From: dmr@medicated.Corp.Sun.COM (Daniel M. Rosenberg)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Subject: The Castle [ part 4 ]
Date: 13 Oct 92 00:23:21 GMT
Reply-To: dmr@medicated.Corp.Sun.COM
Organization: Sun Microsystems, Inc.
NNTP-Posting-Host: medicated.corp.sun.com


The pressure in Noah's head ebbed and flowed. He found himself
in the wheat field again. It was growing dark. There was a matte
sheen of dew on the yellow toy truck, which he rocked back
and forth in a small ditch.

A shadow moved over him, and skirted over the tops of the stalks
down the field. Noah looked up, and there was a helicopter there,
with a searchlight shining crazily around the field. Noah got up
and ran back toward the house, but instead of coming out onto
the roughly kept lawn, he found himself in the shallow parking
lot of a trip mall, lit up in the waning with harsh orange lights.

The broken glass and bits of aluminum on the scored pavement
glowed in the monochrome light. The stores were closed. The lights
were off in the post office in the center, but behind the
counter, Noah could see light coming from the back room.

Hanging in the front window was an advertisement for stamps, seven
of them. It was Tara's CAT scan septych, but with scalloped
edges around each frame, with the details partially obscured by
glare off of the window.


			.	.	.


It was a bright blue morning. The brick face of the building on
the other side of the street glowed warm red in the sunlight.
Tara sat at the desk, staring out the window, consciously
setting her face into a stone mask. Her short, straight hair looked
unkept, and her gray shirt was wrinkled. The hollows under her eyes
were dark. The apartment door opened.

"I've been expecting you shits."
"So unladylike, Tara, for such a lovely woman."
"Eat me."
"Really now. Aren't you curious why we came back?"
"Maybe you're incompetent and forgot to kill me off? You
 work for the Post Office, after all."
"Oh, we know you've been doing your research, my Tara. But really, I think
 that's a bit low, about us working for the Post Office. We're just
 contracting."

Snide paused and looked admiringly around the room, letting
his eyes settle on the brown stains on the wall above the dog's bed. Tara
followed his gaze.

"You wankers always make sure to gun down the household pets of your abductees?"
Snide rolled his eyes.
"Really, Tara. First of all, I didn't shoot your dog.
 Although my colleague Gregory is a bit unpredictable at times, I must admit.
 Secondly, Noah is hardly our 'abductee.' He is our guest. He volunteered
 for this operation."
Tara wheeled around in her chair, her eyes ablaze--
"Oh, *please*! What did I ever do to you? Why are you doing this?"
"Now don't cry, please, Tara." Snide sounded like he very much would
have enjoyed hearing Tara cry. "And please don't try anything. I can
assure you that would be quite unpleasant for everyone involved, except,
perhaps, Barry. He's rather inured to violence, poor chap."
Snide nodded his head toward the apartment's door, where a rigid monolith
stood in the vestibule.

"What do you want?" Tara was no longer screaming; her voice was a low rasp.
Snide turned his gaze to the septych. "That's a lovely montage."
Tara screwed up her eyebrows, then shuddered.
"You've got to be kidding."
"Well, Tara, we thought we'd return your little favor of those few
 years ago. Seeing as we had so much trouble with the previous assembly,
 we were overwhelmed with Noah's kindness in offering to test out
 this new model." Snide opened up his briefcase. "Now I have Noah's
 signed release forms here, and I thought I'd give you your copy
 of the non-disclosure agreement."
"I didn't sign anything."
"Oh, I rather think you did." The pink slice of paper floated gently
into Tara's lap from Snide's hand.
"I'm going to find you guys, and kill each and every one of you
 in the most painful way I can think of."
"Best of luck, my dear. I'd rather like to see you try. But please remember:
 we know everything about you, and everytime you make inquiries about us,
 we know that too. And we're not very nice. Terrible what government work
 does to you. Really uncharacteristic, the way you voted in the last
 election, you know."

Tara swung at Snide's face. The man in the door raised his gun and evened
it with Tara's head.
"No, not there, Barry. I'd rather she live."

There was a sharp report. Tara's right palm blossomed in red and pain.



[ Your comments are appreciated. ]


---
# Daniel M. Rosenberg        Dan.Rosenberg@Corp.Sun.COM   +1 415 688 9580
# Opinions expressed above aren't Sun's.