From: friedman@news.cis.ohio-state.edu (Mark  Friedman, Crimson)
Subject: 21st Century Schizoid Man [part 01/21]
Organization: The Ohio State University Department of Computer and Information Science
Date: Sun, 16 Aug 1992 17:58:26 GMT

Sey hey, folx!  Here begins the sequel to "Three of a Perfect Pair".
This stuff happens immediately after the events in "Three", so you
should still be up on the background if you were reading it nary a
week ago...

						Have fun!
						- Mark

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	24743576.7

	That was the number on Freddy's terminal.  Not a very
interesting number: it wasn't even palindromic.  But when said aloud
with the appropriate units attatched, it was quite impressive.

	"Twenty four million, seven hundred fourty three thousand,
five hundred and seventy six newyen..."

	Freddy couldn't stop repeating the figure, thinking it might
slip away if he didn't keep complete concentration on it.  "Twenty
four million, seven hundred fourty three thousand, five hundred and
seventy six seven big ones...and change!"

	"Cryminee..."  He computed the figure one more time on his
workstation.  It was certainly correct.

	Freddy smiled wryly, "I'm a multi-millionaire," and
immediately passed out.

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	When he came to, the number was still sitting on the terminal
screen.  He was afraid it was all a dream, but smiled widely when he
checked it again.  They were indeed the most significant digits he'd
ever seen in his life.

	"Cryminee."  It still made his head spin, but the kick was
better than any amount of screwdrivers he'd ever consumed.  Better
yet, it numbed his body against the aches and pains he received in
order to acquire that special number.

	The electronic credit was found amongst the random information
he had stolen from the Yarrow Point Arcology CPU on a Shadowrun three
nights earlier.  Essentially, he had blown his part the mission (with
the samurai on his team getting their backs waxed as well) but he had
been able to download some major files before he was forcibly ejected
from the Matrix.

	Back at his apartment, he feverishly worked away at the ICE
he downloaded from the matrix. The ICE was attatched to the file he
had found when searching for an alias he had remembered in connection
to Robert Travis.  One wrong keypress and the ICE would scramble the
file.  After 2 nights with no sleep, he finally defeated the ICE.
Certainly, the loss of sleep was well worth it.

	Of course, some would contest that the money wasn't all his.
Sure there were others on the Yarrow Point Arcology job, but they
hadn't helped him a bit (just as he hadn't given them expected backup,
either, he mused).  Still, they'd want to get their greedy little
mitts on his prize.  But he wouldn't let that happen, and he knew
exactly how he'd pull if off.  Well, maybe Mortis, the dwarf deserved
something: he operated the van that Freddy had jacked in from when
breaking into the Arcology.

	"Naahh.  Screw 'em," he said aloud, just as he did on the
night of the job.  "Screw 'em all."  If he gave something to the
rigger, then he'd tell the rest, and then they'd all want some.
"Yeah..."  Hell, they weren't even *looking* for the embezzled funds
on this part of the run...

	The job was supposed to pay everyone on the team 42500 or so
newyen each.  Of course, that was figured off a 1.5 million newyen
figure that Bitchy Travis (who *he* wasn't missing) had initially
given them, and they hadn't anticipated Rael getting killed on the run
either.  That was chicken feed compared to the electronic credit
revealed in glorious monochrome letters on his computer screen.

	But there was no way he'd take a mere sixth of 20% of the
two-four million newyen he now held.  No way in hell.  Not when he
could have it *all* to himself.

	"They'll have to kill me for it, first..."

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	"Sheesh, Freddy, that's a hell of a lot of money!" Rache
gawked as he examined the LCD readout on the credstick.  "What's it
for?  You tryin' to weasel somethin'?"  He eyed him suspiciously.

	Freddy laughed and shrugged.  "Naw, this is on the up and up,
man.  I owe you a lot for all those 'little' favours.  You pulled my
ass out of too many tight spots before.  Now it's payback time."

	Rache grinned evilly.  "So I suppose you're not going to deck
me free utilities for next month?"

	"You got that right, ya weasel!  Hell, from now on Klone
Crimson is no more: Frederick Marx is now a legal man."

	There seemed to be three kinds of deckers in the world.  The
first did his work for kicks, the rush, the high, the danger, the
excitement.  The second pulled a multitude of small jobs, making
enough cash gradually and (relatively) safely enough to eventually
retire.  The third had his sights on the ultimate end-all job: a
mega-heist that would bring the decker into fabulous riches in one
fail swoop.  Freddy had done the later, though inadvertently.

	"Sorry to hear it, old chum.  You'll stay in touch though?"
the mage queried as Freddy stepped out of the door of Rache's flat.

	Freddy looked back and nodded.  "You bet.  Hell, consider
yourself on retainer from now on."  They both laughed as Freddy
disappeared down the stairwell.

	Rache smiled and shook his head as he closed the door behind
him.  "Well don't that beat all..."

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Kelly wasn't at her place or at Club Penumbra.  Freddy didn't
worry about her safety often, but he was almost sure he was losing her
again.  So maybe has *was* a bit dishonest with her before: it was
usually in her best interest.  He cared for her more than any other
person on the Earth (and all its colonies, for that matter).

	He spotted a florist shop while walking home and entered after
looking in the front window display for a while.  The woman at the
desk smiled at him.  "What can I do for you tonight, sir?"

	He handed a small card to the sales clerk.  "I'd like a gross
of deep crimson roses to be sent to this address."

	"A gross?"  Her eyes opened widely.

	"Yes.  A dozen dozen roses.  One hundred and forty four of them."

	She smiled and filled out an order form.  "Who should I say
they're from?"

	Freddy paused for a second, looking towards the floor.  He then
looked up and said, "Nobody.  Just write on the card: "I'm sorry.  Maybe
we can work things out.  I'm willing to try again.""

