>From: erikred@avalanche.Berkeley.EDU (Erik Nielsen)
Subject: Have Your Girl Do My Girl, We'll Call Lunch
Date: 1 Oct 91 22:17:40 GMT


	"So what's the job, Schmidtt?"
	We're in a cafe in Cairo, capital of the New Egyption Empire.  Old
Egypt fell apart after the turn of the century, but the NEE's kept the
country stable for over fifteen years.  Of all the African and Middle-East
nations I've seen, I give this one the highest odds of sticking around:
One, the economy's on the rise, and two, I know the President from my days
with the revolution.  He's a tight-fisted dictator, but he knows that
business is business.
	Schmidtt stands 6'2", when he stands.  He's always got that cocksure
grin on his face and the muscles to back it up.  Needless to say, I trust
him not.  He used to be in the vids when they were popular; then he truned
suit for RCA.  His sandy blonde hair and his bushy mustache don't hurt his
business in the least.
	"Never one for pleasantries, were you, Damien?"  His slight German
accent grates on my nerves.  "Alright, then, have it your way.  We need an
elimination."
	"For 24?  Which royal family do you want liquidated?  Or is it all
the crown princes of the EEC?"  Web snickers; Schmidtt's smile tightens a
bit.
	"A singular person.  His name is Ikejii, and he lives in Boston."
	"The States?  Come on, Schmidtt, you know there's a price on my head
there left over from the US Steel Operation!"
	"That's why we're paying you so well."  His smile's back, a little
wider than before.  After all, I'm on the defensive now.  "Come now, Damien,
you'll be in and out of the country within two days.  We'll arange transport
and ID, you supply the corpse."
	"What's the catch, Schmidtt?"  Web's not lookin too happy about this
job, and his voice carries a note of doubt.
	"Catch, Weber?"
	"As in who's gonna juice us when this shindig goes down.  And what
the 'special conditions' are this time."  Last time, it had to look like an
accident, the time before like a vendetta.
	"No one will 'juice' you, but. . . you can't use any guns."
	Web explodes.  "Why the fuck not?"
	"Because gunshots in this. . . area would draw too much attention."
	"It's Arasaka.  We're going after an Arasaka exec, aren't we?  An
Arasaka exec on his own ground, with his own guards and everything and we
can't use guns.  Well, no, thank you.  Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,
Mrs. Weber did NOT raise her son to become dog-meat in a corproate zone.
Damien, let's go, before this crazy goose-stepper--"
	"Shut up, Web."  Web's right, this stinks; but that 24 looks
oh-so-good.  But Boston. . . bad vibes in that town.  Lot of bad vibes.
But 24. . . .  "Alright, Schmidtt, you're on.  Web, I never forced you on
anything. . . ."
	"You sorry-assed MoFo.  You're gonna get us killed one of these
times."  His voice is quiet, angry, but resigned.  "Alright, I'm in.  And
Schmidtt?  If the shit hits the fan, you gonna pay the piper."
	"Now, Schmidtt, I want that expense account at my disposal in an
hour's time.  And draw up a contract with the usual provisos so's the
President's boys can pore over it before I sign it.  Oh, yeah.  When's Mr.
Right gotta meet his untimely demise?"
	"Two weeks."
	"Set up the reservations.  Handle my cover yourself.  The rest is
standard."
	The waiter shows up.  We all order synth-beer.  I get festive at the
thought of 240k $Euro and propose a toast.  "To business."  The others salut.
	"Because business is business," Weber adds gloomily.

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Copyright 1991, Erik Nielsen

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--
     "All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain."
			Roy, _Blade Runner_
Erik Nielsen					erikred@ocf.berkeley.edu