From: dawill@hubcap.clemson.edu (david williams)
Subject: Crude (part 1)
Organization: Clemson University
Date: Sun, 30 Aug 1992 08:18:55 GMT



   Let me introduce myself.  I'm Terry Whitesides, a name that leaves much
to be desired in the circles I run in.  Call me TW, everyone else does.
I'm a hardware artist.  (Or, if you listen to some people, a fumble-fingered
block of jello with no clue as to which side of a soldering iron is the
handle. - But they deserved what they got, anyway.)  My claim to fame?
Look over on the stage, down amongst Blackjack's equipment.  See the grey
box connected to the other two units?  That's Joe.  He's a AI of sorts,
drives the images of Danny and Floyd.  He's been there for about two years
now, on loan to Blackjack.  I'm inclined to leave him there, too.  You see,
he's the real reason I'm not living the life of a suit, to match my normal
name.  But this is a long story.  Have Ratz pull you a beer, and I'll see
if I can explain.

   Well, first of all, this story takes place a few years back.  The
Chatsubo was open, and Ratz had already taken to annoying customers 
with the wines and sqeaks from the prothesis as he swabbed the bar 
down.  As a matter of fact, the sound of that arm was probably the 
siren song that drew me into the Chat in the first place.  You see, 
I like crude.  Crude as in the lowest-tech piece of junk that got the
job done.  Crude as using a paper-tape punch for data communications.
Your data can't be grabbed by a virus when it is a deck of punched cards.
I specialized in using the crudest stuff I could find to carry out 
runs for people.  They seemed to get a kick out of watching me using 
old computers like the kids used to use in the 80's and 90's to take
out the big guys.  I dunno, some people are strange.  The only problem
was that my good old crude methods were getting old.  I just couldn't keep
up anymore.  I'd decided to switch up to some of the older brand-new stuff
and see how things went with junk that was only  5 to 10 years behind
state of the art.  That's when my troubles started.

   The Chatsubo had already gotten a reputation as a place where things
were done.  Something about the dark atmosphere of the place, the greasy
tables and battle-scarred bar itself, sorta attracted the kinds of people
you need to find when you need things.  I'd gotten a strange reputation
as a data runner and interceptor, guaranteed to get the job done in as
arcane a way as possible.  Like I said, they got a kick out of it.  Who
was I to complain when I releived them of their creds?  Well, anyway, I was
sitting at the bar, drinking a Killian's Red.  (Crude?  maybe, maybe not
- most disagree, ever since the economic crash that made the American
market, including the beer refineries, into so much wasteland.  I give
'em credit, though -  the taste isn't that far away from the old days.)
Ratz hates me for it, but he finds the stuff somewhere.  Hell, he may
have been brewing it himself for all I know.  He could for what I pay
him for the stuff.  

   She didn't get a second glance from the chatsubo patrons when she came 
in - just another semi-dangerous looking patron.  You know the type.  Grey
jacket, probably hiding some sort of gun, jeans, etc.  I would have taken
a clue from the rest of the Chat and ignored her, too, if I had known what
was going to happen.  She seemed disapointed that no one was bothering to
keep an eye on her.  She strode across the bar and plopped down on the next
barstool.  She snuck a peek or two at me while she tried to wave down Ratz,
who was busy loading glasses in to the display behind the bar.  She wasn't
getting anywhere, so I tapped my beer bottle, which is the quickest thing
to get Ratz's attention.  "Ratz, you got a customer."  He gave me the old
evil eye untill he noticed the girl.

   "Be right with you, missy."  He racked a few more glasses, then picked
up one to polish as he ambled over.

   "Ummm, Mister Ratz, I'd like a vodka, please."  Mister Ratz?  What the
hell was this?  Ratz looked suprised, too.  He almost dropped the glass.

   "Missy, I don't know where you been, but nobody calls anybody Mister
here in the Chat.  You might get hurt talking like that."

   "Oh, but I was told that this was the place to come to hire a computer 
tech."  She must not have looked closely at the surroundings, I suppose.
I was trying to wave Ratz off, since I really didn't need a job working
for this sort of employer - hell, she'd probably get my head blown off
by casually mentioning my name to security as a contact she was expecting.
Some people just don't work in the biz world, doncha know?  It was too
late.  Ratz pointed at me with that damned claw and said "TW here's the
man you want.  He's a real pro, he is."
   
   I sarted to tell her I was strictly low-tech, and that she should go
find some starving college kids to hack some code up for her, when she 
slid a cred stick over that read 20,000.  

   "Thirty more when we finish."

   Geez, I thought - 50K buys a big pile of spare parts for the junk I
carry around.

---------------------------------------------

   Where am I headed with this?  Who knows?  Want to get your character
in on the prehistory of the Chat?  Excellent time, if you want.

   TW's mine, and so on, so don't use him without getting me by the 
throat first.  (although this is a story that has already happened, I
haven't *made* it all up yet.  I'm going to get more confused before
I'm done, you bet.)



-- 
      Dave Williams
        dawill@hubcap.clemson.edu
           "Huh?  What?  Could you repeat the question?"