From: dmr@medicated.Corp.Sun.COM (Daniel M. Rosenberg)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Subject: The Castle [ part 1 ]
Date: 6 Oct 92 20:01:11 GMT
Reply-To: dmr@medicated.Corp.Sun.COM
Organization: Sun Microsystems, Inc.
NNTP-Posting-Host: medicated.corp.sun.com



It's warm inside this apartment, in the medina of the city.
Outside the window, and over the rooftops, Noah can see the
roiling waves in the Bay, throwing a thick layer of gray mist
down the streets that lead to the wharves.

An antique incandescent brass lamp on the battered desk lends
a golden glow to the room. Noah notes the pleasant contrast between
the golden light inside and the cool grayness on the other side
of the pane.

Tara lies asleep in the brown corduroy wing chair in the corner.
An old hardcover edition of "City of Quartz: Excavating the
Future in Los Angeles" lies spine-up on her lap. Wolfie's snoozing 
on the floor beside her, nose characteristically tucked under tail.
The dog snuffles, barks in her sleep, then sighs.

Noah's sitting at the desk, looking out into misty Baltimore. The
intercom on the wall honks, and stays on, letting the sound of the
solenoid on the building's front door slamming out break the
pleasant silence in the room. People are coming into the building,
but Noah did not let them in. His stomach muscles contract,
and his lips involuntarily tighten.

As Noah turns around in his chair, three anonymous-looking men in
gray raincoats and wet hair open the front door of the apartment.
They close the door behind them; its deadbolt clatters to the
floor outside, leaving a neat cylindrical hole with a blackened
surface. They stand impassively in the foyer.

Noah leans the chair forward, and gets up, striding towards the men
with a questioning look on his face, noticing the pearly beads of water in their close-cropped hair. One the men cocks his head, eyes 
an impassive black. Noah extends his hand in greeting to this
one, and the man responds, withdrawing his hand from under
his coat. He clamps a cuff around Noah's wrist, then grabs the
other wrist, and cuffs that too.

Noah says, "What--"
"--Quiet." The response is made in a low, quiet voice. It
is authoritative. Noah cannot imagine other than complying.

The black-eyed man turns Noah around, as the next one draws a
gun out. Noah is being pushed into the hallway as he hears shots
ring out, followed by the loud, high-pitched wailing of a dog.
The three men march Noah down the hall to the elevator as
the loud wailing fades in the distance.

They enter the waiting elevator car, and as they turn around to
face the front, a fourth man takes out a pistol and grips it by
the barrel.

The last thing Noah sees is the flash of the man's forearm
flying in a quiet arc towards his temple. He hears a deep thud,
and everything turns dark purple, then black.


			.	.	.


"Good evening, San Francisco."
"Good morning, Baltimore."
"He's gone. They've taken him. They even shot the
poor fucking dog."
"Understood."

Tara hung up the phone. She set her jaw, and did not allow
herself to cry.
			.	.	.


Noah is from a small town in the middle of Pennsylvania,
which even now is still mostly deep green fields and barns.
The Sprawl has not encroached here -- something slow and
isolated by the countryside has held back swollen exurbia.

He has long thought that it wasn't just the fact that people
still needed to farm the valuable land here for food that
prevented the shopping malls and their acres of pavement
from falling out of the sky and over pastures, obliterating
the open spaces with their oil-black parking lots.

The fields in that part of Pennsylvania always gave off
an aura of stillness. Some nights, when he was younger,
Noah would wander through the growing wheat, dragging
a Tonka truck by its shovel. He would go in until all
around him were nothing but gentle stalks, and the road
and the house and the fences could not be seen.
He was in a sea of whispering green.
The coolness was palpable. He knelt down in the dirt,
and set the toy steam shovel beside him, moving it back and
forth with his hand.


The fields felt safe. They'd been used for farming for such
a long time, Noah couldn't imagine them being used for anything
else. No one came out here -- what for? There was nothing
here but corn and wheat and soybeans.

Then he would wake up from a half-conscious reverie, hearing
his father calling him from the house. The truck might
be on it's side, or half-buried in a hole he'd made.
His throat would be sore, and his clothes damp.

