Chatsubo meltdown (Re: Waiting ...)
some quoting people
Sorry about the title but my news-server seems to have eaten
the latest reply (i.e. it never really got it, had to grab it
via dejanews)
>>>> Charleson Mambo, "Waiting to see what happens next."
>>> Some People, "Re:"
>> Roger Burton West, "Re:"
!> Charleson Mambo, "Re:"
>>> #The Cors-Project
Some time after the actual events, a Megacorp's Shadow-scout
will pass the following mission-report as extracted from his
memory implant:
!> As I sit there nursing my Root Beer, my Mr. Who's meet arrives,
!> [...]
!> An audio
!> jammer, I recognize the make, set up appropriate filters. The smaller
!> corps are banding together against a common enemy. The "Cors", a
radical
!> organization, commercial pirates giving hostile takeover a whole new
!> meaning. If allowed to grow large enough, might they be a danger to
us?
!> Secret messages hidden in rings. Hmm, they've really got this guy by
the
!> short and curlies, owed favors and a need for vengeance, he'll say
yes, he
!> wont even put up enough of a fight to make it look good. An expense
!> account, intel, and equipment are offered.
!> [...]
!> There, he's in, that didn't
!> take long. Plausible deniability and a bag of toys. "Ron" gets the
hell
!> away from his mark as if he expects a hail of bullets at any moment,
this
!> 'Cors' business has him spooked. "Alek" sits there looking at his
deck and
!> a data module for a few moments before plugging it into his deck and
!> having a look.
!> Sitting just a table away, I manage to catch enough spillage from
his
!> outmoded shielding to see that his system is connecting to the local
node
!> of the Matrix, he must not have had a chance to do a real upgrade to
his
!> system since returning to the Shadows. I rush into my own onboard's
VR
!> space, step out into the Matrix, [...]
!> The door
!> 'opens' and clad in his avatar he step out into the Matrix, not
bothering
!> to cover his tracks, careless or cocky, or maybe he's got an ace up
his
!> sleeve.
!> As he leaves I set sight hounds on his trail, geometric
greyhounds,
!> their data lines splitting and multiplying hiding their source,
mirror
!> shields and flicker fields disguising them, I watch as "Alek" heads
!> straight for private corporate node, virtual office building built
out of
!> multiple copies of a corporate logo an ugly old-fashioned form of
Matrix
!> architecture, a patch of it seems to be a bit fuzzy as seen through
the
!> eyes of my hounds, an ICE upgrade in progress? As my target starts
his way
!> through the ICE the 'patch' suddenly darkens, showing a massive
attack in
!> progress, slow viruses like roots eating their way into the node, a
huge
!> construct shaped like a mythical Kraken and at least a dozen deckers
drop
!> their disguises as the alarm is sounded they move from stealth to
outright
!> frontal assault, assault programs leap out of the node, flights of
!> security deckers enter into combat against the intruders. I punch the
!> panic button in my virtual command center, final instructions stream
out
!> to my hounds closely followed by track erasers, my hounds cut off
from my
!> deck's resources should morph into independent viral attack programs,
!> soaking up the node's resources and attacking the invaders, the last
image
!> I receive from them as communication is cut is my target's avatar fly
out
!> of the node, something black and sticky trying to eat away at his
ICE.
!> As soon as my last command is sent, I pack up my things and log
off
!> the Matrix, just in time to see...
>>> His navigating hand gets cramped and steadily the inability to move
>>> spreads across his body. His lips trying desperately to from words:
>>> "Vvvv...n....Ttt..tttt...rraaaaaaap...". His body rebels under the
>>> signal overload originating from his brain, muscles trying to stretch
>>> beyond physical limits.
>>> The surrounding guests watch him with a mixture of pity and
>>> indifference and the strong instinct of self-preservation suppresses
>>> any thoughts on intervening. Another victim to the matrix.
>> "Just another damn' space cowboy. I keep tellin' 'em, electronic signals
>> and CNS ion gradients don't mix..."
!> As he writhes on the floor I do some fast thinking, that wasn't a
mere
!> mugging, nor any old data theft, that was outright war. The Cors must
have
!> damn good intelligence to be this many steps ahead of these corps.
Or, and that would be as dangerous as any good intel, there might me a
whole squad of culprits working for the Cors in several minor corps,
providing a network of other organizations indirectly supporting the
Cors'
aims. Considering this possibility, the recent ICE-victim might have
just
found out something that made his further existance inacceptable to
somebody ...
>> Helen turns back to her drink, then looks again, with more professional
>> interest.
>>> Alek's body still struggles against itself, strain on inner organs
>>> getting close to the limit. A fortunate move from his right arm and
>>> the table falls down, taking the deck with it. He is jacked out.
>>> His brain still fires multiple the maximum amount of signals down his
>>> spine and his circulation is close to collapsing. He falls on the
>>> ground, lying there helplessly, trembling.
>> [...]
>> She gets up and squats by Alek, reaching with her left hand into a nylon
>> backpack, then pulling it out, empty. She lays her thumb alongside
>> Alek's neck, reading the signals from the monitor pad, then reaches a
>> decision. The middle fingernail folds back to reveal a spray head, which
>> she applies to each temple in turn.
!> I watch as one of the bar's patrons decides to be a samaritan for
hire.
!> It's standard practice for any corp to send somebody to make sure the
!> job's complete when they zap somebody online. In the old Chatsubo's
!> heyday, that would have meant somebody coming over to respectfully
ask
!> Ratz, or maybe somebody standing outside to see if their targets left
feet
!> first or on their own, and maybe set up an ambush a decent distance
away.
!> But the Chat isn't what it used to be, and these 'Cors' are
extremists.
Slowly Alek regains control over his own body. Sweat is running down
his face and his lungs are trying to compensate for the past minutes'
deficit: it's no easy breathing when your muscles decide to work only
one-way...
With his vital function on their way back to normal, his mind starts
working again, providing him with an abundance of memories, reaching
from recent years to past seconds.
"What has happened ?". This question dominates his consciousness as he
notices a female voice addressing him:
>> "Just relax, t'vash. That should take out the worst of it. You'll be
>> able to speak in a few minutes. Walking... well, that may take a little
>> longer. And by the way, this isn't a charity case; I do have the
>> neutraliser for that suppressor I just gave you. Isn't it fun when
>> people trust each other?"
He isn't yet able to fully comprehend the meaning of the words. At
this point his mind tells him that opening his eyes might prove useful
to regaining some orientation. He tries to look around but his
physical impairment prevents him from getting a full picture. His eyes
focus on the vague shadow sitting at his side. He can't make out any
details on that person except that *she* seems to be the source of the
last statement. Then the knowledge hits him like a hammer:
"I'm in the Chatsubo ! I was accessing some data via the matrix when
... I triggered a trap and I'm STILL here in the CHAT !!". His hands
quickly try to search the floor as panic starts to set in on him, his
mind is bound to the one thought: "must find my weapon ..."
!> I leave behind one of my better spy-bots, a dark rat shaped thing,
!> elongated faceless head, silvery fangs, sharp edged metal-plated
body, and
!> an artificial intelligence to match.
!> I pay Ratz for the Root Beer, he barely notices, he's looking at
Alek
!> twitching on the floor, his face even sourer than usual, he already
knows
!> this could be trouble.
Suddenly Alek's fingers touch the feet of somebody standing right
behind him. He tries to look up as he recognizes the barkeep's
voice: "I don't want no trouble in here, Miss Helen !". And then,
pointing to Alek he says: "You better get your *friend* out of here
before my other guests start getting annoyed by his moaning around."
!> As I step outside my stealth systems hide the fact that the door
was
!> even opened, passive sensors at max, I cross the street in two steps,
and
!> sweep up the wall to the roof of the squat building across the Chat.
!> [...]
!> The streets were
!> deserted, I check my weapons as my drones scour the streets, two old
!> fashioned 45s, ammo, AP, HESH, and nanotech stickies, check, the big
!> multibarreled needler, three pairs of barrels like the dots on a
dice,
!> hypersonic flechettes will practically explode unarmored flesh and
will
!> chew through even the thickest armor after some seconds of attrition,
!> unfortunately the flechettes are too light to hold such speed for any
!> great distance, but more than enough for the close ranges of urban
!> warfare.
!> The way I see it the Cors might have been to busy to even notice
Alek
!> and it was some automated attack that got him, in which case nobody
will
!> show up.
!> [...]
!> The drones that headed south report a 16wheeler, low on its
suspension
!> slowly moving in the direction of the Chat.
!> But, if they are extremists, or desperate or if they never knew of
the
!> Chats reputation, a large assault squad is just within the realm of
!> possibilities. Which means the safest place in the Chat might not be
!> inside, with your lines of sight occluded and too many people in
close
!> proximity.
!> I settle down where I have a good view of the door to the Chat.
The
!> next move, if any is up to the Cors.
Back in the bar Alek is desperately trying to get his voice under
control again, his muscles still denying him full service. His
eyes' pupils widened by panic, he stares at the person beside him:
"Get .... me .... out ... , ... quick !"
#eof, sorry for the slow move.
Done by Some People
----
My email-address has been seriously anagrammed; if you want to
reply via email - well, be creative ...
