From: jhreiher@happy.colorado.edu (Animal)
Subject: Vince's Starport Bar & Grill: Chapter 3
Date: 3 Mar 92 18:06:34 GMT


     Well, after a couple bouts with writer's block, here is chapter
3 of Vince's Starport Bar and Grill. For those of you who want, I
can send the story so far to anyone who emails me. It will be in
chunks, as the it's 8500+ words so far. Keep those cards and letters
coming in!

     --John Reiher

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     Vince's Starport Bar and Grill
     Written by John H. Reiher, Jr.
     Copyright 1991 by John H. Reiher, Jr.
     Use of places, names, and situations from FTL:2448 are used with
permission by Tri Tac  Systems.

Chapter three

     The door opened onto a rolling plain. The vista before Jackson
was spectacular. Off to his right  was a beautiful old-growth forest,
on his left, towering white cliffs, a castle consisting mainly of
turrets and towers perched on a precipice. Before Potter was his
partner, Eric Heller, who was sitting  behind a curved woodplas desk
typing away at a terminal.
     Jackson arched his eyebrows in surprise, then chuckled, "A
terminal, Gracie?" Eric looked up, and with a wipe of his hand, made
the terminal vanish. He smiled impishly,  "Old habits die hard. You
got the cash?"
     "Yes," Jackson replied, waving the cash card, "got it this
morning from Kendrick, after the  coroner picked up the pieces. You
really want your cash right now?"
     "Well, not really, I want to check up on something. I found some
interesting things in Kreig's  datafiles that I downloaded, and I'm
more than a bit curious about herr Kreig's 'business'."
     "'Want to check up on something'?" Jackson looked at the cash
card with suspicion.
     "Yeah, just to make sure. Gimmee." he held his hand out for the
card. Jackson stepped forward  as the scenery changed to the office's
normal interior, which was splendid in its art nouveau  trappings.
Eric took the card and plugged it into a very non-standard cash
reader. Up sprang from the  desktop was the 3-D image of the card's
memory and security/access programs. Memory was just a  simple
register block for cash and a more substantial set of memory chips
for transactions, both of  which were surrounded by the security
program. The security program resembled an intricate  collection of
interlocking blocks making a very tight cage about the memory. The
access key was  more prosaic: it was a half a key. The other half of
the key was supplied by the owner's registration  code.
     "So far," commented Eric, "so-so. It looks normal, but lets try
a little stain." He reached into  midair and grabbed a bottle that
had suddenly appeared.  He flipped the top open and poured the
contents of the bottle onto the hologram. The access program turned
green, the security code turned  red, the memory turned blue, and an
amorphous blob turned black. The blob was entwined about and  in the
memory, it was pulsating, waiting.
     "Aha!" proclaimed Eric, "Gotcha, ya little vermin."
     "What's that?" questioned Jackson, pointing to the black blob.
     "What we have here," stated Eric, "is your common garden variety
trojan virus. The second  we'd d'led the money into our, or more
correctly, my account, it would do a hunt a seek on whatever  its
feeble little programming is coded on. What that is, I don't
know...yet."
     Jackson had a puzzled look on his face, his chocolate-brown eyes
twinkling with a questioning  light. "Eric?" he asked.
     "Yes?"
     "How did you, 'see' inside the card's program, and how did you
see that thing in there?"
     Eric put on a very big grin, and waggled his eyebrows. "Wouldn't
you want to know?" He then  laughed at Potter's annoyed looked and
continued, "Ah, its not my doing, this," indicating the  holographic
bottle still floating in air, even with the top of his spiked red
hair, "is a commercial   product, ViRaid. Most programs are chuck
full of holes, and all the virus checkers on the market take
advantage of that. Besides, all it has to do is recog specific bit
patterns, and not even bother with  whatever protections that the
program has up. Of course, my projecting the programs and their
structures as I'm doing right now, is impossible according to the
card's manufacturer." He put on  lopsided grin, resting his chin on
his fist.
     Jackson raised an eyebrow and said, "'Impossible'?"
     "Patently immmpossssible!" Eric exaggerated, "But, I always try
to do three or four impossible  things every morning before lunch."
