From: cffitzge@IASTATE.EDU (Charles F Fitzgerald)
Subject: the dancer, part 1
Reply-To: cffitzge@IASTATE.EDU (Charles F Fitzgerald)
Organization: Iowa State University
Date: Wed, 9 Sep 1992 05:29:15 GMT

This is my first time posting to a newsgroup, so I hope you all enjoy
my attempt at cyberpunk.

---

It was just like a painting.  The dark edges of the dumpster raised 
slightly above the canvas of old newsprint and pizza-boxes created the
perfect frame.  The figure stretched across the piece lay as he fell, 
his dark, pin-striped, Italian made-to-order suit providing the
perfect contrast to light shapes of abandoned refuse.  It showed 
perfectly, to the artist's mind, the current state of the human race.  

The only flaw she saw as she surveyed her work from the rusted fire 
escape landing three floors above was the distracting motion of the 
figure's mechanical eyes.  As he fell, his dark, aviator style sun glasses 
slipped from his face and now lay in a twisted pile beside the sleek
barrel of the German made XK-7.  She didn't mind the glasses
themselves or their position--they said something to her about the
nature of technology due to their juxtaposition with the
state-of-the-art handweapon.  No, it was just that, bereft of control,
the million euro optics behaved in a chaotic manner that tended to
draw attention away from the piece as a whole.

That and the red spot in the middle of his chest.  When she first
viewed the wreckage that had been her adversary, she felt the red 
contrasted well to the pristine white of the big man's silk shirt.  
As time progressed, however, the red invaded more and more of the
white, until she felt that it was a little overdone. Taken all in all,
however, she concluded that the piece was one of her better efforts.

She raised her arm from her side to analyse the instrument that 
assited in her work.  It was about ten inches long, black, and rugged.
She popped the clip from grip, put it the pocket of her black leather 
jacket, and inserted a full one, all the time admiring the beauty, 
simplicity, and elegance of the weapon.  "You may not be a
_laser-driven anti-personnel weapon system_," she said, "but I 
would not trade you for the world."

---

"Ya gotta be kiddin'."  She could smell the onions on his breath.  
"No.  What you want," the little man said as he started pulling 
merchandise up from below the counter, "is this here."  He displayed 
a small, silver pistol to the tall, dark haired lady.  "_Nightfighter_
they call it.  Pretty catchy, huh.  Made by Remington's Korean
division.  If there's one thing them gooks can do it's make guns, 
ain't it?  Just remember V-nam.  Really showed us what for in that
one.  I tell you, if I hadda little girl, and she lived in the City, 
I'd make sure she always had a _Nightfighter_ with her.  Whatta think.
Only 200 euro."

"No, as I said before, I am looking for a nine millimeter,
semi-automatic pistol produced in Italy around the nineteen eighties 
called a Baretta.  I am not interested in that or in any other plastic
pistol facsimile that is as likely to explode in my hand as it is to
hit its intended target."

"Well excuse me, I just thought ya might want to see somethin' else.
Ya know, _browse_."  He ran his hand through his greasy hair.
"Gettin' ahold a that's gonna cost some real dough."

"I am willing to pay what the weapon is worth."

"I think," the arms shark says resting his chin on his fist, "I can
getcha one for say...a thousin' euro?"

"You must be joking."

"Only five thou US."

"This is ridiculous."

"Whaddya expect, Toots?!  They made them guns outta real, honest ta
livin' God, _steel_, not any a this lame-o, piece a shit, polee-ethil-
whatever goop!"  The little man looked up and down the tall, lithe
figure dressed in a black leather jacket and tight fitting blue jeans.
"Plus, they ain't that easy ta find no more.  No, they're worth at
least a thou, and prob'ly more.  I'm lettin' off easy 'cause I like
ya."

"Well, Mr. Greek, if you can not find a Baretta for a reasonable
price, I have heard that someone referred to as 'the Bat' has a large
selection of handguns.  Perhaps he can find the pistol for only
five hundred eurodollars."

"Now just a second, Missy."  The small man reached a hairy arm out and
grabbed her as she turned to leave.  Suddenly, he felt a sharp stab of
pain issue from his wrist, and he realised abruptly that she had
managed evade his grasp and secure a firm and unyielding lock on his
right forearm.  "Stop, please," he said, grovelling on the counter.
She released his arm, and he looked up to see himself grovelling in
the mirrors covering her eyes.

"I didn't mean nothin'," he said after he had straightened himself a
little, "honest.  I just didn't want to see you go and get yourself
mixed up with a no-good low-life swindler like that Bat fella.  Na,
he'll charge ya _twice_ what I'll sell it for, and prob'ly get ya one that
don't work ta boot!  No, you don't want ta get mixed up with no Bats.
Especially when _the Greek_ can get ya just what you're askin' for,
let's say, 750 euro or 3700 US?"

"Now you are beginning to be a little more reasonable.  How long will
it take you to aquire the firearm?"

"Normally," he begins, leaning back a little and sticking his round
belly out a little farther, "I would say two or three weeks.  But, for
you, I think I can get it inna coupla days."

"I will give you two hundred eurodollars today, and an additional four
hundred eurodollars upon receipt of the handgun.  If you can produce
the pistol within forty-eight hours I will give you an additional one
hundred eurodollars."

"Come back the day after tomorrah, and I'll have it polished and
waitin' for ya," he said as he slowly counted the ten crisp bills.

He stuffed the money in his pocket and watched her nimble frame glide
past the dusty shelves full of cracked and broken appliances that lined
the small shop the Greek used as a cover for his more lucrative
transactions.  He picked up the long, oily sandwich he had been eating
before she came in as she strode through the dingy door into the press
of the street.  "Damn bitches," the little man thought as he took
another bite of his sub, "think they own the whole Goddam world."

--- 

She put the pistol in its holster below her left shoulder.  A sharp
pain issued from her left arm suddenly and was once again masked by
the small neuro-processing chip in the base of her skull.  "I had
almost forgotten about that," she said to herself as she examined her
wound.  A small, round hole bore through her leather jacket and into
her upper arm.  No blood issued from the small hole, the laser having
burned the tissue as it passed.

---

She lost sight of him for a moment.  She saw him go behind the stack
of crates but she did not see him come around the other side.  She
looked around the warehouse, but all she saw was more crates.  Crates
and crates.  Full of product, with no one to sell them to.  Not since
the eco-wars.  _Environmentally unlawful_, that was how the eco-corps
saw the so called "disposable" diapers that surrounded her now.
Could not sell them without risking bloodshed, so they just sit in
warehouses now, gathering dust.  Not even rotting.

The eco-wars.  What a joke.  She thought back to the young girl who
had started fighting for a cause she believed in.  A bright eyed,
naive nymph who could see a new world dawning.  An intelligent,
sensitive woman who felt sorry for animals and the environment.  Now
she can not see anything without the glass and circuits that serve her
better than eyes, allowing her to see in the darkest night as if it
were day.  Now she can not feel anything unless it is filtered through
her jacked up reflex system.

When the small, red dot appears upon her left breast, the expensive
nervous enhancement pays off.  From above her, on the stack of crates,
the German firearm releases a bolt of red energy which cuts through
the murky gloom of the dark warehouse.  She brings her gun up, drops
to the ground, and rolls behind some cover while her finger pulls the 
trigger twice.  The smell of ozone cuts through her nostrils as she
falls to the ground, and for a brief second she feels the pain as the
solid light enters her flesh.  Then the nerve dampers cut in and the
pain is gone.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she curses as she rolls under the crates.

---

Copywright 1992 by Charles F. Fitzgerald.  The Greek and all other
characters are mine and should be used only with the permission of the
author.  Comments and criticisms welcome.  More will follow if there
is an interest, so please do not embellish.

----
Charles F. Fitzgerald | "Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow,
Iowa State University | Creeps in this petty pace, from Day to Day, 
cffitzge@iastate.edu  | To the last syllable of Recorded Time...."
                      | _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo