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It had been just over a week since the GenetoMax run and already the effects of Shere Kahn's recommendations were making themselves evident. A bit (a very little bit) more respect from the grizzled old veterans hanging out in the watering holes, news of possible jobs actually reaching me on their own. The sudden influx of money had given me some breathing room, so I could literally afford to take the time to consider and compare what opportunities made their way to me. I'd taken the piloting job for one of the city's companies. Short term contract stuff, 3 months work and then we'll see if we still need you. It wasn't glamorous but it was good money for relatively easy and safe work. It was better than most of the harebrained schemes of impatient newbies or being the patsy for some established group. Basically I remote piloted an aerial security drone shaped like a six foot long dragonfly, maybe drop some tear gas grenades on some gangs vying for turf, maybe taser a wannabe cat burglar, at the end of the day I was still nice and safe inside Security's command bunker. I also get every other weekend off. I've come to the conclusion that the real attraction of the big dangerous runs with the huge pile of money at the end if you succeed, isn't the money or the fame, it's all the days of leisure that a 7 digit payoff can buy you. Used up the morning taking care of the minutia of life: laundry, groceries, following leads to possible jobs. Most of the possibles could be dealt with over the matrix, only one two really needed a face to face. Spent halve the day going from bar to hangout to guild house; gossiping, touching base, and generally letting the shadows know that I was still in the game. A few offers and schemes that could be taken seriously but nothing in the immediate future. Took refuge from the lunch crowds returning to their cubicles in a rapidly emptying AutoMat. Sararimen hurriedly finishing their meals. Robotic kitchen behind glass. Little menu screens on the tables and counters. A sandwich of vat-grown tuna fish, root beer, and a slice of pie to top it off. In a corner a large screen pushing news and adds to a captive audience. ["New and Improved! The series 8000 joy box! Get them now at your local Pharmatronics Store!"] Looking out the plate glass, I watch the flow of the city. A squad of the local gang on patrol. The severe blue uniforms and gilded badges, showing they evolved from some security outfit from before The Troubles. ["On local news, fighting continues today between the "Most Righteous Persecutors" and the "Pinstripes" gangs of the Chicago district of the Sprawl."] A herd of identically dressed secretaries flutter by, all lace and stiletto daggers. ["A recent report from the Gens' Unified Environmental Recovery Treaty Organization reports that 13 percent of the Pre Troubles Farmland has been returned to biological usefulness, along with a 7 percent reforestation of the old deciduous forests."] Stroboscopically, through the traffic, glints a combat cyborg, all sharp edges and oil slick colors, not a local boy, that's currently fashionable only in The Lights and some parts of The Smoke. ["CephaloSlugs! The CHEWY neuropeptite candy!"] Following the borg, two MegaCorp samurai in power armor carrying huge anti-borg weapons in the open, a clear insult and threat to the borg. A little test for a Merc they're planning to hire? A hunt of somebody who promised more than they could deliver? Hey, this pie aint half bad! ["Atlantic-NeoCore Inc. reports greater than expected third quarter losses, even as they redouble their efforts to remove the alleged "Pirate Government" that they claim has illegally seized one of the Caribbean islands they claimed as war reparations following their victory over CaribTechnocticlan Ltd."] The cyborg is almost to the corner when his nerves give out and he turns and fires onboard weapons at the Samurai who respond in kind. The civilians either throw themselves to the ground or try to run to safety. The cyborg vanishes behind what's left of the corner of the building as the Samurai give chase at superhuman speed. The crowds in a panic keep trying to escape a danger that has already left, all they manage to do is to either run into the deadly traffic or stampede over those who either dropped to the ground or fell. I get up from behind the table I'd overturned, nod at the two late lunchers in business suits that were still sitting there in total shock. I look sadly at the glass in my half eaten slice of pie. I buy another slice to go, and step through the frame of the AutotMat's glass door, even as gang soldiers and meds rush onto the streets and try to clean up. copyright 1997 Charleson Mambo
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