He reached up to the top of the card's security program, and
disconnected one of the security modules. Jackson sat down on one of
the office's guest chairs. "The  security program for this particular
brand of card," lectured Eric, as he disassembled the program,  "has
been broken by all the best icebreakers for years. It will defeat a
novice or talented cracker, but  for us old hands at industrial
icebreaking, it's a blinking tinker toy."
     "'Tinker toy'?" queried Jackson.
     Heller gave Potter an amazed stare. "You're born here on
Fomalhaut, aah, I mean Alverez  Station weren't you?" he asked.
     "Yeah, but what's that got to do with what's a tinker toy?"
     "Old Earth toy, ah, slang for sloppy or haphazard construction
or assembly. The best  example  from here would be, ah, Spaco's Space
Girders. Verstay?"
     "Capishe."
     As he disconnected another security module, the virus shot a
tendril out of the new opening. "Bette!"
     Bette appeared at Eric's right hand, clipboard in hand, dressed
in a thigh length white dress,  with a plunging neckline and the left
side slitted almost to her hip. "Yes Eric, I'll keep the virus from
escaping while you deconstruct the program." she said
authoritatively. She reached into the partially  disassembled program
and grasped the virus. It squirmed and writhed, trying it's best to
escape from  her grasp. "Danke, I hate to have that thing get loose."
thanked Eric. He popped a few more program  blocks, exposing the
virus completely. "OK, pull it loose." he ordered. Bette
concentrated, her  tongue sticking out one side of her mouth, and
began freeing the virus' tendrils from the memory  block with her
other...hands. She had sprouted five extra arms to handle the virus'
extraction,  looking like a lopsided Hindu deity. With an almost
audible scream, she pulled the virus from within  the card's
programming. Eric pulled out of thin air a white, blobby, program,
saying from the corner  of his mouth, "Anti-body prog," and placed it
over the black mass of tendrils and steamers that the  virus was
trying to become.
     A streamer shot out, heading for the desk interface. Bette
formed a new arm and snatched the  streamer. It writhed and buckled,
trying to escape from her grasp. Eric pulled the anti-body over the
streamer. Another blob was working its way free, as though the virus
was budding a new copy of  itself. A quick yank of the anti-body by
Bette, covered that avenue of escape. With a little work, the  duo
encased the virus in the anti-body program, and the trio all breathed
a sigh of relief. Bette's extra arms deformed, and she returned to
her normal voluptrous appearance. Jackson  realised that he was
gripping the arms of his chair with a death grip. He eased his grip
and relaxed.
     Eric sat back down and let out a low whistle. he reached into
his desk and pulled out a bottle of  Kentucky sipping whiskey and two
glasses. He filled them both and shoved one towards Jackson,  who
took it gratefully. Jackson drained his glass in a gulp, and said,
"You didn't have to stage this  for my benefit, you know. You
could've done the whole thing in c-space just as easily, and left me
none the wiser."
     Eric knocked back his drink, Bette watching them both with
disdain. "You're right, but I wanted  you to see what I have to go
though for you on some of your 'piece of cake' missions," said Eric.
     "Do you both have to drink after every harrowing ordeal?" said
Bette distastefully.
     "Yup." the two said in unison.
     Jackson put his glass back on the desk and pointed at it
indicating that he wanted a refill. Eric  complied. Jackson sipped at
his drink, remarking, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but that virus should
not have been able to operate at all." He took another sip, "If I
remember my classes in Computer  Invasion and Countermeasures, a
virus needs to be loaded into an CPU to be able to function at all.
There are different methods, piggybacking on another program, text
file, graphic, etcetera, or getting  into the CPU in a Trojan
program. That bastard was running from within the card itself. Cards
got  CPUs?" He pointed to the slowly throbbing blob of the englobed
virus.
     Eric was watching the virus pulse, and said, "Wha? Oh yeah,
cards have CPUs, they have to be  able to run their security programs
to defeat card invasions and frauds. Bette, is that thing accessing
CPUs?"
     Bette stared at the virus for a moment, and replied, "Yes it is.
... There I've stopped the CPUs  it's been accessing. They were low
priority CPUs in the Kray 3000, numbers 303,304, and 305. I'm  now
checking for file corruption. ... No overt file corruption, but
records in your database have been  accessed, none altered. Shall I
reboot and rebuild?"
