From: etllnfr@eddie.ericsson.se (Lyndon Fletcher)
Subject: Crude Part3  (REPOST)
Organization: Ericsson Cellular Division
Date: Tue, 6 Oct 1992 20:52:14 GMT


Crude (part 3)

   What has gone before:
      TW, a chatsubo regular, is approached by a completely clueless looking
   blonde woman who wants to hire a "computer tech" - the job offers 50K,
   20K up front.  Tara, the woman, gives TW the details of the job, which
   involves making a run on Weston LaRue, a merchant bank.
      Tara leaves the chat, and meets Kingston, and they agree that TW's
   going to jinx WLR security just fine...

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

   The night sky over the Sprawl always glowed the same greyish-orange
color, a color made up from the reflected lights of thousands of street
lights and neon billboards.  It was a sickly color that slowly ate at the
soul, grinding down the hopes of street people who couldn't hide from the
glare at night.  It was a color that always set TW's teeth on edge when he
drove at night.  Unfortunately, the chatsubo was just far enough away from
his apartment that the old battered van was a necessity.  The fact that a
storm front was moving in with some really dark and dangerous-looking clouds
just made the skyglow all the worse, since the clouds were so low.  A wind
was starting to blow from the East, and it looked like a mess of a storm
was going to blow in.

   Maybe it was the glow, the impending storm, or maybe just paranoia, but
TW couldn't shake the itchy feeling on the back of his neck.  It was the
same feeling that always pops up right after the decision to take on a
big run.  He'd first felt it when he was a kid, getting ready to filtch
cookies from the corner deli.

   "Nerves, just nerves - I'm clean," TW thought to himself as he scanned
the ECM telltales on the van's dashboard for the millionth time since leaving
the chat.  "Nobody cares about me, I'm a little mouse.  Yeah, right..."

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

   *Ring*

   *Ring*

   "Hello?"

   The woman's voice on the other end of the phone sounded sharp and not a
little  upset.

   "O'Neil? Is that you?" TW was worried.

   "Should have known it was you Terry. You always ring at fucking 
inconvenient times."

   "Are you ok."

   "No. I was about to wallow in self pity. What do you want?"

   "Information."

   "Figures."

   "What do you know about an outfit called Weston La Rue."

   He heard a snort form the other end of the line, "They're a bunch of
losers, Terry.  This whole goddamn city are a fucking bunch of losers."

   TW was silent.  He'd known PT O'Neil for a couple of years and he was
aware of her violent mood swings and her talent for self destruction.  He
was also aware that she was the fastest information broker in the city and
that she guaranteed results.  In a very real way she couldn't afford to
lose business.

   She sighed.  Then she spoke, her voice horse and drained, "Look I'm
sorry TW, really.  It's just that today...  Well it's kind of an anniversary
you know, one of the painful kind....."

   He could hear her take a deep breath and when she spoke again there was
a more determined edge to her voice. "Business as usual", TW thought.

   "Ok, ok Weston La Rue. They were the oriental subsidiary of one of
those frightfully proper British merchant banks. Used to be based out in
Hong Kong before all that trouble with the Chinese. When all the Brits
were thrown out they moved here. As far as I know all they do is arrange
loans and things for the British expat community."

   "They MUST do something."

   "Nothing you'd be interested in."

   "What about the parent group?"

   O'Neil laughed, "There is no parent group, well not anymore. They went
the way of most London banks when the USE moved all the financial stuff
to Hamburg."

   "Can you get me in? Public utility, rodent exterminator anything"

   There came a pause on the other end of the line, "Ok Terry, for you
it will cost a thousand plus any flash money I need to put around up front."

   Definitely back to normal, TW decided.  In fact a thousand wasn't bad
for a job like this.  O'Neil had access to some of the best hackers in the
city. Still - it paid to haggle.

   "A thousand? I thought you said it would be easy?"

   "I did. I didn't say it would be cheap. One hour, usual place."

   "Ah can't we meet anywhere else you know I hate that place."

   "Hello?"

   "Hello?"

   But the line was dead.  Something was very wrong with O'Neil TW decided.
It was just another factor that put his nerves on edge and told him that
despite appearances this run wasn't going to be a picnic

.............................................................

   By the time TW arrived at the bar the storm was already building. He
got out of the van gingerly wondering if he should take a raincoat. In
the end he decided to risk it and made a run for the entrance.

