Blue Lady Ghost (Cyber Punk Story)
Feb 15, 2006 6:38:16 GMT
Post by jinx on Feb 15, 2006 6:38:16 GMT
Well, I figured since everyone else was posting stories, I might as well post this. Its an as of yet unfinished science fiction story in the cyber-punk genre, in the William Gibson veinn of cyber-punk. There is certainly a need for clarity in some spots I think, but its a good start. Comments and critisms please?
EDIT: Ok, at one point it looks like I've used the phrase "son of a beach" but its suppose to be, well you know what it supposed to be, but the board won't let me post the swear word. So there might be such instances. THAT IS ALL
Blue Lady Ghost
Act 1
Underground Midnight Blues
On the walk to the Aardvark from Nicholas’ studio greasy rain globbed from the New Heaven skies. Streetlights flashed in syncopation with the multimillion heartbeats of the midnight city. Shinning eyes, glowing points of light from under hoods and wilted hats stared at Nicholas as he passed dumpsters and corners.
The future is stupid. It was carved into the wood of the real oak bar at Nicholas’ favorite seat at the Aardvark. He stared at the message. The dim blue and yellow lights of the bar reflected off the clear polymer coating to protect the antique wood. The oak bar reminded Nicholas of Chicago and the Blues. Music to match was playing, with a rock fusion—jazz, blues, the orgasm of guitar and bass-mantra of whiskey. The Aardvark wasn’t crowed on a rainy Tuesday night—just the regulars, the pimps and hustlers, the con artists and drunks. And a few broken princes. Dirk was at his booth in the corner, the shadows passed over him in undulating waves of dark and near-dark. His trench coat was slung over the booth’s shoulder. He sat smoking a Romeo cigarillo. His military enhanced muscles rippled despite his perfect stillness as if the nerve enhancers and engineered steroids were still pulsing through his body all these years after his discharge. The tattooed barcode on his shoulder glimmered darkly when he moved his arm to take a drag. Nicholas noticed the former mercenary turned dealmaker from the corner of his eye.
Nicholas grabbed his beer and wafted through the cigarette atmosphere of the Aardvark towards Dirk. “The night is an erratic mistress”. Nicholas stated. A flash of dull gold from Dirk’s vat-engineered eyes.
“And the day is no mistress at all.” Dirk smiled and took a sip of straight gin.
“That s***’ll kill you, you know that? It can probably even eat out your amplified guts.”
“That’s the point, no business tonight, just self-destruction.” Dirk smiled with too-perfect teeth.
“Well, I’d better switch poisons then, shouldn’t I?
“Thought the little woman didn’t take to you drinking liquor.”
“Lily is in France doing promotion with her agent and some freak VR sculptor for her new Cube works.”
“Good, I took the liberty of getting two glasses with my bottle. Had a feeling I wouldn’t be drinking alone tonight.”
“Here’s to the night. The erratic dance. The life-mantra. To Prince and Prophet, whoever they may be”. Dirk rattled off in ceremony as Nicholas clinked his glass on Dirk’s. They both shot a double gin and leaned back. Paul lit a Midnight Royal. He could already feel the gin seeping into his brain from his warm belly.
Dirk and Nicholas rambled through speech and thought in the basement bar. Gin stained lips on cigarettes. “Well, Dirk, I’ve got another stop to make before its back to the loft for Lily’s nightly call.”
“Where are you off to sir, nay, prince of all that is digital art?” Dirk exhaled.
“freak…I’m off to the Shimmer Sultan, got a VIP invite for a private party.”
“The French neo-hippies, expatriated from France and living in New Heaven, the ultimate statement of irony in lifestyle. They’ve got good hash, wish I was going with you.” Dirk smiled, too perfect.
“I could get you in man, no problem.”
“I appreciate the invite, but I’m going out to follow up a lead, an illegal Russian ROM.”
“Business? Thought tonight was pleasure.”
“That is the first thing you’ve got to realize in this business—this business is pleasure.” Dirk slide quickly from the booth and in a motion of cloth his trench coat was on and he was swimming towards the stairs to the door.
Act 2
Riddles at Gray-Dawn
The gray-light began to sift through the ever-present haze of New Heaven. Here there was no dawn, only gray. The gray spread, a wool blanket of musk and humidity. Inside a downtown loft space hanging multi-display monitors warmed to life, waves of color flowed inside the screens at system boot in warm-up. Paul sat back in his chair and lit a Midnight Royal. The steel blue smoked wreathed around his face and twisted in helix patterns around the display. Paul keyed up the Mind Space Institute networks. He navigated towards the red, ribbed pillars of MSI security that pulsated at his approach. He quickly entered his password and pushed beyond the ribbed pillars. He sailed through the recreational sector, blue and green lighting was flying between the cubes of the sector. He remembered there were several game tournaments going on all night and into the morning, which would explain the activity there. He sped by the purple administrative sectors increasing speed, wanting to get straight to the Archive. The Librarian was there at it’s glowing desk. “Librarian, did you find the new location of the dissertation as I requested? The meta data search construct?”
“Good morning to you too Paul” the sarcastic non-voice of the Librarian emanated.
“No time for games tonight, you got it?”
“Of course I have it, I am far more advanced than some near ancient and failed graduate dissertation. Why do you even want this old piece of junk? The premise of the construct outlined in the info-file is a great idea, but the construct itself never cooperates, or so says the info-file. You’ll never even find the creator, assuming whoever built it is still alive. All those files are either inaccessible inside the construct or erased.” The non-voice stated.
