From: at776@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Aaron J. Bell)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk
Subject: Story: The real world
Date: 16 Apr 92 06:45:07 GMT
Article-I.D.: usenet.1992Apr16.064507.28382
Reply-To: at776@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Aaron J. Bell)
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, OH (USA)


This is a quick one off...
Just thought up and typed at the term.. forgive... all flames to Spock

To: at776@cleveland.freenet.edu
X-Envelope-To: at776@cleveland.freenet.edu

The warm smokey bar room has settled down once more,
	samurai returning to their cards,deckers to the back room to
	monitor their buddies. You return to your beer.... also warm.

Behind you the sounds of the chatsubo continue,
	filtered and for the most part ignored as standard. At least
	until sounds of gunfire erupt once more, or the howling keen
	of an ECG mourning the decker attached.

You notice as you turn to order another beer,
	hopefully cold, that you have been joined by a small pinch-faced
	man. The thought's of drug addict cross your mind, then you 
	remember that drugs are no longer a problem, maybe stimsense?

"Interestin fight huh??"

At least he isn't fragged at the moment.

"Aint seen the likes for quite a while.."

Neither had you, it was all one sided. No return fire, although, in
	your opinion, it could be taken the gunmen were dead. Nobody
	screams like that then stops voluntarily.

"You wanted somethin?"

The barman has finally arrived, quaint
	in the world of high tech but then again the chatsubo has
	tech enough behind the other doors and in its patrons.

"Another beer.."
"Yeah! A term'd be nice.... with 
	access 19200 if ya got it, and clean prong plates"

A slight rise in the barmans brow tells
	this is not a regular, nor a regular request.

"A beer you said?"
"Cold if you don't mind"
"What about my hardware?"

This one was getting insistent,
	but he didn't look like a decker, no jacks. Though it would
	explain his state, addiction to the matrix was an occupational
	hazard for many. Querying the tender by street speak you direct
	the other toward the back room, grabbing the cold ale you follow.

No bouncers at the door here,
	don't need them with the house deckers running overwatch. They'd
	not help a decker in trouble on the net but they do safeguard the
	near corpses left behind. Looking through you see the bodies laid
	out, wires running from head or wrist jack to deck to terminal.
	Others from the deck to the monitors, other men and women sitting
	beside watching closely.

>From further back you hear 
	mutters and low curses, it would seem the man now under your care
	is making waves trying to find his terminal. Figures, you seem
	to have a knack for trouble. Walking among the deckers and their
	keepers you glance at the readouts, no sign of trouble from your
	quick scan and no sign of what they're doing.

You can see now in the low light,
	eyes adjusting automatically in their silver irises. Your quarry
	has found a space, gotta have a wrist jack. Lazily you continue
	toward him, no sane decker would run without someone to monitor
	their body.

What!!!! Now you understand the
	requests made at the bar. Small silver slivers shine from the
	palm, in the glow of the dead monitor you also see slits on the
	rear of his hand, partially covered in blood. The data prongs
	however are clean and begin to slide into the palm pattern easily.
	
He's gonna do it!!
	No wonder you saw no jack, the face, matrix withdrawl. The 
	abrupt end to the gunfight, wolvers. He's a madman, noone but
	the best or mad run on headware alone. He now sinks to his knees,
	connection maintained by the rigidly locked arm. His cloak falls
	open to reveal a body harness, juiced! Those screams were definitely
	due to him, as good as full reflex chipping you've heard but drugs
	and wires don't mix so well. Explains why he runs bare at least.

You turn to leave,
	no one can monitor these runs, and who knows what sort of action
	could be found back in the bar. Your bed could always hold one 
	more, then the screen over the door lights up. On it is an image
	of a small cloaked man, blades of attack code dripping blood
	from the back of his hands.

Once more you feel company at 
	your shoulder, one of the other minders is beside you.

"Well?"
"I don't see nor hear
	no flatliners, that blood don't belong to one o' ours"

"No. This blood aint
	one of yours mate. Belongs to the bastard that's
	been keepin me trapped, you know what the matrix DT's are like?
	So what is there in this part of the world? I'm sick of
	uni's, i'm sick of paranoid sysops, i'm sick of the Real World!!"


	
 




	************************************************************
                       # 
Out of the depths,     #  Spock@the.university.for.the.real.world
the red blood roils.   #      
                       #  martin@breeze.fit.qut.edu.au     (preferred)
Decker nor IC,         #
Can't withold.         #  n1049496@water.fit.qut.edu.au
                       #
	************************************************************

-- 
==========================================================================
Aaron J Bell   | at776@cleve
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk,alt.sex,misc.legal