   "Rick's Cafe American" stood on the fringes of Chiba's main business
district and catered for the middle and upper-middle management of some
of the larger corporations based there. With the exception of its Art Deco
style neon sign the outside of the building could be taken for any of the
industrial units nearby.  Inside TW knew from experience the place was
decked out as a perfect reproduction of the nightclub from "Casablanca".
It was the kind of place where only the least tasteful of corporate
yuppies could feel comfortable.  TW hated it.  Cursing, he pulled up his
collar and ran for the double doors.  Inside, he found himself in a small
vestibule that served as a waiting room for patrons.  A young couple where
already waiting there.

   The man, who was dressed in a custom tailored Italian suit, had the
appearance of a Holostar.  His partner, on the other hand, was quite a
plain girl dressed in a very expensive silk gown.  TW decided she was 
slumming.  He knew real silk when he saw it, how much that amount cost.
Lover boy just screamed escort, he could have stepped off of the cover
of any of the high fashion magazines.  Perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect
manners.  TW looked at the girl again.  She really was painfully plain.
He wondered if she could be so desperate that she had to pay for it.  He
was still pondering this question when the head waiter arrived.

   In keeping with the general theme of the restaurant, the head waiter
was dressed as the police chief from "Casablanca", right down to the
eyepatch.  On seeing TW he beckoned slowly.  TW stepped forward and the
"police  chief" indicated a small table set off to one side near a corner
of the room.  The table had one occupant, a woman with black hair who was
watching the other patrons with an erie, if detached fascination.

   "Madam is expecting you."

   He walked over to the table aware that every eye in the place was
looking at him.  He glanced to one side noticing the astonished stares
of a hundred well dressed corporate smallfry.  He felt a shiver pass up
and down his spine.  Quickly he turned his attention back to the table to
which he was heading.  Philipa O'Neil sat transfixed, staring at the other
diners with a frightening intensity.  There was something about that look
that could have unnerved the strongest of men.  It was a look of sadness,
a look of anger and of longing.  It was like staring into the heart of
someone's madness, only to find that it was staring back.

   TW paused and Philipa looked up at him.  Her face had a pale translucent
quality reminiscent of fine china.  Her bone structure and features where
small and delicate and once she could have been considered a great beauty.
Now, however, her face seemed gaunt and drawn, her eyes filled with some
unimaginable pain. "A wraith", TW thought, "She looks like a wraith."
Then he remembered that a wraith was an omen of impending death.  He
shivered again.

   "Well are you going to stand there all night or are you going to sit
down?"  Her voice sounded cracked and drawn.

   "Philipa you look.."

   "..Like shit?" she asked raising one eyebrow, "That's good because
that's how I feel."  She smiled and picked up a half empty bottle of
wine, "As you can see, I've been attempting to rectify that situation."

   She poured the red liquid into a glass and pushed it over to him.
"Try some. It's chinese Bordeaux, only the best for our Terry."

   She smiled, a horrible forced look of forced joviality.
"Tonight", She said, "Tonight, is by way of an anniversary.  Five years
ago this very night I, Philipa Tanith O'Neil sat on the verge of a great
and glorious corporate career." She pushed the glass towards TW, more
insistently this time.  "You're not drinking.  What kind of party is it
if you're not drinking?"

   TW sipped at the wine and looked quickly about the room.  Attention
had turned from them to the stage where "Sam and Bogie" where providing
the cabaret.

   "I liked my work, I liked my lifestyle, I liked MYSELF.  My father
was proud of me. I'd made something of my life, I was a SOMEBODY."
She stopped and thought for a second. "Look at me now...."  She peered
at the bottle which was now less than half full then looked around for
a waiter.

   "Garson?"

   A small nervous looking man with more than a passing resemblance to
Peter Lorre appeared from the shadow's.

   "More wine?" She asked waving the bottle aloft.

   "Is madam sure....."

   "Yes damn it.  More wine!" She slammed her frail looking fist on the
table.  The violent action caused the sleeve of her suit to slide up a
little, revealing the barcode tatooed to her wrist.

   "Lorre" peered intensely at the black lines for a moment.

   "YES madam," He said very nervously,"I'll get it straight away."
He scurried off at high speed towards the kitchen.

   She smiled unpleasantly at the departing waiter, "He's been inside."

   TW looked at him, "How can you tell?"

   She pulled he sleeve up revealing the whole tatoo.  "You get to be able
to read these things on sight."  The tatoo actually comprised of three
distinct barcodes, one above the other.  "This top one's your serial
number, the other two say what you've done."  She pointed to the second
row.  "This says I'm in for espionage and four counts of murder.  Being
able to read them at a glance is a useful survival aid....   You don't
want to upset the wrong people"

   "What's the final one?"