“Give me the network location, please.”
“Alright, I’m sending you there now.” The dim white towers of the library sped past on Paul’s display at a blur. He’d been thrust deep into the Archive sector of the library system. A rectangular space of no light blackness with a dim blue blinking sphere at center was right in front of him. Wisps of no light licked like fire at the cube’s edges. Paul cracked his knuckles.
“All right you old son of a beach, I’m getting inside tonight”. Paul hit a button at his keyboard, at this touch two smaller extension boards came out from his workstation at either side. He began to punch up his best anti-encryption programs. On the display a wave of what looked like red ants began to swarm over the no light cube, engulfing it.
Paul got up and walked towards the kitchenette of his studio. He rummaged around in the fridge and ended up grabbing a beer. He lit another cigarette off the electric stove. He heard the familiar sound of an incoming message from his SonaSoft workstation. He looked at the ancient AA battery clock on the kitchenette wall. 5:37 a.m. It could only be the Mustang at this hour. Paul jaunted over to the SonaSoft and punched up the message on one of the displays. The Mustang’s familiar and anonymous icon appeared on the screen—a crossed six-guns over a saddle. Another cyber-world non-voice began vibrating the speakers of the SonaSoft. “Pauley want a cracker? I’ve got a Japanese fortune cookie that makes your MSI s*** about as hard as a hammer on poly-carbon armor.”
“Mustang, buddy, isn’t it a little early for you to be lurking on MSI net?”
“Not tonight, we’ve been working on cracking this construct for months. I need to know what is inside.” The non-voice reverberated.
“You are addicted. You are getting as junked out on this as I am.”
“Its you and me on this one, buddy. We are a team. Besides you promised you’d let me get a copy of the meta data search programming to use. But right now we have more important business. Your SonaSoft isn’t going to cut it for running this Japanese decryption agent.”
“What? Its six multiprocessing, got layered RAM, nonlinear processing delegation…”
“Not going to cut it, this is something straight from the hack n’ slash underground a la’ Japan.” the non-voice cut Paul off. “You are going to have to get some serious hardware. I’ve already taken the liberty of setting up a seller for a commercial grade workstation, how much money you have left on your grant?”
s***…this is sending me a creep…why the sudden burst of interest from Mustang? The professionalism? What does he know? Before tonight he was unreliable, a pain in the ass, and a liability… “I don’t have an exact number on me, I already blew half of it on the SonaSoft and all this software. Hell I still owe you for the Japanese agent…”
“On the house, call it a…professional courtesy…”
“Hold up…” Paul interjected. The SonaSoft began to whine shrilly. On the multi-display the swarming anti-encryption ants were being eaten by non-light, black fire. The dim blue sphere at the center of the cyber-world representation of the meta data search construct flared in defiance of the attempted penetration. And the display went dark. “Damn it!” Paul slammed the keyboard. The Mustang’s non-voice began to laugh filling the now silence with an eerie feeling of non-reality.
“Oh, Pauley, Pauley, my dear boy, looks like you’ll be going shopping tomorrow night. Get some sleep you and Bell are going on a date, to the Cyberdelic.” the Mustang vibrated over the networks and was gone. Paul slumped back in the poly netting of his chair’s back, still clutching the now burnt out cigarette. Paul sent a quick text message to the Librarian:
librarian@msi/librarynetworks:://
Librarian,
Paul here. Going in again tomorrow night, or possibly the next night. Send the next two Achieve net locations. No bulls***, or I’ll sign that petition to get you reprogrammed.
Fellow Pain in the Ass,
Paul
Paul keyed off the SonaSoft and walked towards the windows of the loft space. Gray dawn had invaded the skies of New Heaven. The neons and holo-ads were receding into the permanent dusk of daylight. The bustle of the after-midnight life was going to sleep, making way towards the steady, spun rush of day in New Heaven.
Act 3
Inhale the Blue Goddess
Nicholas grabbed his worn brown leather jacket after finishing a cigarette. Outside the stairwell to the Aardvark Nicholas could feel the life of the night running strong. The streets were filled with all manner of creature. Leather demons and hemp clad hobgoblins. Old James was leaning in his ancient plastic lawn chair peddling the night’s goods as he did every night. “Son, Nick my boy, looking for trouble tonight eh? His long fried hair whipped around him in the wind. “Going to see French Neo-Expatriates tonight son?”
“Who the hell told you that?”
“The dagger-man. Old merc from good times.”
“Well f*** Dirk. He should know how to keep his mouth shut.”
“Never mind dagger-man now, he is off into the veil of night. I have the Blue Goddess, hash from outside Heaven. Zion priest from New Jamaica Colony says those who smoke may obtain the favor of the Blue Goddess.”
Nicholas started to laugh a little. “Sorry James, man, but you either got to stop smoking this s*** yourself or get over your love of ghost stories.”
“You take some then?”
“Give me a quarter.”
Old James handed over a Pyrex twist-top tube, which contained far more than a quarter. It had three long, fresh buds in it. Crystals of THC were thick on the plant matter. Blue hairs appeared to be combed in a spiral around the buds. “No man, I only got enough for a quarter James.”
“I will not sell the Goddess, she is a gift.”
“I have to pay you James, its good business relations and all. Besides, looks like two hits of that stuff will blast the network, you know?”
