| From: | Scott Wheelock iscottw@*****.nb.ca |
|---|---|
| Subject: | [RA:S Project] A bit o' me tale (LONG!) |
| Date: | Fri, 09 Jul 1999 14:51:10 -0300 |
probably change. But its a glimpse of the plot of my story, and Doc'
was clamouring for people to get writing, so here goes :)
This is as yet untitled. Does anyone know their Bible, or their
Greek (or Roman) mythology? Is there anything about men "railing
against the heavens," or some such stuff? It might produce or suggest
a good title for the anthology...
Anyway, here's the first part of the story (incidentally, I had a
f*ck in there, but I just replaced it with a "frag." Seems silly, but
I'll give it a try). Criticism expected, and wanted. Those not
involved with the RA:S project, feel free to comment, as the writing
itself needs criticism.
For months, Fisher had searched for a way to shrink the Arcology. He
had glared at it from every direction, perched upon roof-top after
roof-top, tried to lessen its looming bulk. Still, it sat there, a
cancerous mole on Seattle's skin, defying every attempt, and staying
massive, impenetrable. Even now, high above the Sprawl, Fisher watched
it as the plane banked, a dark mass dwarfing every neighbour. He
wondered if it would look small from space.
Turning from the window as the plane levelled out, Fisher glanced at
the occupant of the seat across the aisle. Excluding the pilot, the
two men were alone in the rented jet, all sixteen seats to themselves.
Fisher's companion was a thin ork of surprising height, and a magician.
Fisher knew this, as he knew his name, alias, preferred type of work,
and favourite meal at The Shy Giant. Fisher had worked with Peter for
nearly six years, had helped him get where he was in the Seattle's
shadows. Peter would help him.
The ork was now sitting quietly in the too-small seat, his only sign
of discomfort a minuscule curl to his lip. His bald head dully
reflected the cabin lights, and his eyes were glazed over. Fisher had
given him a chip, an audio-visual recording, and Peter was now watching
the video flash across his cybereyes, had been for twenty minutes.
Fisher knew Peter couldn't say no, not after he saw the footage. When
the ork's breathing grew faster, Fisher knew he'd reached the section
where the creature ripped the troll apart. That was a horrible scene,
but it meant Peter would see what Fisher needed him to see, in
thirty-nine seconds.
Five minutes later, the ork sat up, and looked at Fisher with horror
in his synthetic eyes.
"Jesus. It's true, isn't it?" Peter sounded like he wanted to
believe otherwise.
"Yes. Did you see where it froze? I did that on purpose, I made it
freeze there. Do you know which part I mean?" Fisher was almost out
of his seat now, leaning into the aisle. He watched Peter closely, saw
the sweat beading on his pale, pink skin.
"Yeah. I saw that." The ork got halfway out of his seat, sat back
down. "What were those things? Animals? The spidery things, they
looked metallic..." He was looking off into space now, trying to make
the images fit, just like Fisher had done. Was still doing.
"Peter, did you see the guy in the blue button-down shirt, with the
graying hair, tall guy? In the frozen frame, in the group of people.
Did you see him?" Fisher's voice was pitching higher, his hand on
Peter's forearm. The ork withdrew his arm unconciously, still staring,
but now furrowing his brow in concentration.
"If those were drones, then the buzz could be right...geez, it can't
be a true AI, that's impossible. Maybe a group of rig—"
"Frag, Peter, that's my father!" He'd cut Peter off in mid-sentence,
and after a good minute of staring at each other, slowly released his
death-clutch on the other man's upper arm. Fisher's face flushed, and
he withdrew to his seat. The plane's low rumble didn't quite cover the
ork shifting in his seat, folding his arms. Clearing his throat.
"I'm sorry, man." The words were sincere, piercing the cold of the
cabin. "I guess that's what you want to talk about."
Fisher was silent a moment, then grabbed at his composure, trying to
maintain a little professionalism. "Yes, that is correct. I will be
blunt, Peter. I need someone to go in and get him. And I will pay a
hell of a lot for it." The last he added reflexively, even though he
had dealt with Peter long enough that he knew the mage would never be
so rude as to bring up payment right away. When one was dealing with
the Arcology, though, money seemed to be the only thing that would get
runners to keep listening.
Peter said nothing, just fingered the lapel of his sport coat, looked
out the window into the blue sky. Fisher confidence slipped a notch,
and he resisted the urge to spout out a nuyen figure. Peter didn't
work that way. Fisher had known the ork to take extremely low-paying
jobs based on how worthy he viewed the cause. Until that guilty look,
that gaze out the window, Peter had been almost a sure thing.
"What about Zoe? She's your top team now, isn't she? And the
Morganstein fellow, his crew. Haven't you offered them the run?"
"Zoe is in Aztlan, and has been for four months. I am unable to get
in touch with her, and even if I could, she would not leave her job
without finishing. Morganstein lost half his team a month ago, and is
not taking runs. I offered him a sum that amounts to triple his usual
take, but he turned me down." Fisher saw Peter shake his head slowly.
"You're a good fixer, you know lots of runners. Nobody's taken you up
on this?"
"No." Fisher slumped in his seat, rubbed his eyes with the heels of
his hands. "To be honest, Peter, I've asked pretty much everyone I
usually employ. The Arcology scares them all off. They've heard the
rumours, and seen the video I showed you. If I knew any real prime
runners, maybe they'd go for this, but as it is, no-one will take this
job. I need you to do this for me." Fisher realized he was begging,
and didn't care. He'd told the truth—every runner he'd approached had
said "No," in some way or another. They had jobs already. They were
taking a break. The Arc was too much of an unknown quantity. They
wanted to, but the team out-voted them. It was too dangerous. It
wasn't enough money.
Peter turned toward him again, and opened his mouth, then closed it.
Then spoke again. "Man, where did you get this? Who was that reporter?"
"Will you do this?" Fisher was tired of this already. He only had
the plane rented for another forty minutes, and he wanted to know what
excuse Peter would use.
The ork sat quiet for a moment, then started talking, his tone
apologetic. "This is a job for more than one guy. I work alone. You
know that, you've been setting up runs for me for ages." He stopped,
as if waiting for confirmation of that fact, but Fisher just closed his
eyes. Waited. "I'm not even a combat magician. This isn't something
I can do, man. I'm sorry."
He stopped, and Fisher tried not to scream.
A minute or so went by, and he heard Peter get up, move up the aisle
toward the cabin. Fisher was glad he had the decency to show some
embarrassment, but couldn't stop the incredible hollow feeling that
sprang up again in his gut. After the door to the cockpit had opened
and closed, he allowed himself to cry. He felt the plane begin to bank
again as the pilot headed the craft back to the airport.
Through vision blurred by tears, he saw the Arcology rise into view
afresh, dark and mountainous in Seattle's Sprawl. It seemed a monster
climbing out of the Sound, threatening the city he'd grown up in, and
he hated it, hated its size, its power. The plane levelled off, and
the Arc vanished.
-Murder of One
