Alt.Cyberpunk.Chatsubo Anthology 2: "Literary Virtual Reality in a High-Tech Low-Life Hangout."

By Peter Timusk

Alt.Cyberpunk.Chatsubo Anthology 2 still a low rent hi tech literary usenet group hiding behind Charlie in the internet's back alleys.

This is the second installment of a global collective bent on making their works read by as many people as will take the time to stop for a moment.

This anthology you now hold in your hands in a collection of stories from writers all over the world connected by nothing more than usenet, email and the driving desire to make our works known to more than our small group.

There are twenty four unique stories within, written by eleven authors from around the globe. We hope you enjoy them. Maybe you will even be tempted to order a drink at the bar just don't forget your machine gun etiquette.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 21, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595799749

Peter Timusk

This anthology you now hold in your hands in a collection of stories from writers all over the world connected by nothing more than usenet, email and the driving desire to make our works known to more than our small group.

Book preview

ALT. CYBERPUNK. CHATSUBO

ANTHOLOGY 2

"Literary virtual reality in a high-tech

low-life hangout."

Edited By Peter Timusk

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Alt. Cyberpunk. Chatsubo Anthology 2

Literary virtual reality in a high-tech low-life hangout.

Copyright © 2005 by Peter Timusk

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any

means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written

permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in

critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

All brand names and product names mentioned in this book are trademarks of

their respective companies.

Each story is owned and copyright protected by its individual authors.

Please respect them by not violating these rights.

This anthology is the result of many peoples work. I would just like to thank

everyone who helped to make this happen.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-35482-5 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-79974-9 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-35482-3 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-79974-4 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgements

List of Contributors

A SLIGHTLY BETTER DAY

BLASTED ANGELS

COPYRIGHT

CRICKET

DEBUGGING ERROR

FALLING THROUGH REALITY

FUTURE PRIVATE

GRANITE

GUYANA

HEADLONG RUSH THROUGH A SCREAMING CROWD

JOE SIX

ME, AND THE FINE ART OF BETRAYAL

MOBILE WETWARE SYSTEMS (MWS)

A QUIET CONVERSATION

RUNWAYS

SAM WASN’T THERE ANYMORE

SAM

THE SILICON TRIP

THE TAKING

THICKET

TIRESIAS

TRACE

WANDERING THE WASTED LANDS

WINDSTORM

About the Author

References

Dedicated to all those who venture into the cyberspace of Usenet and particularly

alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo.

Foreword

Alt.Cyberpunk.Anthology Volume 2…still a low rent hi tech literary usenet group hiding behind a red door named Charlie in the internet’s back alleys.

This is the second installment of a global collective bent on making their works read by as many people as will take the time to stop for a moment.

The book you now hold in your hands in a collection of stories from writers all over the world connected by nothing more than usenet, email and the driving desire to make our works known to more than our small group.

Last time we did it because we could.

This time we do it because no one stopped us the first time and we took that as our cue to do it again.

And to those who said we couldn’t do it twice…we’ll ring your bell again in round three if we have to. Because if you set your mind to it, and if, you really need it done, you can do it.

If a dozen people, most of whom have never met each other, can get together and put their work fearlessly into a book of short stories that should be proof enough that all you need is Drive. And a couple of crazy fools to sit at the wheel and drive the bus around a bit.

But then, it’s the crazy ones that history remembers isn’t it?

With much thanks to the crew of alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo for the help, the insults, the encouragement and the editing we hope you enjoy this collection.

by Gordon Feiner

Acknowledgements

Cover artwork produced and donated by David Severenuk, for which the ACC Crew thanks him.