“Then let we say…um…on the house?”
“Alright then, everyone wants my death.”
“In some way, we do.” James mumbled, but Nicholas couldn’t hear.
“I can’t carry all this around with me, still got that delivery boy?”
“It’ll be waiting in home, my artist friend.”
“Thanks James.” and Paul high-fived him. Paul expertly pinched the top of one of the blue buds before handing the Pyrex tube back to James. “For the road.” James just smiled and sat back puffing on his churchwarden pipe. The smell of the alley was thick with dark English pipe tobacco, ganja, and the oily rain that still dripped from the ramparts of the city.
Nicholas wound his way down the shattered concrete and through the crowds of techno-junkie punks. Their neon spiked hair an exclamation on the night. Paul’s black denim legs moved in fluidity, they clicked the heels of his vat-leather cowboy boots down the sidewalks. He rolled a spliff of Midnight Royal tobacco and a couple pillowy pinches of the grass. He sparked the paper cylinder with a quick flick of flame from his matte black Zippo. His long hair dampened at the ends, pulled back and tied with a piece of red French silk from Lily, began to curl in the humidity.
Uptown was alive with the buzz of designer highs and 5th avenue fashion. The champagne sparkle played a crystal piano. Paul walked up to the bouncer who extended a shiny black cybernetic arm to take check his VIP invite. He eyed Nicholas curiously through round gold lens glasses. “You know where the suite is I take it?” the bouncer voiced, no emotion.
“Yeah…” Nicholas breathed, already filled with euphoria. The bouncer nodded with a grunt and opened the door. The pulse of the drum and bass hit Nicholas in the chest and lungs, vibrated his eyes and kidneys. Party hungry Chelsea Girls and nihilistic Polo Boys jumped, gyrated to the beat of bad pop-techno. The acidic eye-candy screens flickered and an image of intense, iridescent blue eyes stared Nicholas down from every angle. The music played on, the dancers moved in waves, yet time stopped very briefly for Nicholas. The eyes burned into blue fire and were gone. Nicholas just laughed and jogged up the stairs to the suite were another gold glass eyed bouncer checked his invite. He nodded and opened the door with a shinny black arm. He walked in to a thick cloud of hashish and shisha tobacco smoke. The air smelled like jasmine and nag champa, which left the sweet after taste of good hash.
She waved to Nicholas from across the room. Her brown hair was pulled back in blue and green glow-beads and she wore too big rose tea-shades. Nicholas made his way through tables and hookah smokers. They were drinking Pernod, the Czech way. Nicholas sat across from her as two women lit their sugar cubes on fire. As the cubes caramelized each woman expertly dumped the cube into their glass of absinthe from the slotted spoons over their glasses. “Autumn, babe, its great to see you. Been far too long”.
“Oh, Nick…” she sighed and slid over the booth to hug him. “How have you been? Are you working again?”
“One question at a time. I need a drink first”. Autumn smiled and began to prepare two Czech absinthes. “I’m doing well, its kind of good to have Lily away…not that I don’t miss her. And, yes, I am going to start working again. Mind Space is releasing a new version of the cube technology soon. Not to mention Dr. Gibbons is having me as a guest speaker Monday morning for his Intro to Neural Interactive Hardware course.
“That’s great Nicholas, but aren’t you afraid to test the new cube? I mean couldn’t it hurt you”? Autumn whined.
“I suppose, but all the previous versions are very safe, plus Damien will be there. He is the best Neural Tech guy they’ve got at Mind Space Institute”. She passed him lukewarm Pernod. One of the other women had left, the other one was absently smoking a clove cigarette from a long silver cigarette holder. She seemed to stare through Nicholas. Autumn had turned to talk to a dark haired French boy. Nicholas looked across the way and saw the only other person who stuck out as much as he did here. She was dressed in black denim and a navy short-sleeve shirt. She had on pitch colored aviator glasses and a beret. Both of them sat stark against the golds and browns of the room, sat stark before the pastels of the French Neos. She was smoking a cigarette and looking uninterested as three French boys tried to converse with her while smoking their hookah. Although he could not see her eyes Nicholas new they were dark, burning, and looking directly at him. Nicholas looked up to find a clock—no clocks in bars. He looked at his bare wrist and excused himself. Autumn was gone and the two women had gone back to pouring and preparing two new absinthes. He turned from the booth in time to see the shadow of the dark eyed woman’s shadow slip into the crack of a closing door.
Act 4
Hardcore Hardware
Paul and Bell sat in the back of a Black Cab winding towards downtown and the Cyberdelic. Paul still hadn’t told Bell the real reason he was taking a night off to go out. She had been far too excited and had worn her best silk blouse. Her brown hair fell around her face, sparse of make-up, yet radiant. Paul hoped that some of their friends would be there to distract her. Paul wasn’t sure how legal this deal was considering its coordinator.
The oily rain of New Heaven fell in few and huge drops from the sky of tower light stars and holograms. The Black Cab wound through several alleys in a warehouse block. Only an ancient plain red neon blinked “Cyberdelic” as a beacon. Otherwise the alley was dark except for a small lone street lamp a few yards away. As they stepped out of the cab Paul felt exhilarated by the cool breeze against the standard humidity of New Heaven. He’d slept all day, as usual, and the infant night was alive inside him.
A woman sat at a small table with a Prophet II mobile system on the second floor of the Cyberdelic. Her leather jeans and combat boots squeaked as she shifted to get a better view of the door even though she was watching the security camera through the Prophet. A man with unnatural silver hair and silver glasses sat across from her. She nodded her brown face towards him. He did nothing except take a deep drag off his cigarette as the crash of a jazz fusion song came to an end. A lower volume trance song came on as Paul and Bell walked through the door. She keyed up a different camera and redirected it towards a semi-private booth at the back of the club. A man dressed all in Versace black was sitting with two women drinking vodka.
Bell led Paul past the large bar downstairs next to the dance floor. She was about to pull Paul onto the clear and glowing polymer floor when she spotted two of her friends dancing with Polo Boys. She kissed two fingers and pressed them to Paul’s lips. He winked at her as she meshed with the wave of flesh on the dance floor. Paul wandered to the bar and ordered a vodka and triple sec sour. He looked at his wristwatch. The antique clockwork indicated 12:47 a.m. He was supposed to meet the dealer at 1 a.m. He started to move slowly towards the back, trying too hard not to appear as though he wasn’t looking for someone. He heard a laugh and something indistinguishable in a thick Russian accent. Mustang said he had sent the dealer Paul’s picture, and that he was to “wander around in the back of the club”. “Friend! Paul! Here my friend, sit here”.
Paul turned slowly and gazed on the Versace Russian’s pale, angular face sucking on a very dark cigar. The table was littered with Royal Light cigarette butts and tumblers with drying layers of expensive vodka sticking to them. Paul sat down next to the Russian while the two girls giggled and whispered on the opposite end of the semi-circle booth. “Paul my name is Peter. We Russians prefer to do business and then relax with vodkas”. The thick voice of Peter seemed to drift with his eyes towards the two chatting girls and their clinking vodkas.
“So, Paul, my friend I have for you a…ah…a decommissioned Spearhead III. That is assuming you have the currency required…” He trailed off from his better business English and reduced accent.
Paul’s hand moved from his jacket pocket flicking a RedChip bankcard towards Peter. The Russian smiled, raising his hand to snap his fingers at a black dressed woman standing several feet from him in the semi-dark. She walked forward stiff and emotionless.
The woman sat watching the deal through the Prophet. She singled the silver haired man with her left hand. He tapped the hinge of his silver glasses twice and began receiving video feed from the Prophet. The camera was zoomed in on the black dressed woman. He nodded and began to mover slowly downstairs with an empty glass.
The black dressed woman brought out a mobile system with a bankcard adapter on it. The system booted quickly and she sat next to Paul, silent and rigid. She wore sunglasses, yet could, apparently, see perfectly as she brought up a Dresden bank network. She swiped the RedChip card and began to transfer the amount.
The silver haired man carried a cranberry and tonic in his hand. The woman on the balcony monitored the deal and transmitted text to the viewer on the silver haired man’s glasses. The silver haired man sat down a few tables in front of Paul and the Russians with his back turned to them, watching them.
“Thank you Paul, the transfer is complete. My assistant will make sure system is delivered and set up by the time you come to your home later this morning”.
“Thanks Pete, I sure appreciate the favor” He said it sarcastically coy as if he didn’t need the Russian’s help. He was trying to act the hard ass, in this ridiculous blue designer suit he’d borrowed off one of Bell’s club friend’s. The Russian just laughed and the nearly-shat-myself feeling left Paul and he gratefully slammed the double vodka the Versace Russian poured him.
The silver haired man slowly finished his drink and lit another cigarette. He left the glass and a tip and moved slowly towards the door. The brown woman on the balcony snapped the Prophet shut and dropped it in her red nylon knapsack with a small patch displaying crossed six guns over a saddle. She glided down the metal stairs and wandered smoothly out the door of the Cyberdelic.
Paul had a few drinks with the Russian laughing at his asinine jokes. Finally, feeling the Russian gigglers had gotten too friendly and the black Versace clown and gotten too drunk he excused himself on the grounds of another business engagement. He found Bell, her friends and the Polo Boys sitting at a table near the main bar. He suffered through their conversation for another hour before convincing Bell to leave. Bell was nearly asleep the whole cab ride back to her place. She passed out on her bed after a shower. Paul booted her Opal Computer and sent a message to Mustang’s favorite network cover.
To: mustang@oldiesbutgoodies.net/genre/20centurycowboyfilms
From: paul034@msi.graduatestudies.net
Mustang,
Everything went down smooth. The Russian was a real freak. Soon as I’m sure Bell is asleep I’ll go check the setup and contact you from there. Tomorrow night? Let me know.
--P
Paul knew it was probably still too early for any chance of contact with the Mustang. He looked over at Bell who was breathing deeply with eyes closed on the pulled down bed. He bent over and placed a light kiss on her barely parted lips. She sighed and smiled but did not wake. He covered her with the comforter and grabbed his jacket. Outside he lit a Midnight Royal and walked towards the downtown warehouse district and his workspace loft. He paused a moment at the border of the glitzy teahouses and all night saki bars. He walked on a bit and came to a darkened espresso bar called “Espresso Bar” in a cheap wavering hologram. Inside he smoked, and drank several double cappuccinos. Outside wayward, drunk, and rich twenty-somethings wandered towards the seeder bars after more than alcohol. Software vendors haggled with two-bit hackers over illicit, malicious code etched into micro-ROMS waiting to be deployed on unsuspecting networks—this is a plague the world over. He watched the Techno Junkies jam to electronic pulses and the flashing strings of crystals were their hair should be shake in the big drop drizzle of New Heaven.
...act 4 remains unfinished...
EDIT: Ok, at one point it looks like I've used the phrase "son of a beach" but its suppose to be, well you know what it supposed to be, but the board won't let me post the swear word. So there might be such instances. THAT IS ALL
Blue Lady Ghost
Act 1
Underground Midnight Blues
On the walk to the Aardvark from Nicholas’ studio greasy rain globbed from the New Heaven skies. Streetlights flashed in syncopation with the multimillion heartbeats of the midnight city. Shinning eyes, glowing points of light from under hoods and wilted hats stared at Nicholas as he passed dumpsters and corners.
The future is stupid. It was carved into the wood of the real oak bar at Nicholas’ favorite seat at the Aardvark. He stared at the message. The dim blue and yellow lights of the bar reflected off the clear polymer coating to protect the antique wood. The oak bar reminded Nicholas of Chicago and the Blues. Music to match was playing, with a rock fusion—jazz, blues, the orgasm of guitar and bass-mantra of whiskey. The Aardvark wasn’t crowed on a rainy Tuesday night—just the regulars, the pimps and hustlers, the con artists and drunks. And a few broken princes. Dirk was at his booth in the corner, the shadows passed over him in undulating waves of dark and near-dark. His trench coat was slung over the booth’s shoulder. He sat smoking a Romeo cigarillo. His military enhanced muscles rippled despite his perfect stillness as if the nerve enhancers and engineered steroids were still pulsing through his body all these years after his discharge. The tattooed barcode on his shoulder glimmered darkly when he moved his arm to take a drag. Nicholas noticed the former mercenary turned dealmaker from the corner of his eye.
Nicholas grabbed his beer and wafted through the cigarette atmosphere of the Aardvark towards Dirk. “The night is an erratic mistress”. Nicholas stated. A flash of dull gold from Dirk’s vat-engineered eyes.
“And the day is no mistress at all.” Dirk smiled and took a sip of straight gin.
“That s***’ll kill you, you know that? It can probably even eat out your amplified guts.”
“That’s the point, no business tonight, just self-destruction.” Dirk smiled with too-perfect teeth.
“Well, I’d better switch poisons then, shouldn’t I?
“Thought the little woman didn’t take to you drinking liquor.”
“Lily is in France doing promotion with her agent and some freak VR sculptor for her new Cube works.”
“Good, I took the liberty of getting two glasses with my bottle. Had a feeling I wouldn’t be drinking alone tonight.”
“Here’s to the night. The erratic dance. The life-mantra. To Prince and Prophet, whoever they may be”. Dirk rattled off in ceremony as Nicholas clinked his glass on Dirk’s. They both shot a double gin and leaned back. Paul lit a Midnight Royal. He could already feel the gin seeping into his brain from his warm belly.
Dirk and Nicholas rambled through speech and thought in the basement bar. Gin stained lips on cigarettes. “Well, Dirk, I’ve got another stop to make before its back to the loft for Lily’s nightly call.”
“Where are you off to sir, nay, prince of all that is digital art?” Dirk exhaled.
“freak…I’m off to the Shimmer Sultan, got a VIP invite for a private party.”
“The French neo-hippies, expatriated from France and living in New Heaven, the ultimate statement of irony in lifestyle. They’ve got good hash, wish I was going with you.” Dirk smiled, too perfect.
“I could get you in man, no problem.”
“I appreciate the invite, but I’m going out to follow up a lead, an illegal Russian ROM.”
“Business? Thought tonight was pleasure.”
“That is the first thing you’ve got to realize in this business—this business is pleasure.” Dirk slide quickly from the booth and in a motion of cloth his trench coat was on and he was swimming towards the stairs to the door.
Act 2
Riddles at Gray-Dawn
The gray-light began to sift through the ever-present haze of New Heaven. Here there was no dawn, only gray. The gray spread, a wool blanket of musk and humidity. Inside a downtown loft space hanging multi-display monitors warmed to life, waves of color flowed inside the screens at system boot in warm-up. Paul sat back in his chair and lit a Midnight Royal. The steel blue smoked wreathed around his face and twisted in helix patterns around the display. Paul keyed up the Mind Space Institute networks. He navigated towards the red, ribbed pillars of MSI security that pulsated at his approach. He quickly entered his password and pushed beyond the ribbed pillars. He sailed through the recreational sector, blue and green lighting was flying between the cubes of the sector. He remembered there were several game tournaments going on all night and into the morning, which would explain the activity there. He sped by the purple administrative sectors increasing speed, wanting to get straight to the Archive. The Librarian was there at it’s glowing desk. “Librarian, did you find the new location of the dissertation as I requested? The meta data search construct?”
“Good morning to you too Paul” the sarcastic non-voice of the Librarian emanated.
“No time for games tonight, you got it?”
“Of course I have it, I am far more advanced than some near ancient and failed graduate dissertation. Why do you even want this old piece of junk? The premise of the construct outlined in the info-file is a great idea, but the construct itself never cooperates, or so says the info-file. You’ll never even find the creator, assuming whoever built it is still alive. All those files are either inaccessible inside the construct or erased.” The non-voice stated.
“Give me the network location, please.”
