From: phufk@csv.warwick.ac.uk (Mr B Thomson)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Subject: WARP: THE HIDDEN VALLEY
Date: 13 Jan 1993 00:03:09 -0000
Organization: Computing Services, University of Warwick, UK
Distribution: world
NNTP-Posting-Host: lily.csv.warwick.ac.uk

  I'm back from vacation.  My apologies for not posting any more chapters over
the last month or so.
  It has been pointed out to me that I don't have a name for this story yet
(thanks Doug), and also that there is no consistency in the titles (thanks
Peter).
  I have decided to divide this series into books (the overall name is yet to
be decided).  What you have been reading so far is:

  Book I - THE WARP.

  Contents: THE ARRIVAL.            }  If you are missing any of these
            THE NAMING.             }  chapters, please feel free to
            ENTER THE JESTER.       }  e-mail me at the address given at
            TO TOUCH BLACK ICE.     }  the bottom of this posting.

  All future chapters in this book will appear as WARP: <chapter>
  Don't worry, I'll tell you when I'm going to start a new Book.

THE PLAYERS:
- Shades, the ever-smiling.
- Morbius Fletch (Morb), a juvenile cowboy who has just lived through an
  encounter with some black ice.
- Janet Lester (The Jester), an experienced, but suspicious decker.

  Here's part five...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

                              THE HIDDEN VALLEY


  Morb was oblivious.  The hand led him up and away.  His mind was still numbed
with pleasure.  Up, away from the chaotic matrix of data.  Up.

  The military web.  Gigantic spirals of dread, but Morb felt no fear - he
could touch black ice.  The unseen hand coaxed him towards the outer mesh of
threatening ice.
  It was like pushing through wave after wave of black velvet curtains
Surging to the focus.  To the precious banks of data beyond.  It seemed an
eternity to Morb.  The software before him, leading the way.  Turning this way,
and then that - in what appeared to be a random pattern.  Accelerating.  The
invisible forbidden core was close at hand.
  Suddenly, beyond the dark, there it was - the hidden valley.
  After stumbling blind through the jungle of ice for so long, Morb suddenly
broke through into a vast space, dropping away on all sides.  El Dorado.
Golden pyramids, like Maian temples - as far as Morb's perception would carry.
Cyberspace alive with data transfer.  Swarming around him - like he wasn't
there.
  "This is bad shit Shades.  That was just too easy.  How many people can
access the military net like this?"
  "Just two."
  "Two - who?"
  "Why you and I of course.  What would you like to do?"
  "Oh sure, let's start a medium sized war in the Middle East."
  "If you like."
  "If I like!  Of course I don't like!  Get us out of here Shades.  This is
just too bad for my ass."
  "We don't have to start a war Morbius."  Shades made it sound like it was
something that could be done tomorrow instead.  "You do much Stim Morbius?"
  "C'mon Shades.  Haul ass."
  "Just let me show you this."  Coaxing.  "Just this, and then we'll go."
  Morbius gave in.  It was easier.  He connected data links as Shades
instructed him.  The military system flowed around him - ignorant.
  "Now activate the stim-module in your deck."
  "I don't have one."
  "I believe that you do..."
  Morbius found that he had.  He toggled the switch to on.  Cyberspace
dissolved.

  Morb shreiked as he found himself scudding along a valley at high velocity,
just above ground level.  Wind roaring past him.  The end of the valley was
racing up to meet him.  Dead meat.
  Shades' voice.
  "Internal."
  The rushing sound stopped abruptly.  Morb's ears were left singing.  The end
of the valley was still approaching fast, but there was someone sitting next to
him.  Eyes hidden behind the bug-eyed visor of some kind of perception-
enhancement head gear, but that smile was unmistakable.
  "Navajo stealth chopper Morb.  Latest sim.  Better than the arcades huh?"
  The chopper eased to a halt, just metres from a sheer rock face.
  "You scared the shit out of me Shades."
  "External view only has audio-visuals.  Air friction at that speed isn't very
pleasant."  Shades indicated outside the cockpit window.  The Navajo had been
steadily rising.  They hovered, just peering over the ridge.  A vast city-
sprawl spread out before them.  Domes.  Towers.  Puget Sound and the Pacific
Ocean beyond.
  "Ever fancied strafing Seattle, Morbius?"
  From above, Seattle was a sparkling spider's web.  All streets covered in UV
reflective shells - pre-geodesic technology.  Protection under the vast
Northwest 'zone hole.  Glassy domes sprouting at intervals - dew.
  "You have control lieutenant Morb.  Everything is wired directly to your
cortex.  You think it - it'll do it."
  Morb tentatively rotated the Navajo chopper through three-sixty on the spot.
No sweat.  Seconds later he was buzzing the roof tops of the Northeast Sector.

  "We've got bandit Navajos, Morb.  The instruments say they're four blocks
west.  Three of them."
  "Four blocks!  How come we didn't see them coming?"
  "Stealth morb, stealth - like a thief."
  And Morb was diving.  ECM flaring.  Stealth useless at short range.  Weaving
through the canyon of streets.  Cars and people milling about in their glassy
tunnels.  Such detail.
  Then the enemy were above, and in front and behind.
  A communication - "Surrender the helicopter."
  Shades flashed a wry smile across at Morb.  "Looks like Game Over."
  "No way.  Let's see them follow me now!"  The end of Morb's sentenced was
punctuated by two explosions and a spray of glittering shards as a pair of
ASMs punctured the street shell below.
  The Navajo ducked through, the breach barely large enough to accomodate the
rotor blades.  People scattered.  Paper and burger cartons were sent cart-
wheeling along the sidewalk.  Morb pushed the chopper forward, just above car
level.  Shops and office blocks racing by.  A pedistrian bridgeway loomed.
Morb guided the craft down and under.
  Proximity sensor circuits flashed neural warnings...
  The truck parked beneath made the gap too small...
  Too late to pull up...
  The blades clipped and the helicopter was sent spinning.
  Searing static behind the eyes.


...to be continued...(perhaps)

Copyright 1992.  Ben Thomson.  ------Comments Please.

The ice was here, the ice was there,   |Contact at:
The ice was all around;                |phufk@csv.warwick.ac.uk
  - S.T.COLERIDGE                      |:O)

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