     "Reboot and rebuild," ordered Eric, "Authority Alpha 13 dash
Gamma 348 dash Omega 9,  comma execution code 1313 Mockingbird Lane.
Make it so."
     Bette, the ViRaid bottle, the card display, the virus, some
pictures on the wall, and the hologram  hiding Eric's interface
ribbon cable, vanished for a second, and then reappeared. "Reboot
successful," reported Bette, "rebuild of datafiles and applications
successful. Virus shows no  activity, it still resides in the cash
card's transaction memory. Shall I transfer to safe memory block
locations 020279FA - 193920D - 102399C?"
     Eric thought for a second, looked over at his partner, who gave
him a 'what the hell do I know'  look, and decided, "Yeah, but break
it up into one kay chunks, keeping a list of how the pieces go  back
together, and scatter them through safe memory." Bette nodded in
acknowledgement. She  snapped her fingers, and suddenly she was
dressed in white gown with a large flowing skirt, and a  pair of
fairy wings attached to her bare back. She was holding a wand that
glowed with an inner  light. She smiled and wave her wand, singing
something that sounded like "bippty-boppity-boo"  under her breath.
Jackson looked at his partner and said "You're nuts, you know." Eric
smiled, and  sprouted a a thick black mustache and eybrows, with a
large cigar in his hand. "Just say the secret  woid and the duck will
drop," he waggled his eybrows.
     While this interchange happened, the virus began to breakup into
small, 1cm, cubes. The virus  came apart  in a slow motion explosion,
the cubes scattering everywhere. In seconds the virus was  nothing
more than a swarm of cubes that dipped and swerved as they flew
through the air. Bette  began to wave her wand as though it was a
conductor's baton causing the cubes to coalesce into a  stream. The
stream swirled around her, her skirt rising ever so risque, a
minature tornado with a  lecherous mind. The whirlwind came to a
point, the cubes at that point vanishing with a minute flash  of
ochre light. Seconds later, the last cube disappeared, and Bette
rested her wand in her left hand and  said in a strange triling
voice, "Well, my children, that nasty little virus is now safely
secured, its  indivdual components are, so to speak, SOL." With a
wiggle of her nose, she was back in her normal  business attire.
     Both men gave her an odd look, with Eric remarking, "I didn't
program you to say that." Bette  looked defensive, and defended,
"Well, I've been playing with myself." Jackson bit his tongue, Eric
began to smirk, they looked at each other, then the both of them
began to laugh riotously. "What did I  say?" she asked perplexedly.
     Minutes later, both men wiping tears from their eyes, had their
laughter run out of steam. "Bette,  dear," giggled Eric, his blue
eyes still watering, "I have to teach you about the birds,heh , and
the  bees one of these days, and all about, hehe, sexual innuendo."
     Jackson, running his hands through his hair, remarked, "Eric,
you mean to say, you and Bette  have never played proctologist?"
     "Doctor." replied Eric.
     "What?"
     "It's called 'playing doctor', not proctologist, and no we
haven't. I'm not into electronic  mastrubation."
     "Neither am I," spoke up Bette, "and, 'dear', I do not need to
be taught about the 'the birds and  the bees'. I am fully conversant
with sapient sexual acts and mores, though you are right, I do need
more experience in sexual innuendos."
     Jackson leaned forward and plucked the cash card from Eric's
special reader. "Kendrick got this  card from old man Kreig himself."
he said holding the card. Raising his hand, he held the card  between
his index and middle finger, pointing it at Eric, saying "We have to
find out what herr  Kreig's so afraid of us finding out...oh, shit."
Jackson dropped the card onto the desk, looked over  at Bette and
shook his head. "Vince." he said, "I forgot about Vince's case." He
looked accusingly at  Eric, and said, "This always happens when I
talk to you. Damn, I got to work on Vince Balibio's  case, uh, Bette
will fill you in on that. Can you deal with this Kreig stuff, while
I'll deal with this  other case?"
     Eric looked serious, and replied "Yeah, I can. Though I will
admit to the fact that I don't have  your CD nose and ability to root
out clues. The stuff that I've seen in the portions of Kreig's
datafiles, doesn't look kosher. There's something screwy with it,
something doesn't ring true about  the fact that the theft ring used
the firm's computers to assist with the crime."