“Alright, I’m sending you there now.” The dim white towers of the library sped past on Paul’s display at a blur. He’d been thrust deep into the Archive sector of the library system. A rectangular space of no light blackness with a dim blue blinking sphere at center was right in front of him. Wisps of no light licked like fire at the cube’s edges. Paul cracked his knuckles.
“All right you old son of a beach, I’m getting inside tonight”. Paul hit a button at his keyboard, at this touch two smaller extension boards came out from his workstation at either side. He began to punch up his best anti-encryption programs. On the display a wave of what looked like red ants began to swarm over the no light cube, engulfing it.
Paul got up and walked towards the kitchenette of his studio. He rummaged around in the fridge and ended up grabbing a beer. He lit another cigarette off the electric stove. He heard the familiar sound of an incoming message from his SonaSoft workstation. He looked at the ancient AA battery clock on the kitchenette wall. 5:37 a.m. It could only be the Mustang at this hour. Paul jaunted over to the SonaSoft and punched up the message on one of the displays. The Mustang’s familiar and anonymous icon appeared on the screen—a crossed six-guns over a saddle. Another cyber-world non-voice began vibrating the speakers of the SonaSoft. “Pauley want a cracker? I’ve got a Japanese fortune cookie that makes your MSI s*** about as hard as a hammer on poly-carbon armor.”
“Mustang, buddy, isn’t it a little early for you to be lurking on MSI net?”
“Not tonight, we’ve been working on cracking this construct for months. I need to know what is inside.” The non-voice reverberated.
“You are addicted. You are getting as junked out on this as I am.”
“Its you and me on this one, buddy. We are a team. Besides you promised you’d let me get a copy of the meta data search programming to use. But right now we have more important business. Your SonaSoft isn’t going to cut it for running this Japanese decryption agent.”
“What? Its six multiprocessing, got layered RAM, nonlinear processing delegation…”
“Not going to cut it, this is something straight from the hack n’ slash underground a la’ Japan.” the non-voice cut Paul off. “You are going to have to get some serious hardware. I’ve already taken the liberty of setting up a seller for a commercial grade workstation, how much money you have left on your grant?”
s***…this is sending me a creep…why the sudden burst of interest from Mustang? The professionalism? What does he know? Before tonight he was unreliable, a pain in the ass, and a liability… “I don’t have an exact number on me, I already blew half of it on the SonaSoft and all this software. Hell I still owe you for the Japanese agent…”
“On the house, call it a…professional courtesy…”
“Hold up…” Paul interjected. The SonaSoft began to whine shrilly. On the multi-display the swarming anti-encryption ants were being eaten by non-light, black fire. The dim blue sphere at the center of the cyber-world representation of the meta data search construct flared in defiance of the attempted penetration. And the display went dark. “Damn it!” Paul slammed the keyboard. The Mustang’s non-voice began to laugh filling the now silence with an eerie feeling of non-reality.
“Oh, Pauley, Pauley, my dear boy, looks like you’ll be going shopping tomorrow night. Get some sleep you and Bell are going on a date, to the Cyberdelic.” the Mustang vibrated over the networks and was gone. Paul slumped back in the poly netting of his chair’s back, still clutching the now burnt out cigarette. Paul sent a quick text message to the Librarian:
librarian@msi/librarynetworks:://
Librarian,
Paul here. Going in again tomorrow night, or possibly the next night. Send the next two Achieve net locations. No bulls***, or I’ll sign that petition to get you reprogrammed.
Fellow Pain in the Ass,
Paul
Paul keyed off the SonaSoft and walked towards the windows of the loft space. Gray dawn had invaded the skies of New Heaven. The neons and holo-ads were receding into the permanent dusk of daylight. The bustle of the after-midnight life was going to sleep, making way towards the steady, spun rush of day in New Heaven.
Act 3
Inhale the Blue Goddess
Nicholas grabbed his worn brown leather jacket after finishing a cigarette. Outside the stairwell to the Aardvark Nicholas could feel the life of the night running strong. The streets were filled with all manner of creature. Leather demons and hemp clad hobgoblins. Old James was leaning in his ancient plastic lawn chair peddling the night’s goods as he did every night. “Son, Nick my boy, looking for trouble tonight eh? His long fried hair whipped around him in the wind. “Going to see French Neo-Expatriates tonight son?”
“Who the hell told you that?”
“The dagger-man. Old merc from good times.”
“Well f*** Dirk. He should know how to keep his mouth shut.”
“Never mind dagger-man now, he is off into the veil of night. I have the Blue Goddess, hash from outside Heaven. Zion priest from New Jamaica Colony says those who smoke may obtain the favor of the Blue Goddess.”
Nicholas started to laugh a little. “Sorry James, man, but you either got to stop smoking this s*** yourself or get over your love of ghost stories.”
“You take some then?”
“Give me a quarter.”
Old James handed over a Pyrex twist-top tube, which contained far more than a quarter. It had three long, fresh buds in it. Crystals of THC were thick on the plant matter. Blue hairs appeared to be combed in a spiral around the buds. “No man, I only got enough for a quarter James.”
“I will not sell the Goddess, she is a gift.”
“I have to pay you James, its good business relations and all. Besides, looks like two hits of that stuff will blast the network, you know?”
“Then let we say…um…on the house?”
“Alright then, everyone wants my death.”
“In some way, we do.” James mumbled, but Nicholas couldn’t hear.
“I can’t carry all this around with me, still got that delivery boy?”
“It’ll be waiting in home, my artist friend.”
“Thanks James.” and Paul high-fived him. Paul expertly pinched the top of one of the blue buds before handing the Pyrex tube back to James. “For the road.” James just smiled and sat back puffing on his churchwarden pipe. The smell of the alley was thick with dark English pipe tobacco, ganja, and the oily rain that still dripped from the ramparts of the city.
Nicholas wound his way down the shattered concrete and through the crowds of techno-junkie punks. Their neon spiked hair an exclamation on the night. Paul’s black denim legs moved in fluidity, they clicked the heels of his vat-leather cowboy boots down the sidewalks. He rolled a spliff of Midnight Royal tobacco and a couple pillowy pinches of the grass. He sparked the paper cylinder with a quick flick of flame from his matte black Zippo. His long hair dampened at the ends, pulled back and tied with a piece of red French silk from Lily, began to curl in the humidity.
Uptown was alive with the buzz of designer highs and 5th avenue fashion. The champagne sparkle played a crystal piano. Paul walked up to the bouncer who extended a shiny black cybernetic arm to take check his VIP invite. He eyed Nicholas curiously through round gold lens glasses. “You know where the suite is I take it?” the bouncer voiced, no emotion.
“Yeah…” Nicholas breathed, already filled with euphoria. The bouncer nodded with a grunt and opened the door. The pulse of the drum and bass hit Nicholas in the chest and lungs, vibrated his eyes and kidneys. Party hungry Chelsea Girls and nihilistic Polo Boys jumped, gyrated to the beat of bad pop-techno. The acidic eye-candy screens flickered and an image of intense, iridescent blue eyes stared Nicholas down from every angle. The music played on, the dancers moved in waves, yet time stopped very briefly for Nicholas. The eyes burned into blue fire and were gone. Nicholas just laughed and jogged up the stairs to the suite were another gold glass eyed bouncer checked his invite. He nodded and opened the door with a shinny black arm. He walked in to a thick cloud of hashish and shisha tobacco smoke. The air smelled like jasmine and nag champa, which left the sweet after taste of good hash.
She waved to Nicholas from across the room. Her brown hair was pulled back in blue and green glow-beads and she wore too big rose tea-shades. Nicholas made his way through tables and hookah smokers. They were drinking Pernod, the Czech way. Nicholas sat across from her as two women lit their sugar cubes on fire. As the cubes caramelized each woman expertly dumped the cube into their glass of absinthe from the slotted spoons over their glasses. “Autumn, babe, its great to see you. Been far too long”.
“Oh, Nick…” she sighed and slid over the booth to hug him. “How have you been? Are you working again?”
“One question at a time. I need a drink first”. Autumn smiled and began to prepare two Czech absinthes. “I’m doing well, its kind of good to have Lily away…not that I don’t miss her. And, yes, I am going to start working again. Mind Space is releasing a new version of the cube technology soon. Not to mention Dr. Gibbons is having me as a guest speaker Monday morning for his Intro to Neural Interactive Hardware course.
“That’s great Nicholas, but aren’t you afraid to test the new cube? I mean couldn’t it hurt you”? Autumn whined.
“I suppose, but all the previous versions are very safe, plus Damien will be there. He is the best Neural Tech guy they’ve got at Mind Space Institute”. She passed him lukewarm Pernod. One of the other women had left, the other one was absently smoking a clove cigarette from a long silver cigarette holder. She seemed to stare through Nicholas. Autumn had turned to talk to a dark haired French boy. Nicholas looked across the way and saw the only other person who stuck out as much as he did here. She was dressed in black denim and a navy short-sleeve shirt. She had on pitch colored aviator glasses and a beret. Both of them sat stark against the golds and browns of the room, sat stark before the pastels of the French Neos. She was smoking a cigarette and looking uninterested as three French boys tried to converse with her while smoking their hookah. Although he could not see her eyes Nicholas new they were dark, burning, and looking directly at him. Nicholas looked up to find a clock—no clocks in bars. He looked at his bare wrist and excused himself. Autumn was gone and the two women had gone back to pouring and preparing two new absinthes. He turned from the booth in time to see the shadow of the dark eyed woman’s shadow slip into the crack of a closing door.
Act 4
Hardcore Hardware
Paul and Bell sat in the back of a Black Cab winding towards downtown and the Cyberdelic. Paul still hadn’t told Bell the real reason he was taking a night off to go out. She had been far too excited and had worn her best silk blouse. Her brown hair fell around her face, sparse of make-up, yet radiant. Paul hoped that some of their friends would be there to distract her. Paul wasn’t sure how legal this deal was considering its coordinator.
The oily rain of New Heaven fell in few and huge drops from the sky of tower light stars and holograms. The Black Cab wound through several alleys in a warehouse block. Only an ancient plain red neon blinked “Cyberdelic” as a beacon. Otherwise the alley was dark except for a small lone street lamp a few yards away. As they stepped out of the cab Paul felt exhilarated by the cool breeze against the standard humidity of New Heaven. He’d slept all day, as usual, and the infant night was alive inside him.
