From: masticol@cadenza.rutgers.edu (Steve Masticola)
Newsgroups: alt.pub.havens-rest
Subject: [D'Fi (intro)/MaryMary] All Wrong
Keywords: John Sinteur (sinteur@ooc.uva.nl)
Date: 24 Dec 92 13:40:42 GMT
Organization: Rutgers Univ., New Brunswick, N.J.

[Posted for John Sinteur (sinteur@ooc.uva.nl). -S.]

This was all wrong. Brackett knew that. All wrong. His fingers tapped
nervously on the wheel, occasionally visible in the red and green
light of the flatscreen signs flashing from the shop windows,
colouring the thin layer of fresh white snow as he drove aimlessly, on
manual, through the down-town of the Complex. Nowhere to go. No place
where He wouldn't find him. And no doubt that He would find him.
Brackett was all too aware of His reputation. He turned on the audio,
commanding it to select music at random. A fast beat and synthesized
scratching filled the car. It didn't matter what was playing, Brackett
didn't really listen. Waiting for a red traffic clearance, cars
flashing by in both directions, he looked at the passenger seat. He
took the ragged cloth covering the still hot large automatic rifle.
His other hand trembled as it removed the sweat from his forehead. All
wrong. Wrong from the beginning.

It was in a small boarding house, not far from the Loco Plaza where
everything happened, but far enough to be untouched by the ever ongoing
cacophony of music of all the bars, fashion shops, gambling halls, and
all the other places struggling for the attention of the people in the
street. It also was a cheap boarding house, which was exactly why
Brackett was living there. Brackett was used to a wealthy living, being
a well paid assassin. He had an image to maintain. This time he decided
to move out of the picture for a while, taking a break in a place he
thought people wouldn't go looking for him when they needed someone rid
them of a problem. For that was all his employers ever cared about.
Brackett took care of problems. Permanently. And then, the second night
in his retreat, the phone rang. Brackett looked at it. That phone was
disconnected. At least, it was disconnected when he came here and tried
it. The landlord had confirmed it, tried to use it to cheat some more
dollars from Brackett. Disconnected. Yet it rang. It rang fifteen times
and Brackett didn't answer.

The screen wiper almost noiselessly removed the fresh snow, one sweep
a second, the sweeping standing out from the deep hum of the power
inverters.  Brackett remembered the hour between the first call he
didn't answer, and the second one he did. The wondering, the questions
the phone raised. Fifteen minutes after the first call, Brackett had
picked up the receiver to listen to a dead phone. A left turn took him
towards the more quiet areas up-town. Out of the way of the heavily
armored militia patrols. Out of the way of the cops looking for the
almost-assassin. He had spent that hour wondering about the caller.
Who could possibly know his hide-out well enough to be able to reach a
disconnected phone? Looking back, he should have known right away. As
an exercise, he tried set up the operation that would make such a feat
possible. It kept his mind off the event that passed just a couple of
minutes ago, and enabled him to drive more carefully through the
snow-covered streets. There weren't much jockeys capable of doing the
job required, following electronic footprints through matrix, a
credit-transfer here, a cash withdrawal there. And Brackett had been
very careful. It just added up to too much money, or rather, to too
much influence. It could be only one person.

The screen didn't show anything when he answered the phone. Brackett
remained silent. The other side didn't see him either, he had taken
care of that in the past hour. Spray paint covered the built-in camera
eye. For two minutes neither side made a noise. Then Brackett pulled
the plug from the wall-socket. The next hour there was no guessing, no
trying to figure out who it could be. The disconnected phone, the black
vid screen, the silence. It all added up. Only one of his regular
employers indulged in this kind of thing. He though of getting the hell
out of there. He tried to figure out which of his escape routes would
take him out of the influence he now felt, looking at the phone. None
of them would even remotely do what was necessary. Exactly one hour,
and the phone rang again. Again Brackett answered it. This time, he
broke the silence after one minute.

"What do you want this time?"

"A kill," the phone said. As always a kill. He still didn't know His
name. He only knew him as 'Him'.

"You know why I live here, don't you." Of course He knew, but Brackett
wanted to hear him say it.

"You thought you couldn't take the pressure any more. You wanted to get
out of the bizz, afraid it would swallow you. You thought you deserved
a rest." Somehow it sounded cynical.

"Among other things. Find yourself another errand-boy. I'm out."

"No, you're not. Remember the holos?"

Of course he remembered. One of his first jobs. He didn't know the bizz
very well, was still working out the best ways to do things, trying to
gain Edge. The holos showed him in a way that left no doubt as to his
identity, standing next to a couple of corpses, a gun extending from
his right hand, pointing at the forehead of the only remaining victim
alive. He didn't even remember the fear in the eyes of the guy he shot
last. He just remembered the blurry colours of the holo, blurry because
of the distance of the camera from the scene. It was a dirty job,
Brackett not having the experience to keep it nice and clean. Damn.
Better call Him. Instead of the meaningless touring he had done so far,
Brackett started looking for a phone booth. There weren't many in this
part of town. Too much vandalism, too much youngsters longing for
something to flip out on.