     "Well, it's not that unusual," remarked Potter, "some people
have lax security when it comes to  trusted employees. They don't see
them walk off with office supplies, allow them to put a 'dubious'
entertainment expense on the company's card, etcetera. It happens."
     "Well it may happen, but not at Kreig Imports and Exports. That
family can trace its roots back  to Berlin and the Nazis. They don't
trust their employees."
     Tapping his lip with his finger, Jackson thought. Coming to a
decision, he said, "Go for it.  Check it out, there maybe something
to what you say. That virus came from Kreig's card, it may be  an
accident, or it may be malicious, but, we almost got bit by it and I
don't like being attacked. Find  out who made it, and what that thing
might have done to our system." He sighed, "I hate to do this,  but
put the system in isolation mode. I don't want to have anything sneak
in on us and trash us."  Jackson rubbed the back of his head, and
continued, "I'll run the password generator and distribute  the lists
to everyone. OK Eric, Bette?"
     "OK Jack," affirmed Eric, "I'll get right on it."
     "Yes Mr. Pot..." started Bette, cut off by Jackson's remark,
"Jackson or Jack, not 'Mr. Potter'.  Everytime you call me that, I
look around for my father. OK?"
     Bette looked uncertainly at Eric, who nodded in permission.
     "Yes Jackson," she smiled, "I will set up isolation protocols
for our different net connections.  When you give me the passwords, I
will open the safe doors for our access only."
     "Fine," replied Jackson, "meet me in my office, with the current
matches to the searchs, and  we'll get on Vince's case bali-bali." He
stood up and saluted Eric, "See ya later."
     "Right Chief!" Eric returned.

     Vince's bar was getting full, when Jackson returned at 2016
hours. Several space jockeys had  taken over a substantial portion of
the bar, and were shmoozing over the lastest news from incoming
ships. They had rented terminals and had tapped into the Station's
Trader Net. From there, they  could, for a stiff fee, access the
latest news and trade reports from worlds around ISCO space. Trade
Net itself consisted of several different trade news services that
fought for exclusive rights on  whatever finacial information that
all incoming ships carried. What was causing the uproar was a
Whurrian blinkship had just arrived insystem, only 15 light seconds
away. It had just left Earth. Most  starships took days, if not weeks
to ply the space between worlds, but the Whurrian blink drive
travered the light years instantaneously, thus its information is
just seconds old, and very valuable to  the market. From the way some
of space jockeys were arguing, some of the market news was not to
their liking.
     Regulars were taking over what table space was left, not without
some grumbling. One regular,  though, was not relinquishing his
table, Stembeck, and few of his compatriots were joining him.  They
were being very quiet and furtive, all of them being jacked into each
other. Only eye movement  betrayed something very un-innocuous was
going on.
     Potter made his way to the bar through the throng, careful not
to jostle any elbows, tentacles, or  whatever. A couple of Whurrs
were at a low, 10cms tall, table with their manipulators deep into
bowls of cane sugar, shoveling it into to their mouths. His BWI's
cellular connection was sputtering  and squawking from their
conversation, an unfortunate problem as Whurrs communicated in the
same radio frequency, and these two Whurrs were stoned out of their
wheels.
     Reluctantly Jackson shutdown his connection, hoping that the
Whurrs will be passed out soon.  Joey, Vince's evening cycle 'man',
was holding court at the bar. Joey was a Dabe; three meters tall,
two wide, four arms each ending in four digits, three insectile eyes,
and covered in thick white fur  from head to toe. Joey saw Potter out
the corner of an eye, 270 degree vision, and piped up in a  profound
basso, "Jacky! Hi hi hi! You make seat for Jacky, or Joey rip head
off body." The ashen  faced dock worker grabbed his drink and ran for
it. Jackson sat down on the still warm stool and  ordered a irish
coffee. Joey boisterously mixed the drink, adding the sugar with one
hand, whip  cream with another, Jamacian Blue Mountain coffee with
another, and the Irish whiskey with his last  available hand. Jackson
always marveled at the dexterous manner Joey mixed drinks. If you
wanted a  complicated drink, with dozens of ingredients, Joey was the
one to ask. With a big grin, Joey set  Jackson's order before him,
and, in a low voice, said "By Nebra tck Adra's twisted teats, I'm
glad to  have another sentient in this bar besides myself. Another
'Hi I'm Joey, you got poodle that I eat?'  dumb Dabe bit, and I'll go
into the blood rendering, gut ripping, head popping, mad Dabe
routine!"