   She smiled, "Tell you later."

   A different waiter arrived with two bottles of wine.  "Complements of
the manager, madam." He said then left very quickly.

   TW watched him go. Then he turned back to her and spoke very sharply.

   "This is all about jail isn't it?  That's all this big scene is about,
you wallowing in self pity."

   She smiled weakly, "Well I did warn you when you rang."

   "Why are you doing this?  Ok, so you were a corporate high flier once
then you end up in jail.  So what?  You've got a good life, a nice place
and a rep some guys would kill for.  Why don't you just forget it and get
on with living your life.  You could start by loosing that Tatoo."

   She looked at him.  Her eyes were full of anger with that personal
madness just below the surface.  However when she spoke her voice was calm
with a detached coldness that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

   "You really can't understand can you?  I really liked my life.  I felt
sure of myself.  I was in control.  I liked the parties and the jetseting
and the lifestyle and above all, I liked myself.  Then it all fell apart.
She sipped some wine.  "You've never worked on a road gang have you Terry?
No of course not!  Well let me tell you all about it.  You get maybe two
hundred people - that's men and women, Terry, the authorities don't want
to appear sexist - and you get them to build a road that no one really needs 
with their bare hands.  You have no idea just how squalid it is, how 
demeaning and soul destroying.  The smart ones just lay down and die, only
those too stubborn or too stupid go on."

   She flashed him that disturbing little smile again.
   
   "Know what kept me going?  Not faith, not inner strength.  Just anger,
mad insane anger.  I used to stay awake at night just planning what I'd do
to the bitch who put me there.  Every rock I broke had her face; I used to
break rocks real well."

   "Well now I'm out and I did what you said and started over, but you know
all that stuff on the street isn't my life.  I can tell because I don't feel
good about myself anymore.  I look in the mirror and see a stranger and I
don't think she likes herself either.  I hate what I've become. I have this
bottle of sleeping pills on the top of my wardrobe?  Well, sometimes I hate
myself so much I start to think that maybe I should just take them all and
go to sleep for good."

   She looked up at him. "That's why I keep the tatoo. That's why I come
here.  When I get that bad I come here to remind myself that someone stole
my life and that makes me angry.  Then I look at this tatoo and remember
three long years of hell, and then I get real angry."

   She looked beseechingly at him, "The anger's all I have left Terry."

   TW drove her home.  When they had left the restaurant she had wept
solidly for over an hour, now she slept drunk and exhausted in the back
of the van.  Throughout their meeting she had made no mention of Weston
La Rue or any of the preparations he had asked her to make.  Instead she
had babbled on about a girl called Vivien and the price she must pay.  TW
had known for sometime that PT had been sent to a US Federal jail for a
crime she claimed she didn't commit, he just hadn't realised how much it
had effected her.  Now he cursed his bad fortune that she should choose
this time to break down.

   He backed the van almost up to the doors of her building.  The rain was
now torrential and showed no signs of stopping.  He carefully lifted the
sleeping woman from the back of the van and went inside.  After a lot of
maneuvering he finally got her inside and placed her on the bed.  He turned
and was about to leave when he noticed an envelope with his name on it
pinned to the door.

   The envelope was heavy and well packed.  He opened it carefully.  Inside
was a note which read:

Dear Terry,
           I apologise for my behavior today, it's something that I
sincerely hope you will never have to understand.  I have no idea how
badly gone I'll be by the time you meet me so consider this note a "fail
safe" in case I forget to mention something.

   I haven't been able to find anything on WLR that would explain anyone's
interest.  The only thing that may be important is that for historical
reasons they are one of the few western-owned companies able to "write
business" on the Tokyo stock exchange.  This means that they can create
or float new companies without the help of the Japs.  I don't know if this
helps any.

   Your way in is as a janitor.  I found out that the buildings are managed
by Osaka commercial and had Wench browse their system.  Turns out they just
hired some new guys last week and one of them was due to replace the regular
guy at WLR tonight. I rang him up and told him he won't be needed and Wench
managed to copy an ID card for you.  I may be able to put him off for one
more day if you don't get it all tonight.  Wench says that WLR has no Matrix
link so from here on you're solo.

   This ones on the house ok. I needed someone tonight and I appreciate it.


   Destroy this letter. Your friend

   Philipa.


   Wench was perhaps the most thorough of the local hackers and as well as
the forged id there was a small list of service access codes for the internal
doors.  TW began to feel better about the run.  He glanced down at PT as she
slept fitfully.  He smiled.  PT O'Neil, totally dependable even in the middle
of a nervous breakdown.