A woman sat at a small table with a Prophet II mobile system on the second floor of the Cyberdelic. Her leather jeans and combat boots squeaked as she shifted to get a better view of the door even though she was watching the security camera through the Prophet. A man with unnatural silver hair and silver glasses sat across from her. She nodded her brown face towards him. He did nothing except take a deep drag off his cigarette as the crash of a jazz fusion song came to an end. A lower volume trance song came on as Paul and Bell walked through the door. She keyed up a different camera and redirected it towards a semi-private booth at the back of the club. A man dressed all in Versace black was sitting with two women drinking vodka.
Bell led Paul past the large bar downstairs next to the dance floor. She was about to pull Paul onto the clear and glowing polymer floor when she spotted two of her friends dancing with Polo Boys. She kissed two fingers and pressed them to Paul’s lips. He winked at her as she meshed with the wave of flesh on the dance floor. Paul wandered to the bar and ordered a vodka and triple sec sour. He looked at his wristwatch. The antique clockwork indicated 12:47 a.m. He was supposed to meet the dealer at 1 a.m. He started to move slowly towards the back, trying too hard not to appear as though he wasn’t looking for someone. He heard a laugh and something indistinguishable in a thick Russian accent. Mustang said he had sent the dealer Paul’s picture, and that he was to “wander around in the back of the club”. “Friend! Paul! Here my friend, sit here”.
Paul turned slowly and gazed on the Versace Russian’s pale, angular face sucking on a very dark cigar. The table was littered with Royal Light cigarette butts and tumblers with drying layers of expensive vodka sticking to them. Paul sat down next to the Russian while the two girls giggled and whispered on the opposite end of the semi-circle booth. “Paul my name is Peter. We Russians prefer to do business and then relax with vodkas”. The thick voice of Peter seemed to drift with his eyes towards the two chatting girls and their clinking vodkas.
“So, Paul, my friend I have for you a…ah…a decommissioned Spearhead III. That is assuming you have the currency required…” He trailed off from his better business English and reduced accent.
Paul’s hand moved from his jacket pocket flicking a RedChip bankcard towards Peter. The Russian smiled, raising his hand to snap his fingers at a black dressed woman standing several feet from him in the semi-dark. She walked forward stiff and emotionless.
The woman sat watching the deal through the Prophet. She singled the silver haired man with her left hand. He tapped the hinge of his silver glasses twice and began receiving video feed from the Prophet. The camera was zoomed in on the black dressed woman. He nodded and began to mover slowly downstairs with an empty glass.
The black dressed woman brought out a mobile system with a bankcard adapter on it. The system booted quickly and she sat next to Paul, silent and rigid. She wore sunglasses, yet could, apparently, see perfectly as she brought up a Dresden bank network. She swiped the RedChip card and began to transfer the amount.
The silver haired man carried a cranberry and tonic in his hand. The woman on the balcony monitored the deal and transmitted text to the viewer on the silver haired man’s glasses. The silver haired man sat down a few tables in front of Paul and the Russians with his back turned to them, watching them.
“Thank you Paul, the transfer is complete. My assistant will make sure system is delivered and set up by the time you come to your home later this morning”.
“Thanks Pete, I sure appreciate the favor” He said it sarcastically coy as if he didn’t need the Russian’s help. He was trying to act the hard ass, in this ridiculous blue designer suit he’d borrowed off one of Bell’s club friend’s. The Russian just laughed and the nearly-shat-myself feeling left Paul and he gratefully slammed the double vodka the Versace Russian poured him.
The silver haired man slowly finished his drink and lit another cigarette. He left the glass and a tip and moved slowly towards the door. The brown woman on the balcony snapped the Prophet shut and dropped it in her red nylon knapsack with a small patch displaying crossed six guns over a saddle. She glided down the metal stairs and wandered smoothly out the door of the Cyberdelic.
Paul had a few drinks with the Russian laughing at his asinine jokes. Finally, feeling the Russian gigglers had gotten too friendly and the black Versace clown and gotten too drunk he excused himself on the grounds of another business engagement. He found Bell, her friends and the Polo Boys sitting at a table near the main bar. He suffered through their conversation for another hour before convincing Bell to leave. Bell was nearly asleep the whole cab ride back to her place. She passed out on her bed after a shower. Paul booted her Opal Computer and sent a message to Mustang’s favorite network cover.
To: mustang@oldiesbutgoodies.net/genre/20centurycowboyfilms
From: paul034@msi.graduatestudies.net
Mustang,
Everything went down smooth. The Russian was a real freak. Soon as I’m sure Bell is asleep I’ll go check the setup and contact you from there. Tomorrow night? Let me know.
--P
Paul knew it was probably still too early for any chance of contact with the Mustang. He looked over at Bell who was breathing deeply with eyes closed on the pulled down bed. He bent over and placed a light kiss on her barely parted lips. She sighed and smiled but did not wake. He covered her with the comforter and grabbed his jacket. Outside he lit a Midnight Royal and walked towards the downtown warehouse district and his workspace loft. He paused a moment at the border of the glitzy teahouses and all night saki bars. He walked on a bit and came to a darkened espresso bar called “Espresso Bar” in a cheap wavering hologram. Inside he smoked, and drank several double cappuccinos. Outside wayward, drunk, and rich twenty-somethings wandered towards the seeder bars after more than alcohol. Software vendors haggled with two-bit hackers over illicit, malicious code etched into micro-ROMS waiting to be deployed on unsuspecting networks—this is a plague the world over. He watched the Techno Junkies jam to electronic pulses and the flashing strings of crystals were their hair should be shake in the big drop drizzle of New Heaven.
...act 4 remains unfinished...