     Joey was the product of the compulsary education system on
Alverez Station, thus he was erudite,  well learned, and a damn sight
more cognitive than his ancestors of two centuries ago.
Unfortunately,  most people have a mental picture of how a Dabe
speaks and acts, and whenever Joey broke this  stereotype, he got
more attention than he wanted.
     Jackson grinned at that, then took a sip of his drink. His eyes
rolled up, and he made a low  orgasmic moan, "Mmm, perfect. Perfect
Joey, you're the best mixer Vince's got. By the by, Vince  said you'd
point out Bobby Joe Jackhammer for me. I need to make a deal with
him."
     "Jackhammer, eh?" said Joey, "Why do you want to mess with him?
He's a no damn good  thievin Trell. He'll skin ya, and haft your baza
right."
     "Would you cut the theatrics, just point him out would you,
Joey."
     Joey gave him a look, shook his head and shrugged his shoulders,
"Your funride Jacky, he's  over their," indicating a direction with a
thumb, "the Trell with the babes, human babes. Pardon me  while I go
terrorize the touristas." Joey turned, and, waving all four arms
wildly, saying at the top of  his lungs, "Hi! You got gerbils? Me
like gerbils, soft, cuddly, crunchy! You want drink? Me get! Me
get!"
     Jackson spyed the Trell in the mirror. Bobby Joe Jackhammer was
an average Trell, 1 meter in  height, twenty two and a third kilos,
small black eyes, his large forward facing triangular ears, brown
fur, long rat-like tail, and large cloven hoofed feet. Where he was
different from the norm was his  gold and iridium chains, cloisome
pins and pendants attached to his fur, a gold embroidered, satin
vest, and numerous earrings pierced through his ears. The two
gorgeous human females at his sides,  ruffling his fur and scratching
behind his ears, had the all the earmarks of hired escorts. A privacy
light flashed at the center of the table, indicating that he had
purchased a cone of silence for the table,  and did not want any
company. 'Tough,' thought Jackson, 'he's going to get some anyway.'
     Again, he threaded through the bar's patrons, stepping over one
of the Whurrs, who was on his  back, his seven ball/wheels spinning
in different directions. As he came closer to the Trell's table, the
hired women stopped looking like courtesans and started to look like
bodyguards. They were  watching the room, their eyes tracking, ever
so slightly, independantly of each other, their arms and  hands were
disproportioned, tiny little scars on the backs of their hands
belying rippers implanted the  arms. 'I bet those dresses their
falling out of,' he pondered, 'are made out of aramid and ceramic
fibers. Sweet Jesus the Protector, this Triag is not just a broker.'
     When he reached the table, he stood respectfully outside the
cone of anti-noise that surrounded  the table, making it a quiet
haven in the sea of noise of the bar. The two females, who, as he now
noticed, were wonderfully stacked, one a redhead, the other a blond,
were both identical to a tee  except for the hair. 'Andies,' he
thought, 'they're bloody androids!' They gave him the once over,
then the Trell gestured with a near useless finger. The redhead
approached Jackson, walking on the  balls of her feet, and held her
hand out to Jackson. Jackson reached into his jacket, pulled out his
Wilmoore A.P.7, ejected the magazine, and handed them to the andy.
She took the pistol and  magazine, placing them on the table at an
inconveinent distance from the only vacant chair, then held  her hand
out one more time. Jackson smirked, and drew his carbon-calcium alloy
knives from their  wrist sheaves and handed them handle first to her.
She took them and placed them next to his gun.  She walked behind the
chair, and pulled it out for Jackson. He nodded, then sat down at the
table.  The redhead stood behind him.
     "So fel sap," spoke Jackhammer in spacer patios, "what biz
converse you have?"
     "Small biz," replied Jackson in the same tongue, "for big sap
like you such."
     "All biz, is biz big. Not big as me by treating small as small.