	The woman smiled as she wrote.  This kind of transaction was
why she entered the business in the first place.  "They'll be delivered
by ten in the morning."

	Freddy paid with his credstick, said a brief "thank you", and
left the shop for home.

	A block away from the shop he found an old man begging for
change on the corner.  Freddy averted his eyes and walked on by as
was his habit, but for some reason he stopped this time.

	He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of paper
currency.  It was illegal in some sectors and made any transaction
with it null and void.  But in some circles it was the only means of
payment, being untraceable.  It was the language of his old life.  He
wouldn't be needing it anymore.

	He handed it to the mendicant and smiled.  "Take it all.
Get yourself a nice hot meal."  It was a considerable amount of
money.

	The beggar's face lit up.  "Muchas gracias, senor!"

	"De nada."  It actually was, in Freddy's book.

	The old man hobbled on down the sidewalk, waving back and
feebly calling out, "Vaya con Dios!"

	Freddy turned around and continued home.  He muttered to
himself, "Sorry, but I don't believe in him, sir..."

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	He woke up after sleeping sixteen hours that night.  After
two nights of no sleep he had lots of catching up to do.  Luckily
he had all the time in the world now.

	He walked over to his printer and tore off a sheet of paper.
On it was a printout of his last three days of electronic mail which
he had no chance to check while cracking the ICE.  He checked the most
recent arrivals.  He frowned when he found nothing from Kelly yet.
When he checked the earlier messages he found only one of some
interest:

>>>>>>Gentlemen,  I have grave  news.  Today my  significant other was
kidnapped by  what I believe to  be a member of  the Trog Crushers, or
someone close to them.  I know we're all tired from  the run, but this
time I need some big help.  Help me end this once and for all.   Thank
you.  Xavier Moran<<<<<<

	Xavier was one of the muscle-heads on his team for the Yarrow
Point job.  Freddy supposed he'd have to play out the rest of his
contract to avoid arousing any suspicion.  He'd just sit back and take
the easy ride until it was all over.  Then he'd never have to talk to
the rest of the group again.  The money would be all his.

	But what if he caught a stray bullet in the action?  He
wouldn't be expected to walk into heavy heat, but he still might get
tagged.  It was a dangerous business even in the back lines.  Plus
there was the question of where in the hell Tacoma Bob got all that
credit in the first place: Freddy could be in something deep now, if
he wasn't careful.  If there was only a way he could be *assured* that
he wouldn't get killed before he could enjoy *his* money...

	It then hit him that he might be able to afford immortality
now.  Cloning was now a part of life...for the ultra-rich.  They could
grow you a new body in about six months (as well as making it look
however you want: different looks, height, weight, musulature, and
even gender).  Combined with a memory recording scheme and an infinite
cash flow, one could live forever in whatever body you desired.

	And it wasn't that kind of immortality only protected you from
natural aging.  Someone could still ventilate your skull with a MAX-50
and you'd be dead for good.  But with the new cloning, they record
your memories every so often.  When you died (or felt like having a
new body), they took your clone out of cold storage and inserted the
recorded memories into it.  Then you'd wake up and go about your
business.

	And there was this one place that had commercials on the trids
all the time.  What was it's name...?

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Freddy parked his Rapier in front of the Genetic Services
Multinational office, gathering in quite a few "superior" looks from
other customers entering and leaving the building.  He just grinned at
them smugly: they had no way of knowing he had just become a multi-
millionaire.  He still dressed in his old street clothes and hadn't
shaved recently.  He didn't want to *look* rich until after he was
done with the Trog Crusher job.

	He entered the massive white building and walked up to the
front desk.  He greeted the girl with the headset there.  "Howdy."

	She looked at him suspiciously.  He didn't smell like the
usual clientele.  "May I help you...sir?"  He was sure she was using
the term loosely.

	"Yes, I have an appointment at 2:30?  That should make me
right on time."  He read the name tag: "Hi!  My name is _Bernie_!"

	She looked at her terminal screen.  "Frederick Marx?  You
have some ID?"  She was still a bit wary.

	He produced his identification plates.  "There ya go.  Oh, and
it's 'Freddy'."

	She put them through the scanner, ignoring his personal
comment.  "That checks.  Now could you please put your hand on the
flashing surface?"  She handed the plates back simultaneously.

	Freddy shook his head and put his hand on the palm-print
verifier.  "Geez, can't you take my word for it?"

	"No," she said flatly.  The verifier chimed a happy major chord
and she sighed, almost disappointed.  "All right."  She still wasn't
convinced.  "Follow Vince through the door on the right."

	He walked over to the muscle-graft barbarian in the white lab
coat and indicated his readiness.  As they walked out of the room he
called back to the girl at the desk, "What, you don't even want a
urine sample?"  If there was one thing he hated, it was "red-tape".

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Comprehensive scripting and color commentary here is Copyright by Mark
Friedman 1991, all rights reserved.  Basic story plot  and Matrix help
was by Jerry Weiler, but he won't mind: I'm giving him all the profits
from the venture. Let's  see,  what's 100% of  $0.00?  :-) Also, basic
Shadowrun backdrops are in extensive use, so them FASA dudes might get
a small cut as well...

Any questions, comments, requests, criticisms, and Chapman Sticks will
be accepted and appreciated at the address in the sig.

					- Mark "Crimson" Friedman

Mark "Klone Crimson" Friedman is friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu .................
"There is nothing former   "Beat poets,    "If you put a hungry ferret in your
 about King Crimson."       not children."  trousers, he'll run around..."
 - Robert Fripp, 5/11/90    - anonymous     - Nigel Tufnel (Spinal Tap)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo