From: dmr@medicated.Corp.Sun.COM (Daniel M. Rosenberg)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Subject: The Castle [ part 3 ]
Date: 12 Oct 92 19:48:06 GMT
Reply-To: dmr@medicated.Corp.Sun.COM
Organization: Sun Microsystems, Inc.
NNTP-Posting-Host: medicated.corp.sun.com



[ Okay, folks, writing in the present tense for happening events
  and the past tense for flashbacks ended up being too confusing...
  one tense it is. ]

Noah woke up lying flat on a work table in a room filled with
beige steel shelves, all around in long rows. His three abductors
sat around him, talking quietly among themselves.

Further away, in his peripheral vision, workers in uniform were
going about their business. Most of them wore headsets, and they
were filing envelopes into vertically divided slots in the shelves.
They didn't talk to each other or anyone else. They didn't seem
to notice anything odd about a man on his back in the middle
of the room. Noah felt too weak to sit up.

Rows of bright fluorescent lamps in decrepit louvered fixtures
lit up the space in yellow-white glare.

"Jesus," said Noah. "I'm being held hostage in the fucking post office."
"Oh, good afternoon, Mister, ahh," the shortest-haired man flipped
through a folder, "Mister Kaye. Yes, being held hostage in the
post office again, quite inconvenient."
Snide, Noah thought.
"Great, big shining birds. Ahh, swooping, clawing." This was the man
seated farthest away. He cocked his head back and forth. Noah recognized
him as the same guy who'd shot into the apartment during his abduction.
Crazy.
"Gregory, do shut up," said Snide.
"Quite," replied Gregory. "Quite lovely."
The third guy sat like an erect lump of granite. While he didn't look
particularly large, his bearing made Noah think that most of his
musclulature had been replaced by highly modified auto parts. Lunk.

Snide lit up a cigarette, and clasped his hands behind his head.
He sneezed, then began to talk.

"I suppose you're wondering why you're here. Well, frankly, it's none
 of your business, so please believe me when I tell you you'd
 really be better off not wondering about such things. They're
 really quite beyond your... purview.

"Now then. We're going to do what we want with you. And that's it.
 Please don't be rude and ask questions. You're quite lucky we've
 explained this much in any event. Gregory?"

Crazy stood up. "Oh, hmm. Oh, oh. Barry?"
Lunk pushed his chair back and stood, and in doing so, looked like
a very earnestly executed, overdone fascist statue. Lunk held him down
by the shoulders, and Crazy started kneading Noah's face with his
fingertips, exclaiming "Ooh!" and "Ahh!" in apparently random
bursts of pleasure.

Snide pulled out a clipboard from among his neatly arrayed effects.

"Now then, Mr. Kaye. Do you have any allergies?"
"Huh?"
"Gregory."
Crazy stopped kneading Noah's face, cocked his head, and pouted
up one corner of his mouth in an inquisitive gesture. Then he brought
the heel of his hand down on Noah's temple so hard Noah's vision turned
black with blue streaks for several seconds.
"Mr. Kaye, any allergies, specifically to anesthetics or medicines?"
"None that I know of."
"Funny. Your records here say you're allergic to milk."
"That's not a medicine, though!"
"Gregory."
The hand came down again and this time the black did not recede. When
Noah finally came to, most of the lights were off, and everyone was gone.
He found himself strapped down to the table with shipping tape. His left
eye wouldn't focus, his head felt like a world of pain, and there was
a Post-It stuck on his forehead, with only two words written on it
in black permanent pen.

After several painful minutes of cross-eyed, close-focus backwards
reading, Noah made out the letters:
"DON'T
  TOUCH."

			.	.	.

"Temple, Tara."
Tara rose from the green vinyl chair in the police station and
went up to the information window.
"Yes, that's me."
"Good morning ma'am. Are you the concerned's wife or relative?"
"No ma'am, but--"
"--Sorry. I can't do anything for you."
"You can't even tell me what he's in for? Or who arrested him?"
"Sorry, ma'am. None of that information's available."
"What could you tell me if I *was* his wife?"
"Nothing more, ma'am, but we do have standing orders to take any
 close relatives into protective custody."
Tara looked up and down the woman's face. The fleshy jowls looked worn,
but the eyes were kind. Not only was this woman in all likelihood
telling the truth, but she was probably letting off on more than she
had to. The woman broke in--
"I'm so sorry."
"I want to thank you."
"I wish you could!"

There was nothing more to say. Tara smiled sadly, looked down, and
walked away. By the time she was halfway across the room, the
tears were flowing quietly.
 
			.	.	.

"San Francisco?"
"Hello, Baltimore?"
"Gene, it's Tara! Where the fuck is he?"
"Dammit, don't use our names on this line! Oh, God. I'm sorry, but
 who knows who's listening?"
"Jesus, I'm sorry. I'm torn all to hell. This is my fault."
"Look, I'll see what I can do for you."
"Thanks. Oh my god I can't *believe* this." Tara was sobbing now.
"Oh, Christ -- I'll call you back."

			.	.	.

"Baltimore."
"Hi." Tara snuffled.
"Well, I got the official arrest record." Gene's voice was low and somber.
"What does it say?"
"Postal Inspector."
"He's been kidnapped by the god damn *Postal* Inspector? You've got to
 be kidding."
"In a fair world I would be. These bastards have a screwy sense of
 humor."

[ Your comments help, as always. ]


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