   He wondered if he should take the bottle of pills from the top of the
wardrobe.  He glanced down and watched her as she slept then looked back
at the note. He had a feeling she was going to be all right.

.............................................................

   TW's apartment was a testament to the principle of organised chaos.
Though it looked like a dump to the casual observer, TW prided himself
that he could find anything at a moments notice using this patented filing
system.  At the moment the room was in a worst state than usual as a large
computer rack lay disembowelled near the table. TW gingerly picked up a PCB
from the floor and stuck it into the rack.  He connected a couple of old
ribbon cables and powered up.  The console of the old machine flickered
into fitful life.

   TW waited a moment then hit the console hard. The screen flicked and
became steady.  He turned towards a large couch crammed into a corner. 
The encounter with O'Neil had left him tired and he wasn't sure that it
would be safe to make the run tonight.  Still, any delay increased the risk
of discovery.  He glanced out the single dirty window of the apartment at
the low scudding clouds of the building storm.  "On the other hand, no
security idiot in the world is going to be expecting chummers like me
to be out on a night like this."

   TW paused to collect his thoughts and started slowly to murmur softly,
"talking himself" through the preparation for the run.

   "I'm a cleaning guy for tonight, huh?  Easy enough, I can empty trash
while stealing data.  Gotta look the part."  TW scratched around in the
pile of clothes laying behind the couch untill he found a pair of blue 
coveralls.

   "Yeah, here we are - mister janitor attire."

   TW collected a rotting hunk of gear from the garage and plugged it into
a handy terminal.  "You better work better than the damn main computer over
there."  A savage kick added another dent to the front panel of the big
computer console.  After a few attempts, the deck rattled and groaned, then
started clacking as it punched holes into a strip of yellow paper feeding
into it from a small bin.  "Yep, all's OK.  You hold together and keep 
punching that tape, and you're gonna make me rich.  You're so crude you
don't even look like computer equipment anymore."  TW ripped the strip
of paper off of the back of the punch, and dropped it on a pile of similar-
looking discards.

----------

   The storm clouds were looking worse as TW pulled out to make the run
to WLR.  A light sprinkle started falling as the van groaned up the
expressway entrance.  The windshield wipers screeched on the glass as
they smudged the rain back and forth on the windshield.  TW sat hunched
over the steering wheel as if he could see better if he was closer to the
glass.  "What a crummy night.  I must be nuts, making a run in this 
weather..."

   Despite the rain pouring out of the sky, the trip to the office complex
was uneventful.  TW waved at the guard at the front gate as he pulled in.

   "Whatcha here for?"  the guard grunted out over a mouthful of doughnut
and coffee.

   "Janitor.  I'm supposed to clean ummm, lessee - " TW looked at the map
Tara had given him.  "yeah, building 14.  I'm new here, replacing someone."

   "Lucky you.  14's the big tower over that way."  The guard indicated
a pile of concrete and steel.  "Service entrance in the back, loading dock."

   "Thanks, chummer."  TW drove over to the building and pulled around to
the back, looking for the loading dock.  It was a mammoth affair, set up
to hold several freight lifts.  The building must have once been a warehouse
or manufacturing center or something, TW thought.  You don't need a loading
dock that size for computer equipment.

   Sure enough, the inside of the building was a maze of little hallways
that had been thrown together into the structure of the warehouse.  TW was
amazed that anyone got work done in this type of place.  Sterile white
walls, a few posters proclaiming that company security depended on the
suits keeping stuff hidden, computers logged out, etc.  Yeah right.  TW
was willing to bet that he'd find quite a few systems sitting right where 
the suit had left it when the five o'clock whistle blew.  A sudden torrent
of rain outside the loading dock drummed on the roof of the warehouse,
a sound that TW might have enjoyed in better circumstances.

   The janitor cart was sitting in a small alcove not too far from the van.
It was a matter of moments to load the paper-tape punch onto the cart, and
cover it with rags and other cleaning drek.  "OK, here goes"  TW thought
as he headed for the obvious entrance.

   There was a guard sitting behind a desk in the entrance atrium.  He
glanced up from the paper he was reading, and grunted in surprise.

   "You the new guy?  Yeah?  George finally pissed someone off good, huh?"

   "Yeah, I'm the new clean guy."