He would go back inside, heading toward the house and
the setting sun, never looking behind him. And nothing ever
followed.


It's warm inside this apartment, in the medina of the city.
Outside the window, and over the rooftops, Noah can see the
roiling waves in the Bay, throwing a thick layer of gray mist
down the streets that lead to the wharves.

An antique incandescent brass lamp on the battered desk lends
a golden glow to the room. Noah notes the pleasant contrast between
the golden light inside and the cool grayness on the other side
of the pane.

Tara lies asleep in the brown corduroy wing chair in the corner.
An old hardcover edition of "City of Quartz: Excavating the
Future in Los Angeles" lies spine-up on her lap. Wolfie's snoozing 
on the floor beside her, nose characteristically tucked under tail.
The dog snuffles, barks in her sleep, then sighs.

Noah's sitting at the desk, looking out into misty Baltimore. The
intercom on the wall honks, and stays on, letting the sound of the
solenoid on the building's front door slamming out break the
pleasant silence in the room. People are coming into the building,
but Noah did not let them in. His stomach muscles contract,
and his lips involuntarily tighten.

As Noah turns around in his chair, three anonymous-looking men in
gray raincoats and wet hair open the front door of the apartment.
They close the door behind them; its deadbolt clatters to the
floor outside, leaving a neat cylindrical hole with a blackened
surface. They stand impassively in the foyer.

Noah leans the chair forward, and gets up, striding towards the men
with a questioning look on his face, noticing the pearly beads of water in their close-cropped hair. One the men cocks his head, eyes 
an impassive black. Noah extends his hand in greeting to this
one, and the man responds, withdrawing his hand from under
his coat. He clamps a cuff around Noah's wrist, then grabs the
other wrist, and cuffs that too.

Noah says, "What--"
"--Quiet." The response is made in a low, quiet voice. It
is authoritative. Noah cannot imagine other than complying.

The black-eyed man turns Noah around, as the next one draws a
gun out. Noah is being pushed into the hallway as he hears shots
ring out, followed by the loud, high-pitched wailing of a dog.
The three men march Noah down the hall to the elevator as
the loud wailing fades in the distance.

They enter the waiting elevator car, and as they turn around to
face the front, a fourth man takes out a pistol and grips it by
the barrel.

The last thing Noah sees is the flash of the man's forearm
flying in a quiet arc towards his temple. He hears a deep thud,
and everything turns dark purple, then black.


			.	.	.


"Good evening, San Francisco."
"Good morning, Baltimore."
"He's gone. They've taken him. They even shot the
poor fucking dog."
"Understood."

Tara hung up the phone. She set her jaw, and did not allow
herself to cry.
			.	.	.


Noah is from a small town in the middle of Pennsylvania,
which even now is still mostly deep green fields and barns.
The Sprawl has not encroached here -- something slow and
isolated by the countryside has held back swollen exurbia.

He has long thought that it wasn't just the fact that people
still needed to farm the valuable land here for food that
prevented the shopping malls and their acres of pavement
from falling out of the sky and over pastures, obliterating
the open spaces with their oil-black parking lots.

The fields in that part of Pennsylvania always gave off
an aura of stillness. Some nights, when he was younger,
Noah would wander through the growing wheat, dragging
a Tonka truck by its shovel. He would go in until all
around him were nothing but gentle stalks, and the road
and the house and the fences could not be seen.
He was in a sea of whispering green.
The coolness was palpable. He knelt down in the dirt,
and set the toy steam shovel beside him, moving it back and
forth with his hand.


The fields felt safe. They'd been used for farming for such
a long time, Noah couldn't imagine them being used for anything
else. No one came out here -- what for? There was nothing
here but corn and wheat and soybeans.

Then he would wake up from a half-conscious reverie, hearing
his father calling him from the house. The truck might
be on it's side, or half-buried in a hole he'd made.
His throat would be sore, and his clothes damp.

He would go back inside, heading toward the house and
the setting sun, never looking behind him. And nothing ever
followed.

[ Comments appreciated. ]


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