adamu
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Thanks man!
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Al held a hand over his eyes as if trying to block out the sun. “Damn, Johnny boy, put that thing away. Shee-it, son, that’s takin’ anatomically correct a mite far, don’t ya think? Anyhoo, that sure does look like a groovy way ta git the shit in, but don’t answer my question how yer gon’ keep from slaughterin’ a few dozen workin’ folk….”
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Hey Obi, is there a code or something I can use to make Italics?
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1200 Sunday, 18 March, 2077 Okinawa, Japan
White beach spread its wings to either side of Al. Foam tendrils teased at his toes, then retreated back into the limitless azure expanse. There was only one other person in sight – the Pacifico Naha Excelsior was the most expensive resort on Okinawa, priced for exclusivity. Or people that didn’t mind spending their last nuyen on a week or so of R&R.
A week – that was how long he’d been here – and still he couldn’t get the Siberian chill from his bones. Sure, he’d travelled some, but always hot places. The Chukchi had kicked his ass – or rather frozen it.
So the closest tropical paradise had been the Ryukyus, and Al had always wanted to go to Japan. He’d learned a bit of their crazy lingo watching anime and Tales, but had never been there. But after wandering around outside the resort area for a few daus, he figured he still hadn’t – this place was no more Nippon than the Virgin Islands were really a part of the UCAS. And if he wanted to speak Japanese he’d damned well have to stay here in the hotel, where the staff and guests all used the standard hyojungo speech. Which was close enough to anime for Al to get by.
One of the people he’d chatted with was the lady down the beach a ways. She wasn’t wearing anything, but for these prices folks could do what they damn well pleased. Looking at her, he’d initially figured her for mid-twenties. But after their conversation in the resort’s steakhouse, he’d decided it was closer to sixty. Money may not be able to buy love, but it could do a helluva job on youth. She was on a lounger, fingers working furiously at the air. Even when they’d spoken, she’d been working. Great multi-tasker. Boring as hell.
But then this whole place was. Plenty of booze, plenty of sun. Room was plush. Great view. He could even see the Snakehandler where it was tied up at the edge of the marina. The trid screen covered a wall, so that was nice, calling up old stuff. He’d watched the first four seasons of Mars Force Five. Great show until they’d canceled it over the CFD thing. Respect for the victims or some crap. They were making a lot more now than ever before, and no production costs for new episodes.
He’d made friends with some of the maintenance staff, and they’d let him use a shed in the facilities plant – a place filled with infrastructural realities the guests were supposed to never see. He’d spent a couple of days in there, first working on a beerchemy machine. It had come to him in a dream – what if he could turn salt water into beer? How many downtrodden lives could be improved? Somehow, the device had morphed in the making into a perpetual motion machine. Al was pretty sure he could make one, but about halfway there he got to wondering how it would affect the global economy and he’d decided to leave off for a while. Congratulated himself on his enlightened sense of the greater good.
So here he was back on the beach in his boxers and boots, brown leather jacket lying beside him. He had nothing really to do. And nowhere to go. Sure, he’d have to fly back to England to fetch Spike, but after that….
In ten months he’d be half a century old – ancient of days. He’d spent the last few years doing this silly urban mercenary thing, met some interesting people, some of whom he’d then killed. But was that really a proper vocation for the man at the center of Fate’s web? If the universe revolved around you, where should you be?
There was really only one answer – the same one he’d known since he’d left The Mountain almost three decades back. He was ready.
But was Hollywood ready for him?
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Listening with half an ear as he watched his New Orleans team lose miserably, it sounded to Al as if they’d finally settled on a plan. So he wouldn’t be going in as a bodyguard after all. Well, that pepper crap was nasty – his internal air supply and fake eyes alone wouldn’t save him from meter-long ropes of snot gushing out of his schnazz. And that wasn’t his image at all. Still, he’d hoped to be there for first crack at TT if she turned out to turn turncoat.
He pictured himself sitting on a rooftop across from the entrance, merrily taking out any Chinese thugs that managed to stagger out of Johnny’s capsicum maelstrom, and then, as his fantasy grew more vivid, a young Asian woman in a short black skirt, black hose, and white blouse was in his crosshairs and as he started to pull the trigger he realized he was about to shoot a waitress.
“Well, y’all, I’m all fer endin’ a passle o’ Tong mother fuckers, an’ I hate ta go soft on ever’one here, but my bomb threat idear din’t kill none o’ the servin’ staff, cooks, cleanin’ crew, an’ what have ya. These gangsters ain’t gon’ be eatin’ no pot luck – they gon’ be all manner o’ staff waitin’ on ’em, an’ I don’t reckon ol’ Al can abide that sorta slaughter. Not sayin’ it’s a no-go, but definitely a problem there ta solve.”
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Sorry – I am excited enough about (my small part in) this game that I’ve been fiddling too long with my opening post….so many ideas, so little time.
I will get something up in the next couple of days, if not tonight.
Also, should I still be reverse engineering a 2070 Al for a lower-power game in SF, or is that on the backburner?
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The use of the title “lady” was not lost on Al. The NIC was either being ironic, or she knew more about Triad Tanya/Tony than the rest of them did. And then she confirmed it with the reference to her own intel.
“Say there, sweetness, if you got some skinny on Tanya-baby, what say ya share the wealth, long as I’m sharin’ my beer….?”
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“Well criminy, someone’s lyin’ ta someone. Either Fu Yung’s lyin’ ta Triad Tanya, or yer victim done lied ta you, or someone lied ta him. Or good ol’ TT done good an’ lied ta us’n. An’ since ever’ damned thing we know’s based on hearsay, could be all or some o’ the above in any combination you’d care ta name. Yup, reckon I got into this to kill some Tong whoremongers, an’ jist blowin’ up the lot of ’em sounds better an’ better ta me too. Trick is, we done said we’d work with TT, so without hard evidence she’s agin’ us, reckon it’d stick in my craw ta go agin’ her. Not sayin’ I trust ‘er any further’n I could throw ‘er, an’ fixin’ ta watch her ev’ry move. I mean, we really know anything about ‘er aside from what she’s spoon-fed us?”
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“Well, your way is less work, and that ticks the most important box fer ol’ Al. Can we wait till the game’s over, though?”
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Al dispensed with the comm chatter and spoke directly to Johnny. “Neat tricks. But what makes ya think a guy like that’s gon’ go check his ride hisself, not send some lackey ta scope it?”
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Al sighed. It seemed he was doomed to make an effort.
Sure, a man had to work for a living. But they weren’t getting paid, so he’d planned on just doing the fun parts.
He voice texted his thoughts, congratulating himself on their excellence. <<Might could work.>>
Assuming it wasn’t a trap or other manipulation of Triad Tanya’s devising…..
<<From what you said ’bout this Ving cat, we gotta git ‘er ta bring ‘im in soft – tell ‘im she’s finally got ‘er sister ta go fer his little fantasy with ’em or somethin’. We use ‘er as a hostage, guy iike this’ll jist write his whore off fer dead. But could work. Alternatively, we could jist blow this Ivory Tower joint ta kingdom come. Kill ’em all, an’ if the Vingster ain’t dead, well, he won’t stay long inna smokin’ crater….Now, afore some o’ ya Nancys git yer panties inna damn twist over collateral damage or whatnot, what we do is boost a nice, windowless van, put a couple barrels o’ harmless, fertilizer-lookin’ dirt in it, splash some ammonia around inside, an’ hook up some very visible detonator apparatus, all Christmas-treed up with visible anti-tamper switches. Park the van out front an’ disable it three ways ta Sunday. Then we phone ‘er in, tell ’em we’s some radical Feminazis, don’t like the way they’s treatin’ womern. Give ’em fifteen minutes ta clear out cuz we’s goin’ Armageddon on they little clubhouse. You can bet yer bottom dollar they’ll find the van, crack it open, assess the threat, an git outta Dodge in a confused rush. An’ we’ll be waitin’….so lotsa good plans onna table. Y’all choose.>>
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<<Well, except that he certainly DO know me an’ Jan. If we come in as yer guards, does honorable Eastern manners keep ’em from offin’ us onna spot? Like, they gotta jist git ants in they pants with us there, but they’s not allowed to make a play? Either way, the “killin’ all of ’em” actually has the MOST movin’ parts, ya ask me. But I like it better. Johnny’s way is much much much smarter, but then I’d have ta git up off’n my ass, an’ it’s only half-time.>>
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Tuesday, 26 November, 2075; 1220; Storage unit under Alaska Way Viaduct, Downtown, Seattle Metroplex
After making a mental note that Triad Qu….Monarch had super-hearing powers, Al listened to the comm chatter with half an ear while watching the Urban Brawl match.
Apparently Neither-Naked-Nor-Invisible-Chick (but at least definitely a chick) wanted to go the sneaky route, but Tanya/Tony liked the bodyguard idea. Al knew which would be more fun, but to each his own.
Things were heating up on the trid screen – Al winced as a “non-lethal” round pierced the left eye of the Tombstones’ scout and turned his brain into bloody-gray scrambled eggs.
“So settled then. Good plan really – some of us infiltratin’, others provokin’. Them as wants ta be relatively safe but have ta spend the whole day plannin’ an’ preppin’ an’ other tedious nonsense, yer with Glo. Them as don’t mind walkin’ into a room filled with a few hunnerd guys wants ta kill ya long as it means ya don’t gotta do nothin’ but watch the game an’ drink beer till go-time, well, the cooler’s over there.”
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Tuesday, 26 November 2075, 1138; Storage unit under Alaska Way Viaduct, Downtown, Seattle Metroplex
Forced by her final change to wonder which was the real “her”, Al resolved then and there to stop spending so much (or any) time looking at her caboose.
Whatever its persuasion, (s)he did live life in a hurry. Al was left saying, “New Orleans Tombstones. I may live in Seattle, but…” until his voice trailed off against the closed door. He shrugged and turned on the match. “Well, there ya have it, folks. Looks like she warn’t none too fond o’ ol’ Al’s scheme, so I’ll leave it ta y’all to find somethin’ pleases ‘er.”
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Tuesday, 26 November, 11:38; Storage unit under Alaska Way viaduct, Downtown, Seattle Metroplex
Al gave a low whistle of appreciation. “Neat trick – explains how a round-eye done got in with the Tongs. An’ here I thought they’d up an’ gone all pergressive on me.” He’d just laced his boots, but now he started undoing them again. “As fer gittin’ in, well, as Fu Yung’s reppersennative, ain’t ya entitled ta bodyguards? Tell ’em that with the attempt on yer boss ya brought in outside contractors fer yer personal pertection ta ensure security. Plan’s complicated o’ course by the fact we got a price on our heads with these folk – or at least some of ’em – but wouldn’t that jist stir the pot real nice, us showin’ up as the new girl’s body detail? Someone’ll tip they hand fer sure.”
He lay back down on his cot and put his hands behind his head. “Or…whatever sorta plan suits ya. Either way, seems we ain’t movin’ till tonight, an’ the urban brawl quarterfinals’re jist gittin’ started out onna East Coast…”
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Al was having trouble keeping up. He was clever enough – probably the smartest person in the galaxy, at least by his own reckoning – but keeping score was becoming tedious. He’d been drinking beer and watching trid long enough – now he wanted to get out and do something.
“Fu Shing. Ding-a-ling. Make mine Ming. Killin’ one whoremonger’s as good as any other, I s’pose. All look the same ta me, though, so if’n I accidentally cap the wrong one, then so be it. Best keep the ones yer partial to outta the blamed firin’ line.”
At this point, Al couldn’t even remember if Jan had ever told them what he’d learned. Well, the keeb liked to play things close, and Al couldn’t blame him with this bunch of freaks and misfits. Sometimes he wished he could find just one other person in this business that was nice and normal like himself. But what Jan knew probably didn’t matter – Triad Queen seemed to have a game plan all worked out. Hell, maybe she was even the naive do-gooder she said she was. Who knew?
“So we figurin’ on a next move, or is ol’ Al takin’ a nap?”
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Dude – again, amazing.
Glad to be here!