   "Well, make sure that you don't screw up like George did.  Better get
here on time without smelling like a brewery.  Lesse your ID, please." TW
handed over the ID badge to be swiped through the guard's reader.  "Well,
now we find out just how good PT's hackers are", TW thought to himself.  
The card reader blinked a green light.

   "OK - offices are all yours.  Have fun cleaning, huh?"  The guard 
was already buried in his paper, his job done.

   "Sure.  No problem."  TW headed the cart down the hall toward the warren
of offices.  The trash cans in the offices were filled with bureaucratic
toxic waste - forms filled out in triplicate, pink "originator's copy" forms,
the junk that the corporate world runs on.  After a few offices worth of trash, TW had a nice pile of trash collected in the cart's bin.  It'd be no problem
to hide paper tape in this stuff.

   A few more turns, and there was the computer center.  Big door, leaded
glass, armoured lock plate, the whole nine yards.  The door had one of
those keypad locks, which were so easy if you knew the combination.  
 
   "Alright Wench, you passed the first test.  You up to the next one?"
TW punched the first sequence from PT's list into the keypad.  It must
not have been the right one, because the keypad buzzed a universal computer
buzz that indicated negative success.  TW wasn't suprised, since he had five
codes to try.  It would have been nice if Wench could have pointed out 
which codes went with which doors.

   "No problem - let's just try this one..."  This time the buzz was a 
bit more negative sounding, if that is possible from a simple piezo 
element.  Now the keypad had a row of red LEDs lit up, looking ominously
like a grinning skull face to TW.  A cold sweat broke out on TW's forehead.
He was standing just outside of his destination, locked out.  As a matter of
fact, he could see a system console on the other side of the room.  It
even looked like it was logged in, for pete's sake.

   "Calm, calm - easy, now.  Don't panic.  You've still got three codes
here."  TW tried to wipe the cold sweat from his brow, but only succeeded
in causing a chill to run through his body. "OK, number three's a charm.
Code is 13-6-98."

   *beep*, *beep*, *beep*, *beep*, *beep*

   *CLICK*

   "Whew."  The LEDs on the keypad went out, to be replaced by a non-
threatening looking green one.  One push, and the door swung open on
quiet hinges.  "I owe you one, Wench."  TW pulled the janitor cart 
in after himself, and surveyed the systems in the computer center.

   TW couldn't believe the machines sitting there.  Old stuff, terrible.
"Geeze, no wonder these people don't have net access.  Who'd want to,
with this crap?"  The old system hummed along to itself, though.

   "Whatever works, I guess."  TW mumbled as he sat down at the console.
It was displaying some sysadmin stuff that the operator had left running.
"I absolutely cannot believe my luck.  This is ridiculous." A few quick
cable hacks, and a tap later, TW had the paper punch machine rattling away
beside the console, dumping the dataset that had the codes.  The paper tape
exiting the punch rolled out of the back of the machine and collected in a
tangled mess there.

   The rattle of the punch hammers sounded like a large crew of jackhammers
to TW.  He kept glancing back out the door, expecting the guard from the
entrance to come running in, demanding to know what the noise was about.
The rattle of the hammers stretched on and on, and TW's heart started pounding
in a rhythm with them.  The tape kept on rolling and rolling out, collecting
in a big mass on the floor.

   "Come on, hurry up, dammit!"  The rattle continued, the loud hiss of
the tape sliding through the rollers sounding like a jet plane exhaust
to TW.  After an eternity, the paper punch finished, and ground to a
halt.  The sudden absence of noise caught TW by surprise, since he had
been watching the hallway for the guard.  It looked like the thing had
completed, and dumped the entire dataset in fine form.

   TW collected up the pile of paper tape and wrestled it into the trashbin
of the cart.  With some of the other trash in the bin, it looked like
typical office trash.  "What's that mister?  Valuable data?  Nope, just
paper trash to re-cycle here..." TW chuckled to himself.

   The offices were as just as much a maze going out as they were going in.
"Lessee - left turn, right turn, long hall - what?"  the expected long hall
was nothing but a meeting room.  "Uh oh.  This should have been the way out."
He headed back toward the computer center.  "OK, think carefully big guy -
I passed a meeting room, a john, and some stupid lab on the way in.  Look
for those."  Mild panic begin building as TW found a lab, but it was radically
different from the one he remembered.

   TW was lost, confused, turned around, and plain befuddled.  He sat down
on the cart edge to try and get his bearings.  Of course, the supervisor
that was looking for "the new guy" surprised the hell out of TW when he
rounded the corner behind him.

   "Alright, wise guy - you wanna tell me what the hell you're doing here
with your ass planted like some couch potato?  This isn't a lazy-boy,
you know."  He kicked the cart, sending TW tumbling.  "Get up.  This is
your work inspection.  I better find no dust or anything in these offices
or it will be your ass, mister."

   "Oh shit" thought TW.  "This idiot is going to bust my ass for not
cleaning offices.  Great."

   "Ummm, sir, I - Ummm, I haven't gotten to these offices yet."

   "What did you say, boy?  Haven't gotten to these yet?  What the fuck
have you been doing for the last hour and a half, sitting on your ass
out there in the hallway?  Smoking out in the warehouse?  What?"

   "Well, I kinda got lost in this place, and was trying to find my way
back out to the loading bay, since I forgot the mop and stuff when I
came in."  TW lied.  He was sweating so much it started running down
the back of his neck.

   The supervisor rolled his eyes.  "I don't believe this stupid... - here,
I'll *show* you where you are."  He walked down the hall two doors, and
opened a third that led back out to the loading dock where TW's van was
parked.  "There.  Go get the damn mop and get the fucking floor cleaned
in there.  I've got to go check up on another goof-off on the other side
of the building."  He turned back down the hallway, shouting behind himself
"And those offices better be squeaky clean when I get back in an hour or
so..."

   "Yeah, right.  Good riddance."  TW mumbled as he slid the cart out and
into the loading dock, and started laughing as he loaded the thing into
the van.  This was the perfect cover.  New guy gets lost in the offices,
fumbles around, the supervisor harrasses him, so he leaves.  Hey perfect.

   The rain was sweeping down in a absolute downpour as TW pulled the van
out of the loading dock.  The van's creaky old windshield wipers weren't
even close to being able to cope.  "Just great.  Stupid rainstorm."  After
a few wrong turns, TW finally found the front gate again.  The guard
inside the booth just waved at him, not wanting to get wet.  TW started
laughing again as he pulled out onto the road and headed for the chat.

   "Well, I'm laughing all the way to the bank, I suppose, since there's
30K new ones waiting for me there.  Heh heh heh."

********************

   At that moment Kingston was picking his way gingerly through  the
downtown traffic.  The rain was intense, almost overcoming the wipers on
his car and creating a dirty watery haze through which he had difficulty
seeing.  He left the main highway and headed down towards the Strip,
Chiba's red light district.  Here Geisha girls and traditional Japanese 
tea houses sat uneasily next to modern western sex palaces and it was
said that anything could be bought for a few NuYen.  The streets here
were narrow and usually choked with people, but tonight in the middle of
the worst storm in living memory there was not a working girl or
panhandler in sight.

   Kingston pulled into a side alley at the end of which was a simple
metal barrier in front of a downramp.  Leaning through the window
Kingston punched out an entry code and the barrier rose.  The ramp was
old, its concrete surface pitted and discoloured.  Kingston drove down
through the large puddle of water that had collected at the bottom.

   Kingston locked the car and walked quickly to a nearby door and raced
up the stairs.  At the top, his progress was blocked by a mediterranean-
looking muscle boy in a diner jacket.  On seeing that the visitor was
Kingston, the bouncer stepped to one side with a grunt.  Kingston nodded
then headed down a short corridor to a fire exit.  Pausing to raise the
collar of his raincoat, he pushed the door open and stepped outside.

   The cold and rain hit him like a physical blow and for a second he
staggered backwards.  Tara's apartment was still several blocks from here
and though he knew that the club was the safest place to leave the car,
he was tempted to risk parking it nearer on this occasion.  Gritting his
teeth, he pressed on.  Kingston had never considered himself to be
particularly emotional, he prided himself on his clear head and cool
decisions.  Recently, however, the twin evils of fear and desire had
been playing havoc with his reserve.  Now as he made his way down the
rain soaked alley, his mind was in turmoil.  He had descended into a
paranoid nightmare world where all his misdeeds where known.  A world
where every secretaries whisper was about him, where his every word and
gesture betrayed him to colleagues and friends.  He felt that everyone
must know what he and Tara were planning and every moment he waited in
agony for the police to arrest him.  He had tried to tell himself that
he was foolish, that he should get a grip on himself.  Then just an hour
ago he had been told that a special task force was being sent from
America to review their operation.  This was all the confirmation he
needed.  They knew everything and his fate was sealed.

   Kingston was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't see the girl
till he was right on top of her.  She had been squatting at the end of the
alley underneath an overhanging section of building.  She had obviously
seen him, for she had thrown back the hood of her raincoat and stepped
out in front of him.