List of Contributors

1.   Snoogy/Paul Burke

2.   Ded-T/Joel Hunter Crook

3.   Ghost/Gordon Feiner

4.   C W Kelson III

5.   Mr?/Yury Khidekel

6.   Gentleman Loser/Joshua Klessig

7.   HeaDCase/Gabor Laszlo

8.   The Heretic/Marshall Motley

9.   Asaph/Rob Potter

10.   Mambo/Luis E. González Rico

11.   Pierre Anoid/Peter Timusk

A SLIGHTLY BETTER DAY

Rob Potter

The lights of New York gleamed against a harsh metallic sky. Music pulsed from the nightclubs, the people pouring out into the street. And then it was gone. Earth was cut off from the Galactic Society, and it’s major cities destroyed, all in the wink of an eye as the Quantum portals collapsed, and then exploded. People have been scavenging since then. 400 years of human scavengers.

Mark Alzred, a hunter and mercenary walked through the streets of New LA. He had the pose; he was the shit and he knew it. His gun swung freely at his hip, and his fragmentation armour fit him like a second skin. He was moving up in the world. He’d made his mark in his first job, pulling an experienced Solo’s ass out of the fire. He’d covered the whole team as they made for their AV. He knew he was the best. Maybe he just thought he was. As the tall figure swung out of the alley down the street, his senses immediately switched into overdrive. The streets cleared as the two faced off, measuring each other up. Mark’s opponent glinted in the neon lights, his armour highlighted by the sharp glare. His arm glinted, Cybernetic. He had the same posture as Mark, and the stood facing each other for what seemed like an eternity. Mark’s enemy didn’t move.

Traffic stopped on the main street of LA, where it passed through the Zone, commonly known as The Core. Passers-by waited with baited breath for the outcome of this showdown. Beads of sweat lined Alzred’s brow. Mark went for his gun. His opponent followed a fraction of a second later. Gunmetal blurred as the Hunters brought up their weapons, and a single loud retort broke the silence. No muzzle flash betrayed the identity of the winner. There was a full two seconds before Mark slumped to the floor, dead. His opponent slowly lowered his gun, replaced it inside his coat.

The unknown figure slid into The Future, an infamous bar frequented by Techs and Toughs. It had been there as long as anything, and legend had it that New LA had grown up around it. It was built in the hollowed shell of a Pre-decline hospital, the supplies long since gone. The patrons gave the newcomer the up and down as he entered, and he endured it without the slightest nervousness. Most patrons lowered their eyes to their drinks, and the man walked up to the bar. He lifted his visor to reveal cold grey eyes, lines of pain surrounding them, giving him the look of an old man. That changed when he lowered his face cover to reveal the face of a man of 20. The bartender walked slowly up to his newest customer, thinking he was only a temporary face, one of those flukes who ices a well-known Tough, purely by accident.

What can I get you mister.? the bartender inquired, at least wanting his name to add to The Futures book of the Dead. Most of these guys didn’t last the night with an entrance like that. The volumes of the Dead book lined the wall behind the bar, only slightly less prominent than the bottles of liquor.

The name is Sek Jodrell. You gonna add Alzred to the book of the Dead now or later? I want a whiskey. Straight up.

Fifteen credits. Or old republic cash if you’ve got it. What brings you into town with gear like that? You’re one of the most teched-up boys I’ve seen in recent years, the bartender smiled at the young one’s impetuosity and decided he wouldn’t last the hour. That’s when he noticed the two guys approaching from behind. Two of the local tough asses, I’ll get your drink.

The bartender walked away, his smile gleaming metal; reconstruction was often done using steel now that plastics were scarce. Steel was tougher anyway. Sek ran a full systems check for his armour. Technical readouts pulsed across the display of his goggles, displaying body temperature, repairs, and possible damage. His proximity alarms sounded at just that moment, sending him into a deep roll, away from his chair. The first of his would be attackers sliced the stool cleanly into halves. The internal database analysed their armour and weapons, specifications scrolling through the corners of his field of vision. Sek’s gun seemed to fly into his hand as the Combat Rush hit him. Adrenal pounded through his system, the world seeming to slow as his reflexes kicked into high gear. Tactical displays targeted his attackers. The gun only fired twice, two bullets impacting his first adversary directly in the chest. He fell almost soundlessly, blood seeming to hang in the air a second after the body fell. Sek turned the gun on his second foe, but fired a moment too late. The bullet caught him in his gun arm, not quite penetrating, but causing enough impact to break Sek’s arm. He kicked the gun out of the other’s hand, relying on the cold techniques of Aikido implanted in his chip slot to pull him through. His attacker dropped into an advanced Kung Fu fighting stance, reflexes only slightly slower than Sek’s own. The naiveté of Sek’s opponent amused him, his sidearm popping out it’s holster, flying into his hand. The last look on his opponent’s face was one of shock as Sek put a bullet directly into his brainpan.

Sek sat down, his armour barely restricting the flow of his movement. His entire being exuded an emotional message. Fuck with me, you die. I’m the baddest motherfucker there is, ever was, or ever will be. The clips, all four, dropped out of his R-24mk6 Advanced Assault Weapons, one at a time. First were the bullets. Liquid propelled. Teflon coated. Secondary clip held Timed stable Azide Explosives. Then the under-barrel grenades dropped. Sek run a full diagnostic scan, routing all info to his smartgoggles. Those were a Relic. He found them in the Wastes, on a CryoFrozen corpse. At least it was cryofrozen, once. Sek was a TechHunter, a wanderer and a criminal. He was called an inventor by the people.

The Earth was a wasteland, the people were ignorant. A few people still remembered the Old Way, despite four hundred years of idiocy. Office buildings and tech stores loomed like mocking giants, those in the cities cleared out years before. Out in the wastes, though, a man could find Tech. New stuff, and examples of known stuff. Sek Jodrell was well known in New Toronto as a Tech hunter. He was also known as a gunfighter. The states took more damage though. They had more shit to find here. So Sek came south. The problem in the US was competition. Scores of hunters survived by following the real hunters, stealing the tech while they slept. Mark Alzred had been one of those pseudo-hunters. Sek had been his victim. Sek, though, was well outfitted.

Sek sipped his whiskey, remembering the trip into the Wastes. When he found the Mother Load.

The rains, acidic even after four hundred years, were just beginning as Sek Jodrell rode his bike down the broken interstate. A few lights still glowed in the dark, power sources not yet broken. Grass had begun to adapt to the Solitude’s unnatural conditions. Sek cut across the Solitude, jumping the barrierwall of the interstate. His suspension whined as hydraulics compensated for impact, and he kicked the bike into a bootleg turn, heading for radio and satellite emissions located somewhere in the solitude. They’d started spontaneously, two day before, and he knew others would be along soon. He was there first, and he’d have to bypass the security and get out of there. This wasn’t exactly difficult. Sek began as a TechnoThief, hunting equipment only to help that job. He had a knack for it though, and it did pay well. When he got inside, it was the best hit of his life. The facility was new, not a Relic. A graviton-based fold portal had been constructed, and no one noticed. Unfortunately, the off-worlders weren’t in at the moment. They were Human, of course, but they were gone before the exodus, and when they closed their borders after the disaster, they’d never looked back. Or so the people thought. Sek picked his way through the compound, pocketing anything he recognized. The others broke in just as he hit the top of stairs. Which is where he saw the off-worlders, Homo Sapiens Xeno, lying dead. The bullet holes face away from the portal. Apparently not everyone was glad that Earth was still around. Alzred and his pals came in suddenly, cutting the equipment into salvageable parts. Sek, shocked, didn’t notice until it was too late. The portal winked shut, Earth’s last hope for the freedom of the stars gone. He tore his guns out, prepared to destroy those who had destroyed his treasure.

The countdown prevented that. Sek barely made it alive. Alzred had been the same. Now only he knew, and it was too late to do anything about it.

You know, if I’d had a slightly better day, he said to the barkeep, the world could’ve finally been a better place?

Everyone thinks they can change the world, pal. Stop trying.

BLASTED ANGELS

Paul Burke

From up on high the city betrayed its true nature; the swarm of movement was captivating, a glorious blur of colour and life. Perhaps the sun that beamed down on the world today, though gave no heat, really did drive away the dark elements that polluted the streets at night. Perhaps from this high vantage she was untouchable and immune to the bad things her Daddy told her about in stern lectures intended to scare her, she knew. From up on high the city could be but a dream but maybe nightmares still walked in the day?

A little further back in time…

Lucy remembers a time when everything was always dark, day or night. They had been unhappy days, unable to see her pretty dolls and toys, unable to see the pretty colours of pink and yellow and brilliant blue that coloured the walls of her bedroom. She missed being able to see Mummy and Daddy and was very scared when they were not talking; without their familiar voices in her ears she had no way to know they still existed and she was terrified that they too had been swallowed by the darkness that had stolen her eyes. She had had many nightmares in that time and not always while she was asleep.

She remembers one strange day when Mummy and Daddy had taken her for a long drive and not told her where they were going. She remembers walking through a noisy building filled with the bustle of people of all kinds; she could hear the cries of little babies and the voices of many different grown ups, acutely aware of all their different accents. It was very scary to be in such a place and not be able to see but Mummy had squeezed her hand tight and she felt a little safer.

She was taken to a quieter room, away from the loud scary people, where she had been told to lie on a bed. She lay there patiently, listening to Daddy tell her a favourite fairy tale, holding on to Mummy’s hand until she felt very sleepy and had drifted away into a peculiar sleep.

When she awoke she could see again and she had cried lots while Mummy and Daddy hugged her. She had cried all the way home while Daddy told her the incredible story of her new eyes but she hadn’t really listened. She was just happy that her new eyes could still cry tears to show Mummy and Daddy how really joyful she was to see them again.

Up high, as she is now, she considers her new eyes with awe. A casual glance down to the city below reveals a picturesque pattern like one of her paintings at school. But when she concentrates—and now Lucy is straining her eyes in a way she has never done before—when she really concentrates she can make out each individual person in perfect detail, as if they were sitting right next to her. She can read the licence plates on the passing cars, the notices in shop windows, even make out the brand of a discarded cigarette on the pavement. She likes this new ability but it is not as wonderful as simply being able to see, like that moment she had seen Mummy and Daddy again and their clothes had become damp with each other’s tears.

Little Lucy shivers for it is cold this high up, sat here perched on the edge of this great building that towers up into the clear blue sky. On her way up, during the long elevator ride, Lucy had wondered if she would be able to reach out and touch the sun when she reached the rooftop. Not that she would dare touch such a hot, fierce thing of course; but perhaps she might wait around until nightfall and see if she could take a star from the blackness of space. She could take it home and tie it above her bed like a brilliant pendant that would shine a soft light all night long so she would not have to fear the dark. Lucy thinks that stars might be cold to the touch.

A little further back in time…

Lucy remembers a cold like she had never known. She had been playing in the field that lay behind her house, one of the only grassy areas left in the city. It was dangerous to go there, so Daddy said, but she liked the feel of the grass on her skin and liked to pick the pretty yellow flowers that grow there in the summer. She liked to wear them in her hair at school. Some of her friends had never even seen a real flower!

She had seen a new type of flower that day, growing out of the branch of one of the few trees in the field; it had petals of the deepest red she had ever seen, with a bright yellow centre. She thought it would look very pretty in her strawberry blonde hair. As she began to climb the tree she remembered a story Mummy had told her about people called horticulturists—she was very proud of being able to remember such a big, complicated word—who could make anything happen with flowers and fruits. She wondered if one of these people had made the tree grow these lovely flowers.

She had climbed out towards the beautiful red and yellow flower but the branch, that had seemed very strong and very thick, was also old and brittle and it had snapped and she had fell. And she had lay there for a very long time, getting very cold as night fell, unable to move. The flower had broken free from the branch and fluttered down to lay near her but out of reach. When her Daddy had finally found her the moon was full in the sky and she felt like ice.

Little Lucy touches her back, running fingers along the cold metal that she can feel underneath her skin. Lucy is glad she has a new spine and that she can still run and walk and play with ease but sometimes she doesn’t like knowing she has such a cold object in her body. In reminds her too much of that lonely night in the field, laying there praying for