He was surprised when he received the gun. He had asked for just some
automatic gun, nothing fancy. What he got was a weapon he believed to
be a rumour. Human-build looking in some way like a portable tank. That
weapon was supposed to be the most sophisticated gun man could make.
Security forces had a code name for it: Sprinkler. Brackett knew why
when he had read the instruction leaflets that accompanied the gun. It
could, when the owner really needed fire-power, waste almost a hundred
rounds a second. This was ridiculous. This was overdoing it. And
besides, a weapon like this could be traced very, very easy. Only a few
hundred were said to have left the factory. And most of them were
registered to be in some government ownership.
 
Brackett had been unable to reach Him. He had had only four hours before
this kill would have to take place, and he could not use one of his own
guns. He didn't have any. It was his habit to dump used weapons, and
because of his plans to take it easy for a couple of months, keep a low
profile, he had dumped his remaining arsenal as well. If there was no
way to get something better, he would have to use this gun. He parked
the car close to the second phone booth that looked good enough to be
in working order. The second, as the first one was only a few meters
away from a team of heavily armored cops taking a break. He didn't need
them very close to him. Not now. He entered the booth, closed the door
behind him and took one of the coins he kept for phone calls he didn't
want to use his credit card for. Nervously, he dialed. It rang. Come
on, be there. It rang again. Please.

At that same moment, several miles away, a militia officer made
himself flat against a grimy wall, felt his armour against his spine.
He checked his gun again before he lifted his right foot and kicked
against the door. If the door had ever been able to withstand any
violence, it certainly didn't now. The cop didn't rush in. Flat
against the wall, checking out the hallway. Empty. A signal and two
other cops passed him, weapons ready. They both took positions inside,
again made themselves small against the wall. The officer who ruined
the door used their cover to proceed further into the place. It took
them only five minutes to discover that the apartment Brackett had
called his hide-out was empty.

He had parked his car at the right spot. Fifteen minutes before they
would arrive at the bar across the street. Fifteen minutes. On the
passenger seat, covered by a ragged cloth, the loaded gun was ready.
His view across the street was good. Falling snow made people walk in
that special way that ensured privacy. Huddled deep inside their
coats, looking down at the street instead of at the shop windows and
the parked cars. Despite the cold it was as crowded as ever. Not
enough people to make it difficult to find your victim among the
crowd, and yet enough people for the shops to do business. The
situation pleased him enough to smile. He turned on the audio,
allowing fragments to enter his mind.  A small group, at first view
matching the specs He had given him came in view. Brackett moved his
right hand to a corner of the dirty cloth covering the gun. This soon?

"You fucked up, didn't you?"

"You know what happened?"

"Do you really think I wouldn't have some observer in the area? You
disappoint me, Brackett. It is stupid to disappoint me."

Brackett stared at the black vid.

Yes. This soon. Brackett pressed the button that lowered the window,
removing the cloth that covered the gun with his free hand. He lifted
the gun, pointing it at the entrance of the bar. He expected them to
start a conversation with the porter. One of them did, and the others
started looking across the street. This was the moment. Brackett lifted
the gun, resting the barrel on the door of the car. He smiled and
released the safety. At that moment, one of them looked in his
direction. Didn't matter, the Sprinkler would take care of that.

"It was stupid of you, Brackett. You should have shot them right away.
You shouldn't have given that man time enough to push the party flat on
its belly." The voice sounded nice and forgiving, but Brackett knew
better.

"But you know what's worse than that, Brackett?"

Brackett couldn't imagine anything worse, and swallowed.

"A cop saw it happen, saw you wasting a lot of lead on just a porter.
Now that's stupid. You should have noticed that a cop was around.
Finish the cop if necessary."

"I'll try again."

"No, Brackett. No second chances. No free rides. You made a mistake and
now you're going to pay for it."

Brackett stopped listening, left the booth and ran to his car. He would
have to get out of here real fast now. A hysterical laughter boomed out
of the telephone booth as he jumped in his car.

As Brackett turned the ignition, the small bomb hidden in the wheel
well blew up, sending flames up thirty meters.

MaryMary both felt and heard the blast; she thought first "'Kaena",
then <<Run>>.  Her speed enhancers kicked in; the world slowed to
half-speed as she snatched her slugthrower from the doorguard and
dashed into the street.  Neither her gun nor her speed had prepared
her for His thoroughness. As she rounded the corner to the burning
car, the time-delay actuated the second bomb. Blackness.

The man stood up, slapping snow off his clothes. He reached out to
help the woman get up.

"Hi. I'm D'Fi. You're OK?"

The world stabilized; she shook her bones. Nothing broken. "Yeah. I'm
MaryMary. Let's get in."

"Why? Are there any more hit men after you?"

"Not that I know of."

"Well, anyway, you're just the person I'm looking for. I'm a computer
consultant. Sort of."
Newsgroups: alt.pub.havens-rest