   "Mista?"

   Kingston looked down.  Before him was a young oriental girl of maybe
fourteen or fifteen.  Her face was small and delicate with an ernest
expression, her short black hair damp and stuck down.  She was wearing a
clear plastic raincoat which extended to just above the knee and a pair
of cheap plastic sandals.  The rain had left a slick glitering pattern of
water on the coat and perspiration had produced a thin opaque film on
the inside.  When he had lived in New York Kingston had developed a kind
of blindness to the street people and beggars which had served him well
in the orient.  However, once they talked to him he had no defence.

   "Mista?" The girl asked again. Seeing she had his attention she continued.

   "You want me Mista?" She asked as she pulled the coat tightly across
her body to reveal her nakedness underneath.

   "You like?" She asked hopefully. "Special rate tonight Mista, only fifty."

   Kingston looked embarrassed.  His voice had left him and all he could do
was shake his head.  The girl looked disappointed and shivered.

   "You sure?"

   Kingston managed to clear his throat.  "Err yes.  Look why don't you go
inside - you must be freezing."

   A frightened look spread over the girl's face and she shook her head
quickly.  "No. Not without money."

   Kingston just stared at her.  Finally the meaning of this sentence dawned
upon him.  "You mean they won't let you inside without a customer?"

   The girl looked at the street and just nodded then she looked up at him
beseechingly.  Kingston had a vision of absolution, a method to pay off fate
and his guilt.  He reached into his pocket and withdrew some crumpled notes.

   "Fifty you say?"

   The girl nodded eagerly.

   "Well look, take this money and tell whoever that I've gone to buy a
carton of cigarettes and will be back later.  ok?"

   "You not come?"

   "No, I have to go somewhere."

   "You don't like me?"

   "Look, I like you ok.  I like you very much it's just that I'm busy right
now." He paused and tried another tack, "Look, it's on account.  I'll see
you about it some other time."

   The girl needed no further prompting.  Quickly she grabbed the notes he
offered and dashed across the street to a seedy looking hotel.  In the
doorway she was stopped by a tall brutal looking man.  She spoke to him
for a moment, showed him the money and indicated Kingston.  The man
stepped aside and the girl darted gratefully inside.  The man nodded at
Kingston, who nodded in reply then the man went inside.

   Kingston didn't know what value fate placed on the saving of a freezing
whore on a Tokyo street, but he felt better than he had in weeks.

   Tara's apartment was on the top floor of a decaying tenement a few
blocks away.  The place was tacky and run down but as Kingston approached
it his heart raced.  Since he had met Tara a few short months ago, his
life had been turned upside down.  He was captivated by her beauty, her
passion and his desire.  He still couldn't believe what they were
planning.  The fear of discovery burned in his gut like a red hot poker,
but he had to confess that she was worth it.  He felt he would willingly
die for a single smile.

   He pressed the doorbell.  There was a pause while, he supposed, she
checked through the peephole.  Then the door opened and Tara stood there
dressed in a silken housecoat with a towel in her hair.

   "Come in," she said,"I wasn't expecting you for hours."

   As he stepped inside, his heart started racing faster.

   Suddenly, she grabbed the sides of his face and kissed him.

   "It's so good to see you, lover.  I've missed you so...." She saw
the look on his face and stopped.

   "They're on to us."  He said.

   "They?"

   "Head office.  I was told today that they're sending a team of
experts to oversee the project."

   She sat down on a battered settee.  "That doesn't mean they know
about us.  You told me yourself that the project's behind schedule,
perhaps they want to speed things up?"

   "Makes no real difference.  If they oversee the project, then they
will handle the security on the data transfer.

   She shook he head.  "I don't think so.  They have no reason to
suspect you and they can't oversee everything...."

   "Think of the money." she said then she kissed him.

   "Think of our plans." She kissed him again.

   "A moments risk for a lifetimes pleasure."

   By now Kingston was aroused.  He placed his arms around her, but
she pushed him away.

   "Hey, this is your birthday remember? I've got you a present."

   "What is it?" Kingston asked.

   She smiled, "Wait here, it will take me a few minutes to get it ready..."

   She left him and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

   "What do we do if these people do interfere?"

   Tara's voice came through the door.  "Don't worry - they won't.
In a couple of days our friend from the bar will make his move.  When he
screws up, your trouble shooters will be having too good a time tearing
strips out of Weston La Rue to worry about us."

   "Suppose he doesn't.  Fail that is?"