Small big can be."
     "Small seeds big shade make, small seeds no shade make."
     "Verace, verace. What small seed have you?"
     "Eight eights of DPU, one eight and one millimeters. Need have I
for such."
     "Heavy death. Uses for illegitimate, maybe?"
     "Neg fel sap, sherlock I, work on hire for SS."
     Jackhammer thought for a second, a pair of marbles floating in
midair over his left hand. His  eyes regarded the CD coldly. "Going
sale," he said, "bux one eight and two, yen three eights and five
for death."
     "Two eights and eight eights and two of eights for eight eights
of heavy death? Dead he  Winston, sale bux five, yen four eights and
one for heavy death!" exclaimed Jackson.
     "Dead he Winston dead. Live I Bobby Joe live. Needs have I. Live
have I." He considered for a  second and offered, "Small grace give
I. Sale bux one eight and one, yen naught for heavy death."
     "Half Grend is Grend half much. Sale bux six, yen six eights and
two."
     "Fem saps worrisome." he replied, indicating his bodyguards,
"Fem saps good. Others need  fems. Blood I give much. Sale bux one
eight, yen two eights and four."
     Jackson gave the female andies an appreciative eye, then
offered,"Fem saps good. Fem saps  lethal. Fem saps made." The trio
stiffened at that statement, "Byte player have I. Think machine have
I. Live have I. Sale bux six, yen six eights and two."
     Jackhammer stared at him then snorted a short laugh, "Devious
have you. Eyes have you. Sale  bux six, yen six eights and two
affirm. Heavy death give hours four, minutes three eights. Place be
corridor Alpha four dash one, one eight and one, seven, level six
eights and two, Polly's Noodles.  Bux have you. Bux give you. Heavy
death give I. Affirm?"
     "Affirm." Jackson replied. He shook his hands at the Trell, who
responded in kind. He stood  up and nodded courteously at the andies.
The redhead handed him back his knives, which he re- sheaved. She
reinserted the magazine back into his pistol, then handed it back to
Jackson who simply  reholstered it without checking. She gave him a
demur smile of acknowledgement. He made his way  back to his
miraculously empty bar stool and his still steaming Irish coffee.
     "You make a sale?" inquired Joey.
     "Yup, sixty four 9mm DPUs for 6 bux, 50 yen a piece." replied
Jackson.
     Joey gave a low whistle, and commented, "That's about 2 bux
cheaper than Winston, may he  rest in peace, used to charge."
     "Shhh! Jackhammer doesn't know that, I just conned him into
thinking that he's overcharging  me."
     "Ah. So soggy, my lips are velcroed." Joey went back to making a
very complicated mix drink,  it was various red liquors poured on top
of each other in layers. "What's that you're making?" asked  Jackson.
"Huh? Oh, it's an Olympus Mons. Some tourista been ordering them all
evening cycle." The hairs on the back of Jackson's neck stood on end.
With a careful look out the corner of his  eye, he examined the
serving tray next to Joey. A bottle of Mariner 9 ale and a glass was
on it.
     "Joey," he said calmly, "Did Vince tell you about his brother?"
     "Yeah, uh, you mean about him being on station?" responded the
Dabe warily.
     "Yes. Where's the fellow who is drinking the Olympus Mons with a
Mariner 9 chaser?"
     Joey gave Jackson a surprised look then remembered the ale being
on the tray. With a strecthing  motion, he laid a hand down on the
bar top with a finger pointing at a corner of the bar. Jackson saw
the direction that the finger was pointing then checked the location
in the bar's mirror. A tall, thin  man, dressed in a rust colored biz
suit, with dark curly hair and scraggily beard was sitting in the
corner, sipping on a glass of ale. Jackson called up his BWI's file
server and displayed the five  matches that Bette had made from her
search. It was Kevin Doerflinger, business agent for Kreig  Imports
and Exports Earth Headquarters. He was also the best match from the
MTS aging  algorithms. 'Shave the beard off,' he thought, 'and you'd
have Antonio Balibio.'

--

John H. Reiher Jr.
Internet: JHREIHER@uccs.edu
Bitnet: JHREIHER@COLOSPGS.BITNET
America Online: Dr Destiny, Kedamono
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