Roger Burton West
In article <3482D4...@xsttt.pop-dibusnardtutu.go>
ee...@xsttt.pop-dibusnardtutu.go "some quoting people" wrote:
>Then the knowledge hits him like a hammer:
>"I'm in the Chatsubo ! I was accessing some data via the matrix when
>... I triggered a trap and I'm STILL here in the CHAT !!". His hands
>quickly try to search the floor as panic starts to set in on him, his
>mind is bound to the one thought: "must find my weapon ..."
Helen frowns. "You don't, surely, want to do any of that violent
movement just yet... well, perhaps you have reason..."
>Suddenly Alek's fingers touch the feet of somebody standing right
>behind him. He tries to look up as he recognizes the barkeep's
>voice: "I don't want no trouble in here, Miss Helen !". And then,
>pointing to Alek he says: "You better get your *friend* out of here
>before my other guests start getting annoyed by his moaning around."
"Not a problem, Ratz. Nice to know you don't forget your friends.
C'mon, space cowboy, let's move..."
>Back in the bar Alek is desperately trying to get his voice under
>control again, his muscles still denying him full service. His
>eyes' pupils widened by panic, he stares at the person beside him:
>"Get .... me .... out ... , ... quick !"
"Roger that." Helen scoops the remains of Alek's gear into her backpack,
slings it, then hauls him upright with just a little more strength than
someone with her build really ought to possess. "We can talk about
payment later."
She steers Alek towards the door, noting with satisfaction that the
worst of his trembling is already subsiding. She manifests a flechette
pistol, preceding Alek outside and quickly hauling him out of the red
glow cast by the flickering neon sign. It's a little quieter out here;
the sounds of gunfire from the north are muted by distance and
familiarity. "Low cloud" - not really a toxic smog, since City Hall says
the smog problem has been solved - rolls slowly along the street,
pricking at her eyes until she drops the implant-goggles.
They move round to the alley beside the bar, where motorcyles, cars, and
more exotic transports lie waiting. One of the cycles, an
antique-looking gas-burner, starts up as they approach, muffling the
sound of a heavy diesel engine from the south.
"You're going to have to hold on here. This might get a little rough."
Helen straddles the bike, which looks as if it probably started life as
an off-road Harley, and hauls Alek up behind her. "Damn, I must be going
soft... I go out for a quiet evening's drink, I don't expect to need
major hardware."
The bike rolls out of the alley, turning west. The twinkle from the left
reminds Helen of what the stars used to look like before the smog rolled
in - but no, it's long-range subgun fire, from the pair of black vans
now turning to follow her.
She talks as if to herself. "Yeah, a little rough. You want to play? You
got it." The bike's engine roars as she opens the throttle; she pulls
the bike viciously across in front of some lost commuter in his soybean
car, and whips it into an alley barely four feet wide.
Four feet wide, that is, except for the fire escape ladder that
someone's left in the way. She stops just short and pushes it up, but
she's lost precious seconds - and bullets chew up the walls around her,
to prove her point. She checks again - no, she didn't turn on the
lights, these guys must have night vision as good as her own - and heads
away, blasting clear of the other end of the alley with plenty of space
to spare - at least ten inches - from the front of the other van.
Alek's managing to hold on pretty well - he must have some sort of
boosted system that's helping deal with the nervous shock. He goes
tense, though, when Helen throws the bike towards a solid-looking metal
door; it turns out to be a paper cover over a light plastic frame,
concealing a flight of stairs leading down. The headlights come on after
the first corner as Helen holds the bike upright, breaking through a
sequence of "no entry" and "authorised personnel only" light barricades.
Soon enough, they're down on the abandoned subway platform, but without
pausing she drives off the edge, onto the tracks.
"They'll follow down here, but the crosstown express is due in three
minutes, so they may have a little difficulty, especially on foot."
The bike roars through stations, startling the few late-night
travellers, and making the winos look suspiciously at their bottles.
After a few klicks, they stop by an anonymous grey inspection hatch.
Helen opens it with a key, and hauls the bike, then Alek, inside.
Looking quickly along the tunnel, she's satisfied they haven't left
tracks on the hard concrete surface. She enters, closes the door and
locks it, then throws the massive bolts that weren't part of the
original design. Lights come up harshly, to reveal a room perhaps three
metres on a side, stacked with pieces of subway rail, cable drums, and
other hardware. With the two of them and the bike, there's no free space
left.
"Okay. We're two hundred feet below ground level in a Faraday cage. We
have at least ten minutes before anyone can get here. Talk, friend - who
tried to ICE you, and what's it worth for me to stay involved?"
Roger
--
/~~\_/~\ BEWARE ,,, |~) _ _ _ _ |~) __|_ _ _ \ / _ __|_
| #=#======of==# | |~\(_)(_|(/_| |_)|_|| | (_)| | \/\/ (/__\ |
\__/~\_/ FILKER ``` _| ro...@firedrake.demon.co.uk
Vote Chris Bell for TAFF in 1998 http://www.firedrake.demon.co.uk/
some re people
On Mon, first day of the last month in the current year,
Roger Burton West wrote:
> [...]
> "Okay. We're two hundred feet below ground level in a Faraday cage. We
> have at least ten minutes before anyone can get here. Talk, friend - who
> tried to ICE you, and what's it worth for me to stay involved?"
Alek leans against the wall. With his body under control again, all
that reminds him of his recent trip to the edge is a massive headache,
the pain pulsing with every beat of his heart. He spent the last
minutes thinking about what had happened in the chat, in the matrix.
Information. Yes. The final report on his last mission for the corp.
Parts of the data-stream together with his own memories on the
operation float around in his memory like ingredients in a pot of
stew. A dangerous combination - or so it seemed to someone in the
corp. That's where the ICE came from. The few details he noticed
during the attack suggested that the trap was not set up from outside.
It must have been triggered by some subsystem responsible for user-
identification as he was all surprised when the deadly black ICE
struck from where he entered the corporate information structure.
Mission analysis also mentioned an "information leak" within the corp
as main reason for the failure. Large scale interrogations and a few
replacements were the only actions taken in that matter - they didn't
find out who the traitor was and recent events suggest that he's still
active.
But why should he care ? Yesterday he was having fun getting skin-
cancer under caribbean sun and now he finds himself inmidst a
corporate war ? Man, if it wasn't real life, you might think this was
just some story made up by different authors who can't agree on when
to get to the battle-tech part...
He sighs. "Oh well, I've got no choice...". He addresses the woman
that rescued him from the chat:. "My stuff, you got it ?"
"Sure", she answers. And then she starts unpacking: Alek's deck, the
sec-modules and a small bag. "You haven't answered my question yet !"
He ignores her last statement. Instead he opens the bag, revealing a
stack of credits. He takes a small part of it and slips it into his
pockets. "This' for you ! Should be enough to compensate for your
troubles", he says as he puts a big stack of credits into her hands.
"And there is more where this came from. If you decide to help me ..."
"Listen, it DOES NOT work this way; you either tell me what this is
all about or you may just go out and play with your *friends* !". The
sound of her voice didn't leave any room for misunderstandings.
Alek pauses for a moment and thinks. His situation is what could be
described as f.....airly bad but at least there was one good thing
about it: he *doesn't* have much of a choice to think of so he starts
to explain: "I ... had a little trouble with a local corp. Just a
misunderstanding".
The look in her eyes suggests something like "Say, didn't I just hear
some of your friends walk by the door ? I'll just go out and ask them
then ..."
"Okay, maybe it was *more* than just a misunderstanding ...".
With his mental back to the wall, he has no choice but to tell
her the full story ...
Meanwhile, back in the Chatsubo:
Outside the bar, right in front of the red plastic door, a troop
transporter stops to unload a whole lot of soldiers, all dressed in
dark-grey uniforms with visored plastic helmets and all *well*-armed.
It was the kind of soldiers that can often be seen in movies,
on battle-fields, just before the senior officer says something like
"See, they are running from us. Now it's our turn. Everybody ATTACK !!".
In most cases, enemy artillery proves him wrong ...
One of the soldiers walks towards what seems to be "this movie's
senior officer" to make his report:
"Sir, we weren't able to track him down. He got help from some woman."
"A woman ??, I see ... and what did *I* send after him ?"
"Sir ?"
Soldiers of this kind lack any sense of sarcasm. Must be some genetic
fault. But then - maybe the time between their first and their last
appearance is too short for them to develop anything beyond
unconditional obedience.
"Go back to where you lost his trace. Search the whole area. Don't
return until you've found him - dead or alive !"
The soldier feels tempted to say something like "Okay, Sheriff" and to
ride towards the setting sun, but - he decides otherwise: "Yes, Sir !"
"In the meantime I will have a look at this run-down bar. There might
be someone to tell me more about that woman...". An evil grin runs
away from his face as he makes a sign for some of the troopers to take
the back-entrance. Then he turns to two figures standing behind
him.:"We will enter now !". They don't resemble any of the other
soldiers. Two meters in height, broad shoulders, hair cut short,
emotionless faces, dressed in one long dark-black (i.e. black beyond
coolness) plastic coat and they both look exactly the same.
Syndicate style.
Mr. Evil-Grin turns towards the door when he notices a sound from the
equipment attached to his belt: a weapon-arming scanner:
Tick.
"Hm, someone in there seems to have a good scanner online. You there,
soldier: open that door !"
The man addressed obeys, right after having cursed his very existance,
the circumstances that put him in a place like this (me) and life in
general. He opens the door and - nothing happens.
There are several reasons for the soldiers not getting immediately
blown sky-high: first, most regulars have made their way through the
backdoor to a safer place long before the troop transport entered the
vicinity of the Chatsubo. Then, the remaining guests like to play a
bit with people who dare entering this place through the front door,
armed and dressed like someone seeking trouble (in this context it
doesn't actually matter *what* you wear).
The soldier is followed by a whole lot of other troopers. Finally,
after half an army jumped into the bar from both front and back door,
the "Senior Officer"-person enters, his body-guards only half a step
behind him.
Tick Tick.
He takes a long look around. The crowd has grown quiet and he was sure
to have all the *attention* drawn on him (who said attention was not
measured in terms of `calibre', `charge' or `explosive force' ... ? ).
Eventually he turns to Ratz: "Hey, barkeeper. I'm searching for a
guest of yours. A woman. Left about half an hour together with a man
who ... might have had some physical problems. Do you know anything
about her ?"
The crowd starts talking again. People turn towards each other and
continue small- and biztalk. A simple lunatic wasn't worth the
attention.
"Mister, I don't want any trouble and I don't know anything about my
guests as long as they pay for their drinks", Ratz replies with a tone
of resignation in his voice. They never learn ...
"Your guests ? ... you mean that scum !", Mr. Shoot-me-I'm-in-charge
says.
TickTickTick.
"Now listen, anybody: I mean *no* harm to her", he claims, his voice
as sweet as a mouthful of grease, "all I want is to ... *discuss*
certain things with her ...".
CLONG. The small device at his belt falls to pieces....
[consider this a blank space]
#eof
Hey - I told him that people don't like *discussions* in
alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo ...
I wonder if there is anybody out there who would condescend to the
low, low level of battle-tech stories to replace the blank space.
Done by Some People.
David Palmer
In article <348808...@studbox.spamnot.uni-stuttgart.de>, some re people
<peo...@studbox.spamnot.uni-stuttgart.de> wrote:
> "Your guests ? ... you mean that scum !", Mr. Shoot-me-I'm-in-charge
> says.
>
> TickTickTick.
>
> "Now listen, anybody: I mean *no* harm to her", he claims, his voice
> as sweet as a mouthful of grease, "all I want is to ... *discuss*
> certain things with her ...".
>
> CLONG. The small device at his belt falls to pieces....
>
> [consider this a blank space]
>
> #eof
>
>
> Hey - I told him that people don't like *discussions* in
> alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo ...
>
> I wonder if there is anybody out there who would condescend to the
> low, low level of battle-tech stories to replace the blank space.
>
> Done by Some People.
"May I make a comment on your observational skills?" asked a voice from the
darkness. "It may be relevant to your situation."
The leader scowled and motioned for one of his bodyguards to follow him
closely, and the rest to cover the bar. "Who are you and what've you got
to say?"
"I find I have more credibility if I don't mention my name," said the tall
thin man, sitting in a Victorian style parlour chair. "The people around
here seem to think that an aura of mystery is more useful than having a
name badge sewn to your uniform, Colonel Milspec. But you may call me
Basil."
"And what do you have to say?"
Basil brought out a meerschaum and a Persian slipper. "You may have
noticed," he began, "that there is a family of twelve living in a crate
outside."
"We saw them. Millimeter-wave showed they were unarmed and interrogation
confirmed what we already knew, so we let them skedaddle. What of it?"
"You saw, but you did not observe." Basil began filling his pipe with
tobacco from the slipper. "Specifically, you did not observe the
Yamaha-Steinway logo on the side of the box."
"So?" asked Milspec.
"Yamaha-Steinway produces pianos--old fashioned pianos with mechanical
keyboards, strings, sound boards, cast-iron harps. A full-sized concert
grand comes in a crate large enough to house a family of twelve, if they
are close. These pianos have a sound quality which is better than even a
high-end synthesizer when played by a first-class musician."
"So there's a piano-box outside. This is a bar. Bars often have music."
"Bars often have music. Bars sometimes have live music. Bars occasionally
have good live music. There are a few bars that have dedicated the
three-hundred square feet and the thousand nuyen a night required for a
full-sized concert grand and the keyman to do it justice. Those few bars
typically are in the best parts of town, spacious and brightly-lit, with
cheerful company, exuberant atmosphere, and valet parking. None of that
description applies to this bar."
"Except for the valet parking" said the bodyguard. Milspec glared at him
for interrupting. Basil just smiled and lit his pipe. "Oh My God, the
TANK!!" screamed the bodyguard, and ran out the door.
"So bars like this typically don't have pianos," growled Milspec. "Word on
the street is that this bar is atypical."
"You could say that," said Basil mildly. "But look around, do you see a
piano? Maybe it's hidden behind the Olmec stone head, or perhaps the
elephant is in the way, or it could be covered by needles dropped by the
sequoia. My friend Inspector Lestrade, with his Scotland Yard training,
could look around a place like this and, in less than half an hour, tell
you that this is not a piano bar."
"I never thought it was," Milspec said.
"Which leaves the question, where's the piano? A 2,739 pound concert
grand, when dragged over a floor by people who are not adept in the field
of piano-moving, leaves tracks that are as easy to follow as those of the
10:13 London to Bristol steam train. If you study the floor, starting at
the entrance, you can see the gouges where they're not covered by
bloodstains. It's even more apparent in infrared."
Milspec scowled and pulled an IR viewer out of a belt pouch. He looked
across the room towards the door, then followed the trail. "It seems to
end right here," he said looking down at his feet.
"Precisely. What do you think happened at that point?"
"Maybe the barkeep got tired of them screwing up his floor and made them
get help. A cyborged soldier could pick the piano up and carry it to
wherever it was needed, without damaging the floor. Or maybe they rented a
hoverdolly."
"If so, it still doesn't tell you where the piano is now. When you have
eliminated the horizontal, what remains, however unlikely, must be the
vertical." Basil indicated the ceiling with the stem of his pipe.
Milspec looked up, then used his IR viewer. "It looks like a hatch of some
sort in the ceiling above me."
"Precisely," said Basil, "and now you know where the piano is." The hatch
opened.
Twenty seconds later there was a silence, the only sound an occasional
'twang' from wires in the wreckage. The suddenly-leaderless men stood with
stunned looks on their faces.
"You may have observed a few dozen small boxes marked 'Hohner' in the bar,"
Basil mildly addressed the soldiers. "Something to consider when
contemplating your next move."
The men looked among themselves, then withdrew.
"Ratz," said Basil, "call Yamaha-Steinway and tell them that the piano
needs to be repaired again--it's still under warranty. And have Mrs.
Hudson clean up in here."
--
David Palmer dmpa...@clark.net
http://www.clark.net/pub/dmpalmer/
Roger Burton West
On Fri, 05 Dec 1997, some re people wrote:
>"Okay, maybe it was *more* than just a misunderstanding ...".
>
>With his mental back to the wall, he has no choice but to tell
>her the full story ...
"Oh. Joy. That. Makes. Me. Feel. So. Much. Better. I am going to _have_
to give up being pleasant to people for next Lent." She riffles though
the money, then stows it away. "But... you're looking for a team? Been a
while since anyone shot at me... I forgot just how much fun it can be."
She pauses.
"Don't worry. I'm not, technically, insane. I even have a certificate to
prove it. Okay, so this guy 'Ron', he said he could give you some secure
base locations? That sounds like a good start. How are you on looking
like someone else?"
As he looks up at the apparent non sequitur, her face writhes and
changes shape. Her hair, which had been long, dark and straight, ties
itself into a bun on the back of her head, and fades to mousy brown; the
shirt and jeans shift from urban camo to retro blue denim.
"Just a knack I picked up. We'll have to leave the bike here, but
there's a saut up top, with the full stealth package and enough gas to
fly half-way to anywhere."
She pulls one of the cable drums; it moves far too easily, revealing a
compartment in the wall just big enough for the two of them. "Lift to
the roof. I never go anywhere without a back door."
The door slides closed behind them...
some cursed people
Roger Burton West wrote:
> On Fri, 05 Dec 1997, some re people wrote:
> >her the full story ...
>
> to give up being pleasant to people for next Lent." She riffles though
> the money, then stows it away. "But... you're looking for a team? Been a
> while since anyone shot at me... I forgot just how much fun it can be."
>
> She pauses.
>
> "Don't worry. I'm not, technically, insane. I even have a certificate to
> prove it.
He takes a close look at the piece of paper that Helen unfolded from
the depths of one of her numerous pockets. It says:
"This certificate is, when used by a certain person, able to certify
that the above mentioned "person" is certainly not...
INNNNSAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANE."
There are lots of symmetric stains on the paper that - at first sight-
resemble a bunch of drunken butterflies having quite some fun with
each other.
A little note at the bottom identifies the author: "Dr. Emos,
Institute for Technical Insanity"
Alek looks up at Helen's face, stuttering "Uhm ... very nice ...". She
grins as she has the certificate disappear in her pockets again. It
was the kind of grin that made people nervous. When confronted with
it, they'd usually start looking for the nearest exit and thinking
about how fast they could get a thousand miles between them and that
grin.
> Okay, so this guy 'Ron', he said he could give you some secure
> base locations? That sounds like a good start.
> [...]
> She pulls one of the cable drums; it moves far too easily, revealing a
> compartment in the wall just big enough for the two of them. "Lift to
> the roof. I never go anywhere without a back door."
>
> The door slides closed behind them...
The lift moves at a very slow speed, indicating that it's mechanically
driven. Obsolete technology, but - good enough to save your life when
you got trapped.
Alek's mind still hasn't come to rest. Voices, images, thoughts. All
mixed together into a giant mental multimedia-show. His ego, the only
spectator, trying to make out a pattern in the confusing stream of
impressions. No matter how hard he tries, the only thing that comes to
his mind when analyzing the situation is this well-known four-letter
word starting with >fuck< and ending with the embarrassing three-
letter-long silence resulting from such statements.
He's starting to get the feeling that some mysterious force is
controlling his every move, that his whole life is determined by a
bunch of bored people and their phantasies. He curses at the sheer
possibility of his last thought being true.
Suddenly the walls around him fade and the ground below his feet turns
to white sand. A breeze is blowing, bringing the smell of salt and
tropic warmth to his nose. He looks around and finds himself on a
beach. Blue sky above, the sea glittering like a billion emeralds.
After a while he kneels down, grabs some of the sand and throws it in
the air. It IS real ! *Really*. After another minute of disbelief, he
notices a few women approaching. They seem to carry gifts of some sort
and their smiling faces make Alek question his doubts on how real this
could be. He starts waving his hands as he feels a hand on his shoulder.
He turns around and ...
"Are you alright ?". The woman on the opposite side of the lift stares
at him in a concerned way. "You seemed so ... out of place."
Alek doesn't answer. Instead he closes his eyes, concentrates and
mutters something in an incomprehensible tongue. Then he opens his
eyes again, with a devilish grin on his face. This useless gesture
seems to have no effect on anything at all eXCePT FoR ... AaaAAAAaargh
... my ShIFT-KeY Has beeN CURseD ! USING DIRty tRicks, eyh ? OkAY,
haVE it yOur wAy ...
"Do you have a plan ?", Helen interrupts my thoughts on revenge.
Alek pauses for a moment. His mind seems to be clearer now and
thinking proves to be much easier this way:
"Well, first you have to get me to the Blubb-Corp building. Not the
main-entrance, of course. Got to meet Ron there. I will get all the
money and material necessary. Meanwhile you should go back to the
Chatsubo to check for news on the Cors and to get us some cowboys and
people with experience in street combat. Have it look like a standard
operation. When everything is arranged, we'll meet in ...".
The sound of an explosion from below and the abrupt stop of the lift
cuts him off right in the middle of the sentence.
"What the ...?"
While HE's still trying to figure out what just happened, Helen's
already about to break the lift-door open. They are stuck between two
floors, the exit to the upper one more than a meter above.
"Come on, they could be here any minute !". She jumps up and crawls
through the gap between lift ceiling and the upper floor. Then she
drags Alek outside. They find themselves in the entrance to a subway
station.
"This way !", she shouts as she starts running to the next stairway,
Alek trying to follow her.
They have still some floors left to go before they reach the top of
the building and Alek is trying to keep up with Helen when they
suddenly hear the sounds of troopers storming the stairs below them.
They finally reach the door to the roof and kick it open.
#eof
Done by Some People
Roger Burton West
In article <34917A...@studbox.spamnot.uni-stuttgart.de>
peo...@studbox.spamnot.uni-stuttgart.de
"some cursed people" wrote:
>They have still some floors left to go before they reach the top of
>the building and Alek is trying to keep up with Helen when they
>suddenly hear the sounds of troopers storming the stairs below them.
"This really pisses me off. Can't have a drink in peace and quiet any
more... people trying to kill you wherever you go... what's this Cors
after, anyway, World Domination?
Oh."
>They finally reach the door to the roof and kick it open.
"Okay. Still there. Good. I'd hate to have to leave you just when things
were getting interesting."
The saut is indeed still there, three tons of ground-effect craft the
colour of the roof. Its side door swings up as they approach, and closes
with a falsely reassuring thud.
"Man the guns. Four mil HV rail turret each side, grenade launcher if
you need it."
Helen drops into the pilot's seat, straps in and... _doesn't_ jack in.
Come to think of it, she doesn't even have a set of jacks.
Alek's beside her as the cockpit displays come up, showing a pack of
troopers emerging onto the roof. A few hundred hypervelocity railgun
rounds turn the first few into a thick red mist, and discourage the
others for at least the next few seconds.
"This could get interesting. But not as interesting as landing here in
the first place. Brace yourself..."
The jets light off and spool straight up to afterburn, coincidentally
toasting a couple of troopers trying to sneak round the back. The saut
lurches and slides over the edge of the roof, Helen dropping its nose to
try to get some flying speed before they turn into an expensive smear on
the sidewalk. They level out below the street lights, and scream away.
"Not exactly stealthy. Sorry about that." But as they merge into the
main traffic lanes, they don't look out of place, especially with the
Blubb-Corp logo on the side door. As they travel, she gives Alek her
mail-drop address.
Ten minutes later, Helen delivers a large crate to the Blubb-Corp
loading dock, labelled "extremely perishable".
* * *
The next evening, Helen's back in the Chat.
"Piano job, was it?"
She steps over to the noticeboard, and puts up a new card among the
brown and curling pack:
WANTED
Muscle, Brains and Nerves
Very High Risk of Death
Reasonable Rewards For Survivors
Contact the Techwitch
"So... what's been happening while I was away?"
Charleson Mambo
In article <Snews.971220.18...@firedrake.demon.co.uk>,
ro...@firedrake.avertspam.demon.co.uk wrote:
>In article <34917A...@studbox.spamnot.uni-stuttgart.de>
> peo...@studbox.spamnot.uni-stuttgart.de
> "some cursed people" wrote:
>
[snip]
Ratz looks around what's left of his bar at the ruined tables and
chairs, well further ruined. A handful of people are trying to get the
elephant down from the sequoia. The rest of the people look like they are
trying to decide wether to stay and try to keep drinking on their feet as
if it where a cocktail party or call it a night.
"Is anybody else here curious as to why our drinking has been so rudely
interrupted tonight? I've a pretty good idea of where to find some
answers, anybody interested in coming along to ask the guy that got
himself ICEd on his computer earlier tonight? It would seem that he is the
cause of all this ruckus."
No response. I shrug and leave the Chat. Halfway down the street my
ride catches up with me. A large ovoid aircraft, two round windshields
staring ahead, the color is a rather indistinct 'light mud', arrays of
triangular intakes and vectored nozzles. A line is dropped and we pick up
speed even as I'm being hauled up.
Halfway there when I pick up the signal from 'Herman', an old lift
breaking the shielding of an underground faraday cage. Sped up recap of
conversation. "...get me to the Blubb-Corp building...Got to meet
Ron...you should go back to the Chatsubo...Have it look like a standard
operation...", a subway station, chased up the stairs.
I'm almost there, the building is in sight. At ground level, vans left
unparked in the middle of the street, uniformed goons not to discreetly
covering the entrance, but no air support, this is just wrong, you dont
pull something like this and leave the roof uncovered.
This Cors, they seem to be doing things in a half-assed way. Poor
comunication between operatives, half trained samurais, missing equipment.
hmm. But if they are indeed growing too fast, maybe the Cors is analogous
to a cancer or a viral infection, in the corporate environment. A cancer
is a lot of cell growing at max, but it's not an organism, no controls, no
plans, just grow, absorb. Or like a virous they enter a corp and create
new viri out of the 'cells' body to go out and spread, but the
distribution isnt even here, maybe missing good personel here, or proper
transports there. Could the Cors actually be a corporate culture gone
awry, a cancerous meme? Grow, absorb, attack all that isn't Cors?
Almost on top of the building when the stair's door is kicked open. Ah
there they are. they rush over to a camo-tarp, uncover a heavy duty saut.
That thing is ground effect, stictly ground level, how'd they get it up
here? Troops rush out of the stairwell. And right into the wrong end of a
railgun. Damn, not the time for introductions. The saut leaps off the
roof, plumenting to the street. Leveling out and melting into traffic
before the troopers can get their act together.
"Damn!" *BONK!* (slams head on the dash), *BONK!* *BONK!* (repeatedly)
"Am I ever going to catch up to this story's wavefront!!"
Herman will stick to Aleck, or at least plant a 'flea' on him, so I'll
still get to hear his side of this mess. Back to the Chat then.
- - -
Back at the bar, an hour later and most of the regulars are back
watching the holo of the piano replay over and over, the shortage of
chairs really obvious now, but all these people milling around with drinks
in hand does give the place a rather 'party' mood.
At the board I put up a generic looking for a job card....
+---------------------------+
| Will kill for money. |
| Mambo. |
+---------------------------+
...Grab a rootbeer and mingle, while I wait to see who else gets involved
in this.
- - - - - - - -
>
> * * *
>
>The next evening, Helen's back in the Chat.
>
>"Piano job, was it?"
>
>She steps over to the noticeboard, and puts up a new card among the
>brown and curling pack:
>
> WANTED
> Muscle, Brains and Nerves
> Very High Risk of Death
> Reasonable Rewards For Survivors
> Contact the Techwitch
>
>"So... what's been happening while I was away?"
>
>
>Roger
- - - - - - - -
Charleson Mambo
( cptmambo 'at' tld 'dot' net )
2nd attempt at posting this.
--
Got bored with my old .sig so I'm trying out new ones.
*********************************************************************
<read in your best brassy hard sell comercial announcer's voice>
SOYLENT GREEN!! If you are what you eat! Why not? Eat what you are!!!
<celebrity endorsement>
"Soylent Green is people! Soylent Green is people!"
*********************************************************************
some duh people
Charleson Mambo wrote:
> "Is anybody else here curious as to why our drinking has been so rudely
> interrupted tonight? I've a pretty good idea of where to find some
> answers, anybody interested in coming along to ask the guy that got
> himself ICEd on his computer earlier tonight? It would seem that he is the
> cause of all this ruckus."
> Halfway there when I pick up the signal from 'Herman', an old lift
> breaking the shielding of an underground faraday cage. Sped up recap of
> conversation. "...get me to the Blubb-Corp building...Got to meet
> Ron...you should go back to the Chatsubo...Have it look like a standard
> operation...", a subway station, chased up the stairs.
Roger Burton West <ro...@firedrake.avertspam.demon.co.uk> wrote:
> > "This really pisses me off. Can't have a drink in peace and quiet any
> > more... people trying to kill you wherever you go... what's this Cors
> > after, anyway, World Domination?
"Back when I was first involved in their business, they were planning
something on Jupiter-Moon-Colony Epsilon. Don't know how that turned
out though ..." ;)
> [...]
> > Ten minutes later, Helen delivers a large crate to the Blubb-Corp
> > loading dock, labelled "extremely perishable".
#inside blubb
The docking bay is teeming with workers. Several freight-cranes are
unloading transports that landed on the top of the corporate building,
where the bay is located. A strong wind is blowing up here, several
hundred meters above the city's smog line. The air is full of dirt,
that, illuminated by countless lights from below, turns the night into
an artificial twilight. A constant stream of airborne vehicles is
landing and taking off like bees swarming around their hive.
Nobody pays attention to the comparatively small crate placed next to
some containers, each big enough to hold a completely equipped battle-
tank (odds are, they do ...). Eventually the rear side of the box
opens and Alek moves quickly outside to hide in a shadow. He's
carrying a backpack containing his deck and some tools. Walking
through the main entrance is no option with the creator of the data-
ambush still on the loose. That person will surely be prepared for his
appearing here, which leaves the back-entrance as only alternative.
With his knowledge on the corp's security system it should be possible
to avoid being seen.
Alek takes a close look around to orientate. The bay is limited on one
side by a couple of gates leading to freight-elevators of appropriate
dimensions. There is a door next to the gate on the far right side,
about 200 meters away from his current position. Using the numerous
containers as cover, he gets there unseen by the workers. A sign on
the door reads `Maintenance. Authorized personnel only'. The message
is supported by a number-pad below the door's handle. Just as he is
about to deal with the electronic lock, Alek notices that it's not
activated. He pushes the door open and disappears inside.
A ladder leads through a small hole in the ground all the way down to
a dozen different cargo rooms, parallel to the big elevator shafts.
The darkness is only sporadically interrupted as platforms move up and
down. Another transport moves down and Alek concentrates on the
lightened wall below. About 30 meters deeper he finds what he was
looking for: a hole in the wall, maybe a meter in width and 2 meter in
height. He waits until no other platforms are in sight, then he starts
descending in complete darkness. Step by step he climbs the ladder
down and at a certain level he starts searching the wall for an
opening. When he finally reaches the hole, he climbs into it, leaving
the ladder behind. There is just enough space for a man to stand,
sitting may be a problem though.
Alek searches the wall. He is sure that it must be here somewhere.
He's seen it on plans a dozen times. His hand finds a small box, set
into the wall.
"That's it !".
He opens it and his fingers touch a string of cables that runs
vertically through the box. At about the middle of the string, there
seems to be some kind of connector.
"The internal service port !"
Suddenly Alek has the strong feeling of being watched. He looks around
but he can't make out anything in the darkness. He decides to wait
until another transport moves by. In his current location, there is no
danger of being seen by a platform operator as he is screened from
view by a few metal bars that keep the elevator on track. A few
minutes pass then a faint light appears from above and disappears into
the depths below again.
Nothing.
"Must be an after-effect of the neural-shock" he explains the feeling
to himself. He pulls out his deck and a few cables. He uses one of
those cables to connect the deck to the service port in the wall, then
he sits down, his feet stemming vertically against the opposite wall.
Another cable is linked to the electrodes behind his ear. He takes the
other end of that cable and ... pauses.
"I almost got killed last time, how will it end this time ?". He
starts to tremble as he remains with thoughts of that kind for a
couple of minutes. His mind clearly dictates what has to be done - yet
he cannot ignore the naked fear of death that his being is filled
with. Only a couple of hours ago his body experienced what dying feels
like and now he is supposed to just *return* ? After another couple of
minutes of inner argument, he comes to the conclusion that he really
has NO choice. He hesitates and then plugs in, a prayer on his lips.
The trembling subsides as the Matrix fills his consciousness. Slowly
his senses adapt to the clear and plain impressions provided by the
deck, thus driving away feelings of darkness and loneliness. The fear
remains, manifesting itself as full alertness. While his mind wanders
off into Cyberspace, his right hand clasps the connector, ready to
pull at the first sight of trouble.
The digital blackness is parted by a thin horizon, the lower part is
filled by a 3D-grid. In front of him, there is a solid orange cube - a
representation of the deck's internal memory. A big dome emerges
behind the cube marking the beginning of the service port. Several
thin lines connect these two structures. There is no data transfer
yet. Alek enters the cube - this time he will be prepared .
He starts with modifying the deck settings, sets up a visual double-
buffering mode and connects this buffer to the actual image thus
creating a perception-filter to highlight movements in his vicinity.
Next he reactivates his knowledge on building ICE to form a shield. It
is no good in fending off attackers for long but its primary use is
given by the shield's dynamic behaviour: when it gets close enough to
a data-structure, the surrounding matter will take on the data's
consistency and visual characteristics, providing a certain level of
invisibility.
A few other helpers, including a random key generator and some small
mobile ICE-units, are created.
Platforms pass by Alek's hiding place, moving supplies of all kind
from the bay above to their destination somewhere below. While his
mind is busy preparing the expedition, his body doesn't move a bit.
The connector's still in the firm grip of his right hand. An hour
passes.
Finally he feels prepared. He moves around the cube, facing the dome.
He enters with his visual filter and the adaptive shield activated.
The connecting lines flare up as he penetrates the dome's surface.
Inside he finds a pillar of pure light located in the center of the
structure. It is surrounded by rotating plates - too fast to just pass
by - the service port's security system. This type of security system
is said to withstand even a full scale attack for as long as it takes
to activate it's own ICE to reach the intruder. Brute force won't do.
The system really *is* safe - if used to secure just ONE port. Well,
the Blubb-Corp is just a relatively small organisation that cannot
afford one system for EACH port so they took one and combined it with
a multiplexer to meet their requirements. This isn't really a security
HOLE but with sufficient data on the mux, one may just find a little
*gap*.
He looks at the rotating plates again. The visual filter confirms his
assumption on the corp still using a mux: the gap shows as a thin line
of light moving slowly in the opposite direction that the plates move.
Now it comes to slowing this thing down.
A short press on a button and the random key generator starts hitting
the systems code interface with sequences of arbitrarily chosen
numbers - just one number less than the actual code size is. This
prevents the system to log the failed attempts. At this speed the mux
is well able to handle the codestream.
Another button and the generator-speed is increased by the factor 10.
First difficulties are showing - codes have to be queued. Again a
raise - this time by 3 and - the queue fills rapidly up. When the
queue is completely filled the mux resets it, leaving the port
vulnerable for just long enough. The procedure repeats until the deck
is synchronized with the queue-reset and - there we go !
He is now behind the first and - from this port - last line of defense.
He deactivates the key generator as the shielding is
semipermeable, granting free passage from this side of the fence.
Ahead of him lies the pillar of pure light that marks the way to their
main-frame. Reality around him seems to fold in a complex way when he
enters the IO-stream. After a sensation of travel at data speed, he
starts to reorientate.
This void seems familiar - he recognizes the archive, where he was
ICEd before. This time he'll stay away from that one. He keeps as
close to the adjoining structure as possible, allowing his shield to
adapt itself. The data itself is arranged in a very clear way - making
it a solid, patternless surface in matrix terms.
Suddenly the feeling of being watched returns - this time even
stronger than before. He stops and waits. Nothing.
The he turns around - in very little steps - but still neither the
normal screen nor the filter show any sign of movement.
Oh oh ...
He remembers from his last visit that there WERE security drones all
around, checking the User-IDs of all active elements. Until now he
hasn't seen a single one of them. There's something going on here ...
Alek decides to continue with his vigilance turned to max. Just around
the next data object, he sees them: two drones hovering motionless at
about halfway between the main-frame-representation's floor and
ceiling. He waits and observes. Nothing. They don't move a bit. After
another couple of minutes spent waiting, he decides to probe them.
Back in the maintenance shaft cold sweat is running down his body. His
right hand shakes with tension. His navigation hand reaches for
another user-defined function key. This one is assigned to trigger
some small ICE unit. He sets the unit's size to minimum and aims at
the wall in front of the two drones.
A small polygon shape appears in front of him and accelerates towards
the given coordinates. Small pieces of data fly around and dissolve as
the ICE hits the massive data structure. No reaction from the drones
but ...
Tension is at a maximum as Alek tries to recall what the filter has
just revealed. There was no reaction from the drones, yet something
moved. Something big. Something very close. Something to the left...
The static display does not indicate anything at all, so he decides to
have another probe attack started. Same ICE, same coordinates. Before
triggering he turns *very* slowly, centering the screen on where he
assumes the source of movement.
He hits the button. Another polygon, now accelerating away from his
field of vision. The small pieces of data again, flying around AND ...
He jacks out.
He gasps and finds himself still sitting in the same position as when
he jacked in. His shirt all wet with sweat and his heart beating like
a drum.
He tries to reconstruct what he had just seen: a transparent object,
shape of a wedge and BIG ...
His thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the flashing "receive"-LED on
his deck that flickers in the darkness like a beacon in the night.
Whatever that object was - it is still accessing the deck. Alek
reaches for the service port connector when the flashing dies away
again. The deck's LCD-display is illuminated and the display says:
"Message received."
With another key pressed, the message shows on the screen:
NICE WORK ON THE SERVICE PORT, ALEK.
WE DIDN'T EXPECT YOU TO FIND OUR PROBE THOUGH.
WE STILL HAVE TO WORK ON THAT ONE, IT SEEMS.
FEEL FREE TO TYPE ANY QUESTIONS YOU MIGHT
HAVE - WE HAVE YOUR KEYBOARD BUFFER LINKED TO
AN OPEN DATA STREAM.
He thinks for a moment, looks around and - seeing nothing but darkness
- types a question into his deck:
who are you ?
A moment later, the "receive"-LED flares up again; the screen shows an
answer:
WE WORK FOR THE CY-K ORGANISATION. WE ORGANISED
YOUR TRIP BACK TO CHIBA.
"Hm, them again ...", he mutters to himself. He continues typing:
what do you want ?
The LED again ...
WE NEED YOU HELP.
YOU WERE ASSIGNED TO ORGANISE AN ATTACK ON THE
CORS IN OUR DOMAIN. YOU WERE GRANTED INOFFICIAL
SUPPORT BY SOME MINOR CORPORATIONS.
"HELP ? In killing me or what ...?". The message continues:
YOU SUFFERED AN ATTACK BEFORE YOU EVEN STARTED.
THIS IMPLIES A MAJOR SECURITY LEAK IN ONE OF THE
COOPERATING ORGANISATIONS.
Alek notices a feeling building up inside of him - anger; pure, simple
anger. Why don't they just nuke each other instead of drawing me into
all this ?
WE MONITORED DATA TRANSFER BETWEEN OUR PARTNERS
AND WERE ABLE TO TRACE A SIGNAL THAT IS SENT TO A
SUBCORP OF THE CORS BACK TO ITS ORIGIN
IT COMES DIRECTLY FROM INSIDE THE BLUBB-CORP.
"Tell me something new". He starts typing again:
what do you want from ME ?
It seems that the questions was already expected for the answer
arrives before the question was completed:
THE TRAITOR IS CONSTANTLY WIPING OUT ANY TRACES THAT
MAY HELP US FIND HIM.
WE ARE TRYING TO RECONSTRUCT HIS CHANGES BY COMPARING
ARCHIVE DATA OF THE BLUBB'S MAIN-FRAME WITH CURRENT SIGNAL
PATTERNS. THIS WILL ALLOW US TO ANALYZE WHERE CHANGES
WERE DONE.
so what am I supposed to do ?
YOU HAVE A CONTACT PERSON. WE NEED THE
ARCHIVE ENCRYPTION KEYS.
WITHOUT THEM WE CANNOT DECODE THEIR DATA.
IT'S UP TO YOU TO GET THEM.
"The archive encryption keys , hm ..., decoding their data ..."
and what if I refuse ?
DON'T FORGET THAT YOU ARE STILL INSIDE
THE MAINTENANCE SHAFT. A PRESS OF A BUTTON ON
OUR SIDE AND YOU'LL HAVE TO COPE WITH SOME
VERY MEAN SECURITY BOTS.
"What is it ? I can smell it is wrong, feel it but I don't SEE it."
I'm having enough troubles staying alive on my own, I
don't need your messing around here !
THEY WILL FRY YOU RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE SITTING ...
"Ah ! `Right where I am SITTING' ... I knew there was something
strange about that argument of theirs:
The Blubb is keeping its archive isolated in some basement storage
room. No online access. Then the opened door, the deactivated drones,
their probe and this feeling of being watched and finally: HOW on
earth can they tell that I am *sitting* ?"
you wouldn't risk your own team getting caught, would you ?
A long pause. Then again the flashing LED:
I AGREE.
BUT STILL: WE NEED THOSE KEYS !
Alek feels comfortable again with a little control over the situation
back in his own hands.
my offer: I will get you these keys. In return I want the complete
results of the analysis as soon as it is done. Furthermore I want
your support, both in the matrix and in physical form from your
troopers.
Another pause.
WE CANNOT GRANT YOU ANY SUPPORTING TROOPS. CHIBA
IS FAR FROM OUR DOMAIN AND OUR TASK FORCE THERE
IS VERY SMALL. WE CANNOT RISK TO LOSE IT.
WE MAY AGREE ON YOUR OTHER TERMS THOUGH.
"Some is better than none ..."
agreed.
No answer.
do you read me?
"I do", a voice from the darkness says.
"Says WHO ?". Alek feels that he is losing control over the situation
again...
The darkness behind the hole is lit by dark blue light. He makes out
the opposite corner of the freight-elevator-shaft as source for the
light. But still no person ... wait. A certain piece of the wall seems
to get distorted and finally a face can be seen in the dim blue light
- it seems to just stand there in mid-air; no neck, no body. With a
few jumps the figure crosses the shaft and stands right before the
entrance to the hole.
"Just a dynamic camouflage wear; it's the standard equipment for this
kind of operation", the man explains in a low voice, as he notices the
surprised look.
Alek looks back at him. "Yeah, sure !".
"Look, we need that encryption key. As soon as possible"
"Well", Alek sighs, "I need to get to my contact on the 6. floor,
THAT'S what I entered the system in the first place for, *before* you
Cy-k'os' scared the shit out of me !".
"No problem", the figure says, ignoring the tone in Alek's voice, "we
can deactivate all the automatic security systems on your way down
there. You better get going before they find traces of our hacking
into their system. Meet me here again,when you're finished. I'll
monitor your progress through the security system."
The figure disappears, and so does the blue light.
Alek finds himself in complete darkness again.
"At least some things I do not have to take care of all by myself...."
He unplugs the cables and has them, and the deck, disappear in his
backpack again. Then he moves.
#eof97
Done by Some People
Roger Burton West
Helen sits in the Chat, waiting for answers to her card: in person, from
people who've met her before, or on the secure maildrop, if they
haven't.
Things are slow these days - maybe all the smart muscle's off working
for the corps. Doesn't seem too likely, but they've got to be
somewhere...
She reaches a decision. Time to call in some favours.
Half an hour later, a tall, Asiatic-looking man wanders casually in,
looks slowly around, and joins her at the table. He's not even
pretending to be unarmed: he's serious street muscle, and if he's lucky,
two-thirds of his job is intimidation. If he's not... well, that's what
the cyberoptics, neural linkages, body control systems, knives and guns
are for.
Just behind him, a woman enters, long metallic-silver hair hanging
straight down her back, contrasting nicely with the red denim of her
jacket and jeans. The guitar case on her back isn't big enough to hold a
weapon, unless you're a corporation seriously worried about bad PR. She
joins the others.
"Well, I suppose you're wondering why I called you here tonight."
"Got that right, boss-lady." The man seems tensed, even as he leans back
in his chair; he checks the ultrasonic jammer again, even though it's
working perfectly. "Work's not exactly overflowing right now, but we do
OK. Jeanne's got a new album to work on, and I've got my eye on a
consultancy with Toji."
"Shark - yes, I take your point. I've been semi-retired myself. But this
looks like something big. Can't tell you just what yet. But I'm damn
sure we're going to need muscle, physical and Net. You guys are more in
the swim than I am, these days. I'm looking for recommendations."
"Gotcha." He checks a datapad - one that a lot of people would love to
have. "Lisa's still on the circuit. Last I heard she was with Soviet
Naval Intelligence on the colonies. Vlad Arkadiev should be up for this,
and unless you've changed more than I remember, we could probably use a
gunsmith. Heidi Kleist's over in Hamburg, but I could give her a try.
Steve Fox? No, he's still in VR after the Sydney bomb. That should give
you a start - and they can all look after themselves if they need to."
Jeanne breaks in. "Cam, this is one _hell_ of a favour. Old times' sake
only goes so far. No offence, but... what else is in this for us?"
"Oh, the usual. Death. Mutilation. Pain. Gobs of money. Look, the guy
behind this has serious backing. His petty cash alone should keep us
in ammo for a while. I'm not talking firm contract yet - not until we've
got a team together - but I tell you what, I'll guarantee five grand out
of my own stash per survivor, if he doesn't pay more."
Jeanne blinks. "You what? You trust the guy that far?"
"Call it a gut feeling. You save someone's life, you get an impression
of them."
Charleson Mambo wrote:
> At the board I put up a generic looking for a job card....
> +---------------------------+
> | Will kill for money. |
> | Mambo. |
> +---------------------------+
>
>...Grab a rootbeer and mingle, while I wait to see who else gets involved
>in this.
The card doesn't seem to set anything off straight away. But there's a
message for the "Mambo" mailbox, next time he checks it: old-style, no
video or even audio, just plain text:
///
>Will kill for money.
Sounds like a good start. Resume? Authentications? I could use some
muscle, but you know what they say about gifts-unasked-for...
Techwitch.
///
And Some People wrote:
>"Back when I was first involved in their business, they were planning
>something on Jupiter-Moon-Colony Epsilon. Don't know how that turned
>out though ..." ;)
"Hmm. Waaait a minute. Do these guys have access to the transport
technique you mentioned? High-pressure Jovian gas plus teleport equals
one really cold bomb."
Roger
(last post of 97, I guess... tomorrow is for getting plastered)
(and I'm working on the next "pure" Fox and Shark episode...)
Charleson Mambo
In article <Snews.971230.21...@firedrake.demon.co.uk>,
ro...@firedrake.avertspam.demon.co.uk wrote:
> Helen sits in the Chat, waiting for answers to her card: in person, from
> people who've met her before, or on the secure maildrop, if they
> haven't.
>
[snip bussiness meeting]
>
> "Call it a gut feeling. You save someone's life, you get an impression
> of them."
>
When I reach the Chat, Helen is talking to a pair of street ops,
recognition and accessing their dossiers is almost at the same level as
beathing. Big names, real experts according to intelligence.
Bussiness meeting comes to a close, her friends leave. I make my way
over to her table.
"You are Techwitch? Charleson Mambo. Just received your message, saw
your want add over on the board.(tilt of the head indicating the old board
by the bar). You are setting up a team? You asked for resume and
authentications. hmm I used to keep my resume up to date, but names have a
way to accumulate bounties, besides I've even manage to loose count of how
many faces I've had. (a hand wanders up to touch the side of his face,
stops half way, is put away) (a slip of the usual biz poker face? a bit of
non verbal done on purpose?) But I do have some testimonials for my last
few jobs. (four read once data cards are slid across the table) The green
one has a list of some 'billboards' in the Matrix I had my last employers
throw in with payment."
Charleson Mambo
(The data cards are videos of the the jobs, different povs including the
targets security cams. The bilboards are hidden 'rooms' in corporate data
structures with testimonials from satisfied clients. I figured I should
let you get a word in edgewise instead of just going into deascriptions
(ie I havent made them up yet))
--
To send me email, first get rid of "SPAM"
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I stayed up all night playing poker with Tarot cards.
I got a full house, but four people died.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Roger Burton West
> "You are Techwitch? Charleson Mambo. Just received your message, saw
>your want add over on the board.(tilt of the head indicating the old board
>by the bar). You are setting up a team? You asked for resume and
>authentications.
>But I do have some testimonials for my last
>few jobs. (four read once data cards are slid across the table) The green
>one has a list of some 'billboards' in the Matrix I had my last employers
>throw in with payment."
She checks the cards on an old, handheld, non-jack PC - the sort of
thing you don't see much outside museums, or places like the Chat where
they _know_ just how little fun it is to have your brain strobing at
7Hz.
"Looks plausible. Distinctly plausible. OK, here's the deal: we're
looking at a combination assault, physical and net. Distinctly
high-grade opposition. I'm offering a straight 5K fallback; my
principal may well be prepared to go higher.
"Now, obviously, I don't trust you. And you don't trust me. That's just
something we'll have to live with."
She passes back some other cards. These are a bit older, but cover the
same general subject matter: once she's bought, she stays bought.
"I think we're OK for physical muscle; I've got some friends coming in
from out of town, and with you along, we should be able to handle most
light threats. What does concern me, though, is the net-side; so if you
know some good assault programmers, I'd be interested..."
Roger
Charleson Mambo
In article <Snews.980114.13...@firedrake.demon.co.uk>,
ro...@firedrake.avertspam.demon.co.uk wrote:
"The grey data card. I worked with a pair of cowboys not too long ago
that just may fit the bill."
The card contains compressed video of a mission, long term
surveillance, matrix and physical, an AI trying to go rouge, corporate
personel assisting, vulontarily and thralls. Split screen, one side show
the meat side, fits and starts of multiple video clips, images stolen from
their own security cameras and shots by 'invisible' camermen in the room
with the targets.The other halve shows sped up video of the matrix side,
main window show constant surveillance of the corporate structure that
hold the AI, smaller windows show the secondary characters as the enter
and leave vr. Time codes are highlighted during concurrences between both
sides of the mission. The time codes of the matrix side are non-standard,
they make no sense, then it falls into place, they're not minutes or
hours, but days,weeks,and months, flashing past without interuption. The
video slows, focuses on empty space, on cue, a large shape snaps into
existence, a large obsidian arrowhead, flocks of shadowy hawks in
formation around it, the video is at slow motion, the arrowhead leaps at
the corporate ICE, its form dense with computing power, the hawks run
interference taking out the smaller attack programs that leap out of the
ICE, The arrowhead smashes through the data structure, wich convulses its
integrity compromised, flashes out the other side, and blinks out of
existence even as hunter/seeker rush after it. In the meantime the
observer has been collecting information on the defenses, comparing them
against a provided data base, a glimpse of the AI at the core is examined.
The vide surges once more to its highest speed.
"I can get you in touch with each if you're interested. They've each
their specialties as you saw, patience and speed. Of course if the job
requires for them to physically travel here, they'll insist on bringing
muscle of their own. You know, Cowboys' ussual paranoia of the meat's
frail and transitory nature."
Charleson Mambo
some slow people
Another little brick in the "Chatsubo Meltdown" wall
(suggestions for a better title ?)
#level 6 in the Dungeons Of Blubb
Alek puts the backpack on his shoulder again and starts with the
descent into the depths of the elevator shaft. It's still all black
around him and darkness only occasionally gets interrupted by an
elevator platform sliding past. He repeatedly stops and checks the
wall beside him for an entry into the building's ventilation system.
Suddenly he feels a faint draught from where the wall should be.
He stretches his fingers out into that direction and they touch
the metallic surface of a grating.
"I hope those Cy-K guys short circuited the contact securing this
entry ..."
He pulls the grating from its mounting and freezes in his position
for a moment. Nothing happens. He breathes a sigh of relief and hangs
the grating onto one of the ladder's steps. Then he takes his
backpack off his shoulders and puts it into the small opening in the
wall, following it a second later.
The ventilation tube is just big enough for a small man to crawl
through. It's sides are made up of a polycarbonate-alike material
strengthened by a diagonally attached support. Alek knows that this
material won't take too much jumpy action so he moves only slowly,
balancing his weight carefully. He crawls along up to the first
branching where he stops to orientate. Suddenly he notices a
scratching noise from his left. He turns his head into the direction
where he assumes the noise to come from.
"Shit ...". About one meter away from his position there's a SecBot,
an eight-legged small robot equipped with a camera and a small laser.
A laser of this size may not be able to actually kill a human but with
the choice of directions to run to being as limited as in here, an
attack would at least cause some serious injuries to his face. He
decides to remain calm.
"Maybe it reacts on movement only"
A low whirring sound is emitted by the machine as its upper part turns
around. Alek notices a small display on the other side. It says:
"FOLLOW".
"Well, at least it's not into frying intruders ...". The robot spider
then moves through the long tubes at a remarkable speed one might not
expect from a device like that. It is followed closely by Alek.
It eventually halts in front of another opening. Alek crawls past his
small guide to take a closer look around. He finds himself in the main
ventilation shaft, a comparatively broad vertical tunnel that
stretches into both directions out of sight. Smaller tubes seem to
branch from it at regular distances. A ladder leads down. Carefully
he climbs out of the opening, holding fast to the ladder. While he
puts his backpack on again, he can watch the spider change to vertical
orientation by performing a complex looking manoeuvre with its
numerous legs. It moves the wall down at the same speed it did before
horizontally. Alek's having difficulties in keeping up with it.
Sweat is running down his forehead as he climbs the fatiguing way
down. The constant draught of warm air running through the shaft
doesn't make it easier for him. He pauses for a moment to wipe the
sweat off his face when the spider turns around to get back to him.
It tries to draw attention to itself with an urging electronic
jingling sound.
"Shut up !". Again the jingling sound. This time the display shows
a message: "QUICK". And a second later: "DANGER". He looks around.
There's faint light coming from the numerous branches that illuminate
the shaft making it a scene composed of shades of grey. Nothing
moves, there seems to be no danger - except maybe the danger of
sweating to death or the danger for small eight-legged creations of
getting kicked for sounding false alerts. Then he notices it.
A noise from above is slowly getting closer. Alek decides not to
wait any longer and starts climbing down again to catch up with the
spider. A few branches later it disappears into one of the openings.
Alek follows but it already moved out of sight. He crawls to the next
crossing when he hears the jingling again. This time it sounds even
more nervous than before. He looks toward the origin of the noise just
to see two words flashing on the spider's display: "TURN", "NOW".
He barely reached the adjoining tube when the space behind him
suddenly gets illuminated by a blinding white light. Only for a
second - then the surroundings are painted in shades of grey again.
"What the fuck was that ?"
"CAMBOT" says the display.
"Hm. Back when I still worked for the corp the plans didn't show
anything like a 'cambot' ..."
The robot spider remains silent for a little while. Then the display
lights up for a brief moment before it wanders off into the tunnel's
darkness again.
"What do you mean with 'SHITHEAD' ... ?". He follows it again.
He catches up with it at another opening. It seems to just sit there
and stare through the grating. A faint humming sound indicates that
the onboard camera is trying to get a focus on some object in the
neighbouring room. Alek looks past the robot. He can make out that the
room isn't too big. There's a man sitting at a desk typing something
into a terminal. Then a door opens and voices are heard. Two of
them, the one belongs to a woman, the other ... RON !:
"Don't worry, I'll take care of it myself", says Ron's voice.
"You'd better have it work out this time. You know how important the
matter is. If you fail again it'll be your head that rolls"
Alek bends forward to get a quick glimpse of the person talking to
Ron. He sees a tall woman with short dark hair in a completely black
dress. A closer look also reveals that she's wearing a belt to which
there is a holster attached.
Security service. The woman leaves the room. Ron then turns to the
man at the desk.
"I don't want to be disturbed by ANYONE, understood ?"
"Yes Sir !". Ron disappears through the door again.
"What now?" whispers Alek addressing his little eight-legged
companion. The display answers with a short message: "WAIT"
Few minutes later the terminal is making a beeping sound and the
secretary checks it.
"Damn, what do *they* want from me again ?". He quickly presses a
button on the keyboard and the terminal's screen disappears into the
desk. Then he raises and leaves the room, obviously annoyed by the
message. Alek waits for another moment then he pushes the grating out
of its frame. He takes a quick look at the small room before he walks
through the door to get to Ron.
The old man's room is by far bigger. The walls are covered with filing
cabinets, no windows, the whole ceiling emits a diffuse white light
that fills the room. There's a carpet on the floor showing the
corp-logo painted in white on grey. Ron is sitting at his desk in
front of a screen. The device reports with a synthetic voice:
"Connection established"
"Damn, I told you that I don't want to be ...". Ron's look meets
Alek who's still standing at the door. "Alek! How did you get ...".
He suddenly seems to be disturbed by something. He presses another
button on the screen and with a monotonous "Connection terminated"
the VidPhone folds itself into the desk.
"How ... How are you ?"
Alek ignores his remark. The vicinity of Ron's office awakens memories
in his mind. Memories of people and places. Of his former work. Then a
jingling sound from behind interrupts his thoughts. He shakes his
head, closes the door and walks over to the desk just to stand there
staring at Ron.
Then he starts to speak, slowly, with a clear and firm voice:
"I won't repeat what I tell you now so better listen closely. Your
mission analysis was trapped. I almost had my brain fried when I tried
to access it ..."
"But ...". Traces of disbelief show on Ron's faces but Alek totally
ignores his reaction.
"... what assured me in my theory of a Cors spy sitting somewhere in
this corp. THE Cors spy. I don't trust you or anybody else here any
further than I can plunge a knife in someone's chest. The fucking
bastard tried to destroy my life once and now again. I think it's time
to turn the tables."
"I could ...". Again Ron tries to regain control over ther situation
but Alek still doesn't react.
"I expect the promised support from you. You brought me into this and
now you're going to get me out of it again. Give me all the credits
you have access to right now. I also want the blubb corp's archive
encryption keys. Don't even think about not coorperating. Right now
you are being observed by another corporation's strike team. They want
to find out exactly where the cors is getting its information from.
One false move on your side and you won't live to see the next day.
Ron's trying to open his mouth to say something but then he seemed to
have changed his mind. He hesitates a moment before he reaches for one
of the drawers in his desk to take a metallic box out onto the top of
the table. He puts his finger into a small depression on the cover
of the box and with a low clicking sound it opens, revealing a
sufficiently big stack of credits.
"That's the mission reserve". Alek takes all of it.
"And now the codes !". The look on his face doesn't suggest any doubt
that he will take every measure necessary to get what he wants (except
maybe asking politely). After another moment of indecision the old man
walks over to one of the bigger filing cabinets. He puts the flat of
his hands onto the cabinet's door and with no sound at all it swings
open. Inside, the lower part is filled with data modules while the
upper one contains only a single small line of blue light. Next to it
there is a set of buttons marked with unfamiliar symbols. In quick
succession Ron enters a specific combination and the blue light moves
out of the wall a bit. He pulls it out to give it to Alek.
"Should this module ever get into the wrong hands then we will be
wiped off the face of the city. I hope you realize that you're
playing with alot of lives here!"
Alek takes a closer look at the flat piece of glass. There is a black
structure inside which resembles an old tree without leaves. A few
optical contacts are attached to its lower side. He carefully stuffs
it and the credit chips into his backpack and turns towards the door.
"Good luck!" says Ron in a low, stifled voice.
Alek halts for a moment but doesn't turn.
For a moment the emotionless look on Alek's face is replaced with a
trace of sadness.
"Yes ... maybe this time".
He leaves Ron and with him all the memories alone in the room and
proceeds into the ventilation system where the robot spider is already
waiting for him. It leads him back to the cargo elevator shaft. Alek
climbs up to the small niche with the service port to sit down
and wait for his cyko-meet. The soldier arrives only seconds later.
"You got the key?"
Alek hands over the small glass module. The Cy-K guy takes it and puts
it into some kind of scanning device. A row of green lights starts
blinking in a nervous pattern.
"How do I contact you?"
The man gives him a small card. It says "XXX - the hottest place
online". There's a matrix location on the other side.
"A fake sex hotline? That's what I call a good cover ...", says Alek
with a tone of appreciation in his voice.
"The hotline is real. It was a practicing target for our deck people
once. We've hidden a connection to our communication nodes there.
You go to the so called 'waiting room' and then you speak out
the key phrase and *tataa* - there you are with a direct link to one
of our people."
"What is the key phrase?"
"Well, we had to make sure that no one activates the link by accident.
The line is 'I got the smallest'."
For a moment there's a grin showing on the mercenaries face. Then the
key scanner's busy flashing dies away. He returns the module.
"We'll contact you as soon as we're done with the analysis. We've
cleared a way down to the metro. Not much else we can do for you right
now. You're on your own again.". The man disappears, covered by his
camo wear even before he speaks the last words. A voice from a
distance adds another final advice:
"That archive module is constantly sending out a radio signal. You'd
better get rid of it."
Alek stares at the dark space where he assumes his one hand with the
module to be. Then he unpacks his deck once again and connects it to
the service port. He pulls out a blank cable from the deck's back and
links it to the archive security module. The tree-like structure
glows brightly for a moment before it burns out, melting the circuit
to a lump of silicon. "OUCH!".
Murphy's law on destroying stolen encryption keys: if the module is
completely destroyed by a short circuit that melts it into
malfunction, you will surely make the mistake of holding it in your
hands while its temperature exceeds the hundred degrees.
He connects his neuro link to the deck one more time to write a
message to a bike shop in downtown. The sender is forged to point to
a mailbox in the Chatsubo. The message contains an order for a
*special* motorbike item.
"She should get the reply in about an hour " mutters Alek to himself.
"Hope she'll interprete it right ..."
Then he leaves the matrix and the elevator shaft, moves through the
ventilation system all the way down to the bottom. This time the
descent is longer but with the prospect of changing from defensive
to offensiv action soon he manages to overcome this last obstacle.
The long way down ends in one of the metro's janitor rooms. He
leaves the room and joins the evening crowd, heading for a
certain bike shop in downtown.
some slow people
Another little brick in the "Chatsubo Meltdown" wall
(suggestions for a better title ?)
#Level 6 in the Dungeons Of Blubb
Then he starts to speak slowly in a clear and firm voice:
"You got the key?"
"She should get it by today" mutters Alek to himself. "I hope she'll
interpret it right ..."
Then he leaves the matrix and the elevator shaft, moves through the
ventilation system all the way down to the bottom. This time the
descent is longer but with the prospect of changing from defensive
to offensiv action soon he manages to overcome this last obstacle.
The long way down ends in one of the metro's janitor rooms. He
leaves the room and joins the evening crowd, heading for a
certain bike shop in downtown.
#eof
Done by Some People
Roger Burton West
In article <SPAMcptmambo-1...@pppsj14.tld.net>
SPAMcp...@tld.net "Charleson Mambo" wrote:
> "The grey data card. I worked with a pair of cowboys not too long ago
>that just may fit the bill."
> The card contains compressed video of a mission, long term
>surveillance, matrix and physical, an AI trying to go rouge, corporate
>personel assisting, vulontarily and thralls.
>[...]
"Slow attacks. Good. Excellent, in fact. I don't think we want some
space god in a hurry to fry the other half of his brain..."
> "I can get you in touch with each if you're interested. They've each
>their specialties as you saw, patience and speed.
"How about the human angle? Blowing through ICE is all very well, but if
you've grabbed the password out of someone, it's a whole lot easier..."
>Of course if the job
>requires for them to physically travel here, they'll insist on bringing
>muscle of their own. You know, Cowboys' ussual paranoia of the meat's
>frail and transitory nature."
"Understood. Yes; I think, assuming personalities not totally
incompatible, we can work with these people. I'll get in touch with our
principal..."
She checks her palmtop once more, and apparently likes what she sees;
she takes her leave of Mambo, and heads out of the Chat, going downtown.