   She giggled, "Back home I used to hang out in a bar called  "The
Gentleman Loser".  It's a hackers joint where all the talented freelances
meet.  There were always these kids hanging about, wanabe cowboys there
to soak up the atmosphere and look tough.  They all had these big stories
of how they where responsible for kicking some Zaibatsu's butt.  In truth
they have enough difficulty breaking out of their own front door.  Our
guy's almost a textbook case. Your trouble is you worry too much."

   "Well I'm finished. Want to come in and see?"

   Kingston opened the door.  Inside the room was sparsely lit by a number
of small irregularly spaced lamps.  He peered inside.  Tara was stood in the
middle of the room - a vision in black and white.  Kingston stepped closer,
his breath already horse as his eyes drank in every detail.  Tara stood
with shoulders back and legs slightly parted.  Her breasts where thrown out
a little and held in place by a shiny black bra in a material he didn't
recognise.  Though as slick and black as rubber, it seemed to be finer and
more supple.  Getting nearer he realised that behind her back her arms
where encased in long gloves of the same material.  She wore a black
garter belt and hose and on her feet where 3 inch black high heels.  Her
blond hair fell freely about her shoulders.  She pouted and for the first
time Kingston realised that there were three patches of red in the
otherwise  monochrome  ensemble.   The first patch was her lips, they
were large and ruby red against the paleness of her makeup.  Below them
was the second, a large red ribbon was tied around her neck, the bow
offset to one side.  Kingston's eyes panned down to the final patch.

   Tara was wearing no panties.  Instead using some more of the two inch red
ribbon she had fashioned herself a kind of G string.  The ribbon wound a
tortuous course down through her nether lips, then back and round,
terminating in a large scarlet bow just below her navel.

   "Well, what do you think?  I wracked my brains trying to think what to
give you.  Then I suddenly thought I'd give you something really important,
something you could really USE."

   She emphasized the last word by thrusting her chest our further.  Her
nipples where now little buttons pressed hard against the shiny black
fabric.  For some reason, Kingston thought of the little whore in the
alleyway.  Then he was caught up by his own excitement.

   She looked at him coyly.  "Well," She purred, "Aren't you going to unwrap
me?"

   She thrust her pelvis out.  With trembling hands Kingston reached for the
bow.  He tugged and the knot came apart.  As he continued to pull the ribbon
free, he became aware that most of it's length had to pass between her nether
lips.  She started moaning and bucking the ribbon, the air was full of her
scent and the ribbon damp with her passion. When the last of the ribbon had
pulled through, she suddenly pushed forwards.  Kingston smelt her perfume,
felt her nipples pressing into his chest.  He felt the slick smoothness of
her gloves as her arms encircled his neck.

   Then she kissed him, and his world exploded............

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

   The chat was buzzing at the normal level of hypertension when TW got
there.  The rain dripping off of the overcoat he had put on joined with
the other crud tracked in by other chatsubo patrons to form a sticky mess
just inside the door.  TW had traded the janitor outfit for a battered
pair of jeans and a tee-shirt, along with the soaked overcoat.  With some
boots and a gun, he looked the part of the normal chatsubo patron.

   "Ratz - lemme use your phone."

   "No calls of long distance, or you pay me big" Ratz grunted before
he slid the phone over to TW.  "You mess with my phone bill, I mess with
you."

   TW dialed the number Tara had given him.

   Ring.

   Ring.

   Ring.

   *click*

   "Hello, you have reached Systech voicemail!  Systech is happy to provide
you with service for any business needs!  Call our..." the voice droned on
for awhile, advertising some lame software.  Eventually, it got to the good
part.  "Please state the name of the party you wish to send mail too at the
beep."

   *beeeeeeeeep*

   "Tara"

   "Party recognized.  There is no outgoing message for this party.  Would
you like to leave a message?"

   "Yeah, tell her that I've got..."

   "I will record at the beep."

   *beeeeeeep*   stupid machine.

   "I've got it.  You owe me 30.  You meet me at the chat before Friday,
and we'll talk.  I'll sell the shit to someone else after that."

   Hanging up the phone, TW started dreaming of the junk he was going to buy.

   "Yo, Ratz - Lemme have a cool one over here..."

_______________________________________________________________________________
Copyright 1992  -  Lyndon Fletcher and Dave Williams

TW is Dave's all the others are mine. Use them without permission and 
you will end up doing 50 in an isocube.

You have been warned!

Contact us by E mail on:   dwilliam@jabba.ess.harris.com
                           etllnfr@deep-thought.ericsson.se

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

Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo