyer, Rico
stood attentively, as if he expected the portly man with the curly goatee to
be watching them from the low-grade hologram projection. Rodriguez was a
strange man. If he was indeed even a man.
Claire Bathfellow had had enough lovers in her time to meet the male, the
female, and the one-turned-other in bed. In the military segments of the
particular corps she had worked for, sex was a relaxant as well as a bond for
the soldiers; gender had been irrelevant. But this Rodriguez had the vetran
commander mildly confused. She assumed he was male, but there were few
masculine characteristics to his appearance. The slight, sagging bulges under
his uniform could be breasts or the fatty deposits of an overweight male. Or
synthetic. The voice was too neutral, even with mild its accent, to be a
reliable indicator.
And it was all too easy to change superficial characteristics anyways.
There were pretenders on both side of the fence, even ones that straddled it.
But Rico wasn't androgynous. He was blurred.
"Where is the central computer system?" Rico asked detachedly as he moved
slowly through the labs length, inspecting jumbles of equipment.
"Down under," the Iranian woman said.
"Australia?" Rico puzzled. A battered, half-assembled version of the
machine he had encountered on the surface leaned crazily against one short
ceramic bench. Cables ran out of its cracked open shell and snaked across the
grungy tile floor.
"Down under. Under the lab." The woman seemed exasperated at Rico's
ignorance of the phrase. "All the cyber systems are at the deepest level of
this place. Protection from the radiation and EM disturbances."
"But what about tectonic activity, eh?" Rico said, rounding a bench heaped
with chemistry refuse. What looked like a small sea sponge reclined in a
beaker of fizzing pinkish fluid. Several test tubes spun in a centrifuge,
their contents an unidentifiable blur. Acrid scents tinted the air.
"Not much plan against that," the Iranian said. She shrugged. "Got
everything backed up on optical, pilot takes them away every two days."
"Yes. She mentioned that." He picked up a wetware chip from a carefully
sorted pile of the the multi-colored slivers. A number of them had the flaky
edges and slight discoloration of personal, private manufacture.
Bathfellow fidgeted slightly. "Mr. Rodriguez..."
"I prefer Rico. I do not like titles," Rico interrupted, turning the chip
over in his large hands as he peered at it.
Bathfellow grimaced slightly. "Rico... My people were in the midst of
preliminary testing on new designs before you arrived. But there were some
sort of problems?" The last sentence was directed as a question at the Iranian.
"Yes. Bleeder tank failed. The design came from some indy. Mechanic."
"What does this 'bleeder tank' do?" Rico asked, suddenly standing by the
cyber bench, looking down at the disconcerted tea-skinned woman on her stool.
"Um... It's kind of hard to explain. Basically, it's supposed to cycle
fluids and, um, extract the impurities, suck off heat... It's a container so
it's called the bleeder tank." She shrugged, her uniform shifting quietly with
the movement.
"I see." Rico said. His face was blank, as if not paying attention.
"Commander," he said, still looking at the Iranian, "when will this part be
fixed, and when can I expect a demonstration of the current working model?"
"I--I'll see about getting in touch with the independent agent, Mr...
Rico." Bathfellow pushed down the annoyance at having to meet demands from
someone like this. It was disloyal to the cause and organization.
"Very good. Yes." Rico nodded absently. Bathfellow grew aware of the
background noise of the lab as the talking stopped and she waited for Rico to
do or say something. He just looked at the Iranian, who seemed to be getting a
bit frightened. Like an octopus uncoiling, Rico pulled back and addressed the
woman directly. "Your name?"
"Um... I go by Shawl." Rico frowned slightly and whatever fears inside the
young tech were pulled forth. "I have to protect my, my family," She said
defensively, rapidly. "I can't--"
"Shawl is too plain for you," Rico interrupted her. "You are more
attractive than a mere shawl." And he smiled gently.
Claire Bathfellow's eyebrows tried to migrate to the back of her neck.
* * * *
Northern Sprawl nights are near indistinguishable from Northern Sprawl
days. Rays from the drifting sun and harsh aluminum beams from an antique arc
lamp merge. Shadows of smoke-stained domes and rotting cloud formations and
yellowish, waxy moonlight... It tends to run together.
The platinum blonde hair, fuzzy and short, drifts across the murky
streetway, a pale star in the unnoticed night. Its owner is average sized and
built, nothing outstanding. Her moves are graceful, not sleek. She's not a
fighter; her few scars bare testament to combat skill used infrequently.
Her path seems to wander, but a Sprawl street veteran, a wired one, just
might notice her uncanny ability to avoid areas occupied by Silkies, ghouls,
and other hostiles.
Eventually, she arrives at the Chatsubo.
"Hail Ratz," the blonde says quietly. "Seen Bella?"
"Hail Rita. Hasn't been here recently," Ratz replies absently as he pours
a drink for a freckle-faced prostitute, who takes it to his John. Turning,
Ratz gives a glimpse of his brown and damp dental work. "Lonely?"
The woman called Rita snorts. "No. We got a newbie and she's going out to
Mexico to fix something I worked up. Some peasant can't handle the 'quipment."
She shrugs. "Woulda been nice to have Bella meet her. Bonnie isn't a psi."
"Ah," Ratz says.
"Yeah... well..." Rita nods at Ratz then and glides past him into the
Chat, looking for the newbie. Brown, curly hair, not much chin. Looked like
she had kept her baby fat. Rita's protege, ha ha ha.
"Hey Bon," Rita says and slips into a chair at the chromium table. Bonnie
smiles a small bit. She's smart and she's been trained by the Mechanic
company, but she's new, just off probation. So she's pretty nervous.
Not cut out for dangerous missions, that's Rita's opinion.
"Just the basics," Rita says, taking out a notebook from inside her
jacket. "Then I'll buy you a drink. One last night out with the girls, eh?"
Bonnie's smile is more relaxed now, reacting to Rita's casualness. Rita likes
her.
She taps the compact machine with her unadorned fingertips. "Notebook's
got all the specs for this thing, they call it a bleeder tank for some
gruesome reason, as well as my original plans." Bonnie picks it up, flips it
on.
"Who commissioned you for this?" she asks quietly.
"Don't know the guy" (a greasy and fat techie, furtive, handing her an
unmarked cred chip, specs, and sweat) "or the name of the company. If it is
one. It's either a gang of designer drug runners, or some black clinic." She
shrugs. "Not that I care."
Bonnie looks worried, fingers move meanginglessly against the notebook
controls. "Well you're not the one going out there," she says, voice squeaking
just slightly.
"Hey, don't worry." Rita smiles at Bonnie, then pats her hand. "I was out
there too, remember? No problem, just go to a little Mexican town, fix the
problem, leave the notebook for the idiots, and you're back home." She leans
back and signals Nekoko, who flicks her ears in acknowledgement. The catty
young lady passes their table and hits Ratz with her orders. The Chat is
hopping.
"Jeez..." Bonnie says breathily, looking closely at the notebook display.
"This filters ammonia, CO2, potassium..."
A bored "So?" from Rita. Nekoko slides past their table again. "Hey..."
"Just a second," Nekoko says over he shoulder, dispensing drinks from tray
to customer as she walks the maze of tables.
Bonnie frowns a bit. "Ambient liquid temperature 91.3 degrees Fahrenheit...
Shit Rita, this half looks like the design for a tissue support system!"
"Yeah?" A slight flash of interest.
Bonnie's brow crinkles up. "Yeah, but it's supposed to keep it pretty
cool, I think. No wait..." She skims through the notebook for a moment. Rita
watches her. "I dunno. It's only one part of a system, right?"
"From what I gathered, yes." Rita turns away from Bonnie as Nekoko finally
arrives, and takes the order for two Colorado Motherfuckers, then weaves
between the tables back to Ratz and the bar.
Bonnie puts the notebook down. "Weird. I wonder what the hell this is
for."
Rita shakes her head. "Don't. Just fix it, we don't want any nervous
people thinking Mechanics are taking up espionage or investigation."
"Didn't you notice this, though?"
A shrug. "Probably, and I probably forgot about it." Nods at Bonnie. "Like
you will."
Two glasses of off-white fluid are brought to them, and Bonnie discovers
the punch of vodka and tequila mixed with milk and coke. Nekoko makes a face
at Rita's obvious enjoyment of the drink, then glances over at one particular
table of the Chatsubo. She frowns, and goes to get a glass of water from Ratz.
* * * *
Banshee scream of the tortured Mexican wind. The jump-copter whined as its
turbo-charger battled the force of unnature. Such gales did not use to exist.
That was before the Mexican State Atrocities.
Bonnie sat back in her cramped seat, legs pulled up underneath her against
the cracked vinyl. She memorized the specs of the strange device she was
assigned fix. Then she watched the pilot in front of her for a while. Then she
watched outside and tried to pierce the whipping sands to see the ground
below. Like trying to separate the waves from the ocean.
"Comin' up," the pilot said suddenly, then they dropped and touched down
almost lightly. Bonnie felt the copter drifting to the side slightly before
the legs dug into the soft sand and levered the machine down.
"Where are we?" she asked the pilot.
"Don't worry. Someone will be out to get us when the storm lets up a
bit."
"But where is this?" She was irritable after having spent several hours in
a less-than-first-class jet to get to the city of Hoguera, not far into
Mexico. The jump-copter trip through a desert storm, without any idea of the
final destination, or any explanation why, had whittled away some of the
reassurance Rita had provided.
"I can't tell you. Corporate security." The pilot shrugged. "Even I don't
know who I'm working for," she lied, a smooth pebble of a lie polished by use.
"I can't believe these people... Why couldn't they just bring the problem
to me?"
The pilot was silent. They looked out at the raging, scouring storm
together as the copter gently creaked, rocking slowly from side to side.
Bonnie fell asleep.
Wakefulness returned like a hot coal popping. She hadn't been truly
tired, but lulled into deprivation of her consciousness. Bonnie blinked a bit,
clearing her vision. She was inside the copter, by herself. A glance out
through the foggy plastic bubble showed the pilot, helmet in one hand, talking
to someone in a desert uniform.
"Damn," Bonnie muttered. Her own clothes were hardly suited for a trip to
the southern tip of the Sprawl. She cracked open the door of the copter but
re-considered getting out when the dry heat started to tear the sweat from her
body.
Big baby, she thought to herself.
Pushing the door open the rest of the way, Bonnie stepped out of the jump
copter. Brilliant diamond light forced her to shade her eyes. She started
walking to the two figures when one of them, whoever the pilot was talking to,
saw her and shouted.
"Get back in the copter!!"
A momentary surprise, a feeling of offense. She opened her mouth and the
sand just to her side rose into something black and multi-legged, bigger than
her. Someone cursed loudly. Bonnie gaped.
Whatever it was, it moved quickly, scuttling away from her and then
digging into the sand a few meters away.
"Shit! God damn it to hell!" The man strode angrily towards her, but
stopped before reaching her. He looked angry and worried. The pilot, helmet
still in hand, was watching from afar.
Bonnie felt the rest of Rita's reassurance swirl away like thin foam down
a river.
==============================================================================
Copyright (C) 1991 by Drifter... (author) - All rights reserved.
Fear Innoculation lyrics copyright (C) 1991 by Drifter. Used with permission.
Distribution for NON-PROFIT purposes permitted. Do not upload this file to
any pay or commercial system in any part of the world. Do not alter it any
way. Do not remove this notice. Failure to abide by these rules is treason.
All traitors will be executed. Your service to the computer shall be
rewarded.
All characters are trademarks of the author unless otherwise noted and can
not be used without permission of the author(s).
This story is fictional. Any similarity to actual persons, alive or dead, or
events is purely coincidental. Some real life elements may appear in
fictionalized form and are not intended to be taken as factual.
-------------======>>>>>>>>>>>>*** Drifter ***<<<<<<<<<<<<======-------------
"Well ser." Benjamin licked his lips. "First off, there's the fact that you
aren't wearing any clothes." Robert nodded. "Good, go for the direct. I'll
even posit, for now, that the simplest, most parsimonious explanation for
my nudity is that I've gone bonkers. I reserve the right to offer an
alternative theory, though." --The Uplift War by David Brin
>From: snarler@MAPLE.CIRCA.UFL.EDU (Drifter...)
Subject: REPOST: The Unnamed Storyline - Interlude
Date: 10 Jul 91 09:08:25 GMT
Nicholas, a modified Russian, was jacked into a dream.
The dream was a machine, somewhere in the Northern segment of the Sprawl.
He had grown up operating mechs, controlling as much as half the equipment
on his father's farm in the Ukraine Republic when he was only eleven. He had
sold the whole business when his father died, using the revenue to optimize his
neural response time and replace the simple agricultural neural jack with a
top-of-the-line universal device jack. The young man had been hired by the
first Western construction company he applied with.
Nicholas spent many years operating cranes, bulldozers, carriers, various
'bots, even a subterranean digger. He spent an unhappy seven months in the
Sprawl, repairing decaying domes with small welding drones.
When the military executed the company for infringement of contract, he
spent a little more than a year with the army, quality testing tanks and
panzers. He lost his vision to a misfired chemical bullet, was given cheap
plastic replacements, and went back to the private sector, running small
industrial production plants.
Nicholas had never operated a machine like the one whispering through the
Sprawl.
Eventually, the organization had found him, recruited him with little
effort, and implemented his skills. They even managed to find some used
organic replacements for his eyes. He was happy, until he was told he would
be going to the Sprawl.
The middle-aged Russian's socket was just slightly warmer than his body
temperature. Silky fibers of an unbinded optical cable flowed out of the
neural jack like feathery hair. At the other end of the cable, a luggage-sized
steel box. Within the box, a heavily modified aerospace tranceiver.
In a long neglected warehouse by a stagnant waterfront, Nicholas kept
reign on the machine called an ND-128. His eyes closed against the thickly
dust-coated collection of plastic furniture and crumbling cardboard boxes. His
fingers laying on a small, customized cyber deck. Not jacked into cyberspace,
but into the world of the ND-128.
Wandering through the Sprawl was an organized bundle of conductive
plastics, multi-spectrum sensor arrays, and cleverly mapped software. Almost
thinking, it was a practical work of art. Nicholas could feel the sharp gleam
of the mech's functions, like darting, silver fish in cold, clear water.
Smoothly articulating limbs propelled it, a tumbleweed through the shadows.
He had been sent with the equipment to Seattle from his home in Texarina.
Given no orders, a false ID with background, and a significant amount of NuYen
(supposedly untraceable), he felt better staying in the warehouse he had
broken into than any Sprawl hotel. Not so much safer as cleaner.
After three days in the dreary, arid atmosphere of the warehouse, eating
freeze-dried burritos and drinking bottled water, he had received orders.
The ready light on the tranceiver box had started glowing, a big round
amber light in the dim shadows of the warehouse.
When jacked into the mech, Nicholas was in a complex, short-range
universe. Infrared, ultrasound, low-level X-rays; a diced view of the world.
Somehow, it seemed to flow into a smooth, interlocked model. The mech moved
rapidly, almost silently, under its own power. Nicholas was to keep his charge
on track and out of trouble.
Previously, he had ridden along as his unit, along with another, went to
some back-alley little bar, populated with the sort of folk that Nicholas
hated the Sprawl for. Two men were taken, others killed or injured.
He had been ordered not to interfere with the ND-128's behavior unless
they deviated from an expected pattern. He did not know why the plastic
hunters were expected to kill.
After releasing their charges to silent, cautious people with a hovervan
several miles away, one unit was shut down and carted off. The other was left
behind, to perform general espionage while Nicholas monitored. There were
already a number of mechs out in the Sprawl streets, what was one more?
Nicholas began to really enjoy his task, despite the location.
Clicking along softly, rolling out of a grimy, brittle residential
section. Spiraled wasps nest pattern of houses, layers constructed upon
layers. Their cheap metal and plastic frameworks glittered faintly through the
mech's perceptions. Ruddy fuzzy glows moved aimlessly in the photon cages.
Pause. Analyze (flicking silver arrows in a icy lake). *Skitter skitter*
Examine (cermet brick wall, filled with purplish-yellow stress seams like
jumbled scarves). Jump.
Pause...
A shout of surprise; someone carrying a dufflebag full of wadded up
clothing. Jump*Skitter*Hide. Nicholas was carried along with the mech's
rabbit-like reflexes. He never had to interfere.
Examine (lifeless remains inside a mobile dumpster covered with faded
BioHazard labels. Strange metal fragment inside the wall corner of a
building.)
Decision. *Skitter skitter skitter...*
The plastic artifact rolled swiftly onwards, questing for pattern matches
and internal balances. It would watch events undetected, the backstage
workings of the street life. Graceful twirlings of gang knife fights.
Impersonal, blank faced men surrounded by muscularly enhanced body-guards.
The modified Russian was enthralled; even when the machine witnessed
quietly from a rooftop a woman killing some young man in a dark alley,
littering the dark ground with blood. He found himself wondering who the other
man nearby was. Passer-by? Boyfriend? Employer?
His dislike for the Sprawl never wavered. But it wasn't as strong as the
fascination with this strange machine's functions, bordering on pure thought.
The pressure of his bladder forced Nicholas to jack out of the ND-128
system. The clean, semi-transparent world popped into itself and he was again
in the warehouse, sweating slightly in a body molding chair, optical cable in
one hand. The thermal plastic padding wheezed as he got up. Nicholas felt
confident that his mech charge would function obtusely on its own for a short
time.
He left the warehouse to trek to the nearest sanitary facilities, a public
restroom once claimed by the Agressor Perfectors when this part of Seattle had
been more populated. It was a nerve-wracking trip for a man armed with only
minimal, nearly worthless combat training and a very visible flechette gun.
When he returned to the warehouse, Nicholas thought someone was watching
from an adjacent storage building (A flicker of darker shadow within shadow.)
His hand squeezed against the grip of the flechette gun. Standing still as
possible, he waited for the sudden impact of someone's long-distance artillery.
Many minutes later, when he had convinced himself he was alone and had
re-entered the warehouse, he was unpleasantly surprised to find that the
ND-128 had gotten into some sort of war zone. With a mental gesture, he
experienced an encapsulated replay of the mech's activities since he left.
Another mech, large and massive compared to his charge, encountered
suddenly. Insect-like, armed, it had for some reason focused on the ND-128,
giving chase. The spiderish hunter stopped suddenly shortly in its pursuit,
but the evasive mech operated on a hierarchy of reflexes and continued to
travel at highest speed, far away from populated areas.
Now it was moving jerkily, five leg bundles questing for purchase, past
craters and dark, shimmering objects buried below the ragged earth. Nicholas
could feel the bursts of conflict (a pressure in his inner ears, almost an
ache) when it would come too near the explosives scattered about. The juggling
of multiple danger vectors felt like dry leaves whipping in a dust devil. He
itched to pull the machine out, but Nicholas didn't feel confident in being
able to do it without a mis-step.
A shift in direction, seemingly chosen at random, and the mech was trapped
by a coincidental pattern of mines, craters, and cluster bombs. For the first
time unable to decide on its own, the mech cried to Nicholas for help (a soft,
liquid chime in the back of his head, reverberating).
The only thing Nicholas could do was push the ND-128 past its natural
responses. It clicked and spun into the air, landing with a crumpling noise in
a large, fresh crater. Immediately, he felt the mech panicking, trying to
escape the pit. It took Nicholas a moment to realize the scrambling machine
was reacting to the presence of a man.
Now he too began to panic. Nicholas had thought the machine was isolated,
unlikely to even be detected. Now there was someone to witness its existence
and possibly even disable it. The mech, a very dangerous secret, couldn't
hide. With no weapons enabled, it couldn't kill.
Still and quiet, the man watched the ND-128 intently. Something in his
chest was making the mech buzz with urgency to get as far away as possible.
Nicholas swore when he realized this man might see as much of the mech as it
did of him. With a flash of insight born from desperation, Nicholas triggered
a chain of actions the mech would never initiate on its own.
Clattering and flicking up little clods of dirt, it took on a four-
limbed form, rear limbs folded in for leaping. Then it bounded into the air,
landing on the man's shoulders only long enough to gain the extra height to
clear the crater edge. Without a pause it engaged a sharply curving escape
route through the firing range. No jerks or bursts of conflict. Self-
preservation and avoiding detection were no longer important to the mech's
strange mind. Escape was all encompassing in its demand. Nicholas felt the
mech's destination, a drop site far away, like the bottom of a funnel with the
ND-128 a rivulet of mercury pouring downwards. It had already pre-empted him,
using the tranceiver to signal for pick-up. And it shut him out of its
perceptions.
Nicholas felt old and tired. He wasn't needed anymore. Something had
happened, he didn't know what or even understand why. He jacked out and sat in
the dusty darkness, optical cable curled uselessly, waiting for the amber eye
of the tranceiver to fade out.
-------------======>>>>>>>>>>>>*** Drifter ***<<<<<<<<<<<<======-------------
"Well ser." Benjamin licked his lips. "First off, there's the fact that you
aren't wearing any clothes." Robert nodded. "Good, go for the direct. I'll
even posit, for now, that the simplest, most parsimonious explanation for
my nudity is that I've gone bonkers. I reserve the right to offer an
alternative theory, though." --The Uplift War by David Brin
>From: snarler@MAPLE.CIRCA.UFL.EDU (Drifter...)
Subject: STORY: The Unnamed Storyline - Part 3
Date: 17 Jul 91 15:48:26 GMT
This is the newest chapter in my ongoing story. Thanks to Joan
(Belladonna) for allowing me to borrow a couple of her Mechanics. Everything
else be mine. Including all mistakes and errors.
Any feedback is welcome, including complaints and compliments. I'll reply to
every single one I get, too (Oh, won't that be a lot of work he says
sarcastically).
----------------------------------- Cut Here ----------------------------------
The Unnamed Storyline:
Engine Trouble
==========================
"This is unacceptable."
"Yes sir. I know, sir."
"You will tell me what went wrong."
"The techs didn't shut down the god damn units on the surface. They were
buried, hiding, but still operative. This bitch--"
"It is not her fault. You have responsibility."
"Yes. *Sir*."
"Continue."
"The... woman approached too close to one of the 'bots. They've got an
automatic 'fear' response, she triggered it. I don't think she saw much."
"If she saw anything, it is totally unacceptable."
Silence.
"You will continue with the repairs. You will have the Mechanic escorted
back to her pick-up afterwards. There will be no more mistakes. Yes?"
"... Yes. But."
"But?"
"She's a Mechanic, and they're mostly psis. She might--"
"She is not psychic. If she were, she would have noticed the machine before
she approached it. Correct?"
"Um, yes sir. I'll get her into the lab to start work immediately."
"She will be told that she encountered a mutation. Is that clear?"
"Yes. Perfectly... sir."
Cold anger formed Claire's thoughts into icicles, cold and precise in
their form. She assigned Shawl to accompany Bonnie as the young Mechanic
worked on the bleeder tank. With Shawl ordered to lie about most anything
Bonnie might ask. Then Claire went to the personnel quarters, seeking out the
focal point of the swollen anger chilling her insides.
"Mac," she said quietly, finding it.
He was in his little cubicle, the one filled with refuse; undisposed
bio-degradable plastic containers dissolving under the influence of food
scraps, clean but wrinkled clothes strewn about, silicon and galladium
shavings embedded into the rugs cheap fibers...
The mess just made Claire angrier.
"Yeah?" The man with long, black hair tied in a top knot leaned back in his
chair. Resignation clung to his rugged, slightly pinched features.
"You didn't shut down the units." Claire stepped closer, breathing hard but
even. "You allowed an outsider to see one of them." She was leaning forward,
down, her transparent eye piecing together a fuzzy IR map of Mac's tensed
expression. "I'll torture you if you fuck up again. I'll personally make you
bleed in agony." Her face tightened as an unwholesome smile took hold.
"Yes... ma'am." Mac sighed and closed his eyes.
Claire closed the door to the cubicle quietly, locking it from inside.
Allowed to clean-up in a stark little chemical toilet, Bonnie tried to
restrain her shaking. The thing that had come out of the sand was some kind of
mutant desert creature, someone had told her. Warped by the gentle curtains of
hard, ionizing radiation that had drifted across the land years ago, and by
the chemical wastes that pattered softly upon the sands ever since.
A young, almost pretty Middle Eastern woman had led Bonnie to the bathroom,
sympathizing (distantly, it seemed) with the experience. She smiled a friendly
greeting when Bonnie emerged, and said "Come on. I'll take you to the lab."
"Um, ok," Bonnie said still nervous. The trip down in the elevator had made
her wonder just what this operation was. Why was it out here in the fringes of
the Mexican Wasteland? She remembered Rita telling her to forget about it.
But she wasn't Rita. She wasn't psychic and she was desperately wishing,
for the first time in her life, that she was.
"In here," the moacca-toned woman said, leading Bonnie into a stark white
room that had an abominable amount of ugly pictures decorating several of the
walls. A few glances gave Bonnie the chance to figure out that whatever project
was being implemented here involved biochemistry and cybernetics. But those
were just two of many sciences being applied here, it seemed.
"The bleeder tank was working fine up until a couple of days ago," the
woman said, walking between the over-laden counters of the lab. "Then we--"
"Excuse me," Bonnie interrupted, "but could you tell me your name?"
"Oh. You can just call me Shawl."
"Um, ok." Bonnie resigned herself to not finding out anything from this
Arabic woman. If she wasn't going to be giving even her name...
Shawl turned and smiled at Bonnie, saying "It's all I ever go by." Then she
guided them to a slab of ceramic attached to the rear corner of the lab. A
small, flat cylindrical unit rested on the grayish counter top. "Anyways, we
started having problems a few days ago when the bleeder tank was needing
cleaning more and more often. Finally it just stopped working all together, and
we've had to stop testing until we can get it fixed."
Bonnie examined the bleeder tank, which on closer inspection had already
been opened and prodded at. A filmy residue lined the inside surface of the
metal, something pink and gray like spoiled ham. The filters had apparently
been taken out. Inside, the core that held the heating and cooling elements
was shaped like a deep cup, but had nothing in it.
"Jesus, what were you running through this thing?" she asked.
"Um, just a nutritive balance fluid," Shawl said a bit uncomfortably. But
Bonnie didn't notice the Iranian's nervousness, for she was taking a scraping
of the filmy material. She slipped out her Mechanic's guild standard chemical
analyzer and fed it the sample. Shawl watched intently as the device silently
worked.
"What'd you do with the filters?" Bonnie asked, conversationally. The black
and chrome analyzer's LCDs flickered occasionally.
"Had to burn them before they started to smell too bad. Really rank."
Shawl's nose wrinkled at the offensive memory.
"Hmmm." Bonnie pulled out another probe and stroked at the barely visible
heating coils wrapped inside the center cup's double wall. "Was it controlling
temperature correctly?"
"Yes," Shawl said. "Up until just before it quit, then there was kind of a
big spike. But we figured out it was the fluid circulation pumps straining
into overload."
"Well having the filters lock up solid with this gunk would do that,"
Bonnie observed. Some time passed as the small analyzer strained to achieve the
performance of a larger machine. The two woman small talked, a small unease of
something crawling between whenever Shawl would mis-direct or flatly not answer
some of the questions Rita had.
The analyzer's LCDs stopped flickering and it beeped, the display plate
scrolling out a list of compounds, in order of quantity. Bonnie tipped the
machine into illustration mode.
"Hey!" Shawl exclaimed, recognizing the depicted molecules a few seconds
before Bonnie, "that can't be!" She rushed over to the biochemical counter and
came back with a sheaf of silvery paper. Computer printed holographs of
molecular compounds glinted tiny rainbows at Bonnie. "Damn it," Shawl muttered,
comparing the images.
"You guys are doing *bug* work here?" Bonnie said nervously, incredulously.
"Don't worry about it," Shawl snapped. She muttered to herself for another
moment before looking at Bonnie and smiling again, briefly. "Sorry. I'm just
afraid that I'm about to get in some trouble here."
"Well," Bonnie said, seeing an opportunity and leaping into its mouth
before checking for any teeth, "if you want, I can fudge my findings and still
get this fixed." She restrained the jitters inside her as she made the
suggestion.
Shawl paused for a moment, obviously thinking. Then she slowly shook her
head. "No, I don't think so. I appreciate the offer though," she said and
smiled at Bonnie once again.
Bonnie smiled back, but internally she fumed.
Bathfellow, calm and composed, knocked briskly on the door to Rodriguez's
assigned quarters. There was a muffled "Enter," and she opened the door.
Rodriguez was seated at the tiny work desk of the cubicle, observing the
recording of the Great Destroyer's message again. The sound, however, was
turned off.
"Rico, sir," Bathfellow said, "the bleeder tank problem has been fixed. We
can commence with the demonstrations tomorrow morning." She stood firmly at
attention, no hint of emotion on her face.
Rico nodded. "This is good. What was the problem, Senorita Bathfellow?"
A whisper of annoyance on her features. "Somehow, one of the bugs that
Pestilence guy was working on got into the tank. Probably during installation
or some cleaning. It really loved the inside of the tank and jammed up the
filter system badly. We just have to sterilize all the tanks and make the seals
tighter."
Rico hummed to himself, nodding. Rita wondered how much Rodriguez really
knew about the ND-128 machines and how they worked. She herself only understood
the basic premises.
"Is there anything else, Senorita?" Rico said suddenly, eyeing her.
"Uh, no. No sir."
"Then you are dismissed."
Rita stiffened slightly, then turned and left. She did not understand the
feeling of queasiness she had at the lack of Rico's approval. It disturbed her.
She is tired, limbs feeling like frayed violin strings, vibrating with the
biological waste of exhaustion. Sweat slicks across her exposed skin,
irritating her eyes with tiny drops. Plodding footsteps shake the irritating
moisture loose from a soaked forehead.
Bonnie keeps moving through the darkening desert, away from the site,
directionless. The sun had begun to leave before she did, dipping into the vast
sea of silicon surrounding, it seemed, the world.
She is too panicked, skitterish, for cohesive thought. Impressions
scattered around in her head, the freshness of the shock preventing them from
settling.
*Waiting for Shawl to return. Scanning the lab from her seat by the cool,
dead ceramic counter. Then walking. Examining. Wondering and thinking.*
Rapidly she plods across the cooling sands, unable to run without
hard-soled boots. The sand's looseness steals her kinetic energy away to plot
its own shifting patterns.
*Discovering. Unbelieving. Searching for evidence. Discovered.*
Bonnie whimpers minutely at the scene that pops up, unwanted, in her head.
A horrible structure of a man, crying out at seeing her activities. Then
blinking his eyes rapidly, an unexpected parody of cartoon perplexement. But it
had not been any confusion on his part. It had been a summoning.
She looks wildly behind herself, now, and does not see it.
Her heart is pounding against her rib cage, screaming for freedom, almost
knocking her over. Bonnie does not stop, a jack-rabbit sunk deep into the amber
block of fear, unable to escape.
The machine tumbles loosely along the desert, born of the sand around it.
Tiny, delicate sensors hidden under transparent polymers suck in the tendrils
of reality that make up the unit's worldview. A faint tinkling of thought is
sensed and the machine skips in a sudden curve, heading over a low dune
towards the terrified emotions. Only its slowly accumulating parity errors
keep it from full functionalness.
It tumbles and jumps in two-meter gaps, keeping minimum contact with the
poor traction of the sand. Abruptly, in mid leap, it plops into a small mound
of sand, legs clattering like hollow sticks into a random jumble. There is a
brief quiet, punctuated with a final *clonk*, then the stillness of the
desert.
Claire slapped the ugly, distorted man whose name was Juan.
"You fucking idiot!" she yelled. "I don't give a shit what she had found,
you are *not* supposed to use the mechs that way! NOT!"
Juan, a victim of the corrupting influence of the Mexican environment, was
a jockey for the ND-128 machines. He had discovered the Mechanic woman going
through the laboratory's materials, apparently gathering evidence of the organizations plans for the mechs, the illegal details of their design.
Acting out of misplaced duty, Juan had called one of the few on-line
experimental mechs into the Lab to subdue Bonnie, being too weak himself to
overpower her. Mis-judging, he failed to capture her before she fled the lab. Juan used the mech to follow her, out onto the surface.
Finding him in the lab, eyes closed, sinuses humming, with no sign of
Bonnie, had aroused Shawl's suspicions. She had summoned her commander, afraid
to talk to Juan directly. Mac had shown up before Claire, unaware of the
stormfront about to explode. Now he leaned back against a wall, watching the scene unfold.
Juan babbled on in slurred Spanish about his worthless life and how he had
meant only to help, had thought that it was what he would have been told to do.
Claire felt no pity for the man. She responded with the force of her anger and
frustration, slapping Juan again, hard enough to stagger him. Mac winced in sympathy, the reddish-purple tinge of a bruise on one cheek stretching slightly with the expression.
"Cease this immediately, Senorita Bathfellow," Claire heard just then. The
tendons in her arm seemed to quiver like snakes. She felt the briefest flash
of a sensation from childhood; being caught torturing the family cat.
"S-sir," she said briskly, still trembling with a growing maelstrom of
emotions. "I--"
"*You* will not abuse this man. Not without my permission. Understand?"
Rico showed the first glimmer of significant emotion since he had arrived,
mild anger a hot coal wrapped in ash. Claire nodded without talking, not
trusting herself to speak appropriately. Mac showed no expression but she
could feel his smugness like a faint concussion wave.
"What has he done, Shawl?" Rico queried, deliberately bypassing Claire. The sting hit the commander as intended. She bit her lower lip. Mac almost smirked, but he was too intimidated by Rico for such an outright expression.
"The Mechanic, Bonnie, she's probably found out about the project...
sir." Shawl's own tension was more casually expressed with her rapid speech
and jerky hand movements. "Juan found her going through the lab files, the
virus data, and it looks like she might have got a few samples of the organic
works, he says."
Juan nodded vigorously. He was also visibly shaking.
Rico continued to look at Shawl. She realized he wanted her to go on and
stuttered "Um, Juan juh-just kind of panicked. He brought in unit number 14,
which was still up, to-to try and catch her. But she got away, outside."
Juan said something. Rico's gaze moved over to the poorly formed man. He
frowned. "Senorita Bathfellow was the one who made you stop chasing after the
Mechanic?"
"Si, Senor Rodriguez." Juan said, looking moribund.
"Do you know where she is now?" Rico asked. Juan shook his head, eyes
glistening. He was terrified of his failure.
Claire said "I don't know if we can find her, Sir. There's a lot of
space out there and Juan is too god damn stupid to give proper directions."
"This *may* not be a problem... If we can avoid close scrutiny from the
Mechanic's Guild." He nodded to himself. "Yes. Senorita Bathfellow, come with
me." Rico turned and left the lab. Claire paused only long enough to glare at
Juan and then followed Rico's lumbering bulk.
Shawl went over to Juan and held him gently as he sobbed. She felt the
twisted, knobby pattern of growths on his back through his uniform. She held
back the shudder that rose up inside at the contact.
Mac sighed weakly and stood up from his leaning position. He walked over to
one of the cyber consoles and tapped away at the keyboard. Low-frequency coded
signals snaked out to call a lost child back to life, and home.
==============================================================================
Copyright (C) 1991 by Drifter... (author) - All rights reserved.
Distribution for NON-PROFIT purposes permitted. Do not upload this file to
any pay or commercial system in any part of the world. Do not alter it any
way. Do not remove this notice. Failure to abide by these rules is treason.
All traitors will be executed. Your service to the computer shall be
rewarded.
All characters are trademarks of the author unless otherwise noted and can
not be used without permission of the author(s).
This story is fictional. Any similarity to actual persons, alive or dead, or
events is purely coincidental. Some real life elements may appear in
fictionalized form and are not intended to be taken as factual.
-------------======>>>>>>>>>>>>*** Drifter ***<<<<<<<<<<<<======-------------
"Shit! Fuck! Satan! Death! Sex! Drugs! Rape! These seven words you're tryin'
to take! Shit! Fuck! Satan! Death! Sex! Drugs! Rape! Right or wrong it's our
choice to make! America the beautiful, land of the free, don't change the
words to land of hypocrisy!"
--"Startin' Up A Posse" by Anthrax
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