>From: jenkins@magnus.ircc.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Ode to Joy Date: 12 Feb 91 01:07:13 GMT J.J. Faust looked in the mirror. For a moment, someone else looked back at her with ice blue eyes and wavy auburn hair. Her makeup was perfect and her dress was cut just right. She clipped a pair of mirrorshades to the belt of her dress and smiled. Tonight she would be popular. Miss Faust from Uptown. She tugged lightly at the chain around her neck and fondled the locket between her fingers. The gold felt cold but pleasant, and the locket almost shone against her skin. "A perfect luster," she whispered to herself. She grabbed her purse and coat and left her apartment, her life, and her world behind. Tonight she was someone else. - "Chatsubo," her fixer told her. "Not too far off the beaten path. Not too far for you." He hit her once during that conversation, before he told her how badly his day was going. The bruise was on her ribs, no one would see it. It was okay, she was leaving that all behind. She entered carefully, moving gracefully through to the bar. She let them soak up that before she removed her coat and took a seat, smiling generously. It was a busy night, she would have sat at a table if she found one quickly. "Bourbon," she told the bartender, folding the coat across her lap. She placed a few bills on the counter. The old man looked at her curiously. "Haven't seen you 'round here before," he said while pouring the drink. "I would've notice something pretty as you." J.J. danced inside. It had begun. This was why she came. "J.J.," she said, offering her hand. When the old man took her hand it was then that she noticed the other was plastic. His entire other arm was, in fact. This only shook her for a moment. "Ratz," he said. "I just came in to meet someone. Business." She waved a hand lazily. Ratz seemed to chuckle. "Everything's business here." He then motioned at her drink. "Call if you need another." He smirked and walked to take care of another customer. J.J. laughed out loud. Some of the other people looked at her quickly, but this only raised her spirits higher. This was her world, for now, her life... her home until the end of the night. She rubbed a nail across her pendant and smiled. - Copyright (c) 1991 Kent Jenkins - Intended for use by a.c.chatsubo patrons. Well, to a point. From: jenkins@magnus.ircc.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Ode to Joy Date: 19 Feb 91 01:00:57 GMT Ode to Joy ... She checked her watch. Five minutes, damnit, and not a single hello. Well, except from the bartender, but what kind of fresh air did he give? The man didn't like to talk at all. "You'll like it," her fixer said. "Your kind of place." Pah, they're moping. Something's wrong... J.J. Faust took a pill quickly, effortlessly, and the 'wrong' vanished. A wave of 'right' passed through her like the creeping warmth of a straight drink, not the watered-down versions that the bar served. With a single smooth motion of her hand, she tipped that drink over and the glass toppled to the floor. She gasped, acting shocked, and stood quickly, as if the broken glass would actually hurt her. "Oh, my... I..." She grabbed a few napkins and crouched low to clean the mess herself. Action fluttered about her. Mostly people trying to step around the half-drunk girl and her spill, the people who wanted to ignore her were those she wasn't interested in. Three men, however, offered their assistance and demanded her to stand. The feeling returned. Success, joy, and bliss almost overwhelmed the effects of the drug she had just taken. Her fixer threw his motto in her face when they faught: "Chilvalry ain't dead, you just gotta buy it wholesale." Yet the three men crouched on the floor did the work of a janitor not for money but for her. It was worth her fixer's angry fits. She looked the men over, chatting to each other happily as if they had been friends for a long time. When they stood, she smiled and said "thank you" like a good little girl and extened her hand, just far enough to express her intention. She had been watching - most of the people here talked to make an impression on the surface. The real talk was beneath, subtle yet far more solid than the artificial words they used. One of the men took it, a handsomely rugged man. Who knew how old he was? She guessed he was 30 or so, no face youthing or his stubble would have been more artificial. The other two men smiled falsely and wandered off, no doubt watching her for the first moment she was free. Men's egos were cruel, sometimes, but not half as subtle, or as deadly, as a woman's. "Nostalgia rings true here at the Chatsubo," she heard the deejay announce, "but from low to high, here's a more modern slammer. Chipped from the..." His voice was almost completely lost in the intro to the song screaching out from one of the on-stage holos playing a pencil axe. She smiled, almost ferrally, to the man who had her hand firmly in his. "Let's dance." The music moved through her, almost burned her with the sensation she had been feeling. Her entire body moved to the music, as both it and she were one. The man on stage was a pro, not just a chip-and-pay deejay, and the man with her moved as quickly as she did, to the moment. People had backed away from the two to watch them. Drugs, music, and freedom gave way to the perfection of the moment, and it was hers. ... They past a few tables of people who simply stared as they walked back to nab a booth before it was taken. J.J. almost glowed with excitement. "So, what's your name, stranger?" she asked idly as they took their seats across from each other. His body language said 'muscle.' He laughed at something, a rumble more than a laugh. "My friends named me 'Skeeter.'" He wouldn't tell her his real name, something she expected. "I'm J.J. You're one hell of a dancer, Skeeter." "You are too, J.J. Null static. I didn't tag you for being wired." Then was her turn to laugh, though inside she wanted to scream with glee. "I'm not." Not a single wire was inside her body. She held her pendant between two fingers. The only wire near her was the chain around her neck. He sat back, staring in either awe or amazement. "No crazies, right? Well slot me a square of ludes, you are impressive." She smiled gently, taking it all in. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Say, why don't we slit the bar and --" "You'll do no such thing." "Fuck," J.J. said aloud, and threw herself to the corner of the booth, staring with an angry sneer up at the man who had intruded. He looked like some sort of street doc throwback. A long scar lead from his eye to his neck and he stood lop-sided with the support of a cane. Everything else was pretty well covered by straight-collared trenchcoat, gloves, and what appeared to be infrared goggles. The phrase 'You'll do no such thing' marked him her contact. "Hey, drugbody, the lady and I were --" "No," J.J. interrupted. She had reservations but didn't really want to see a fight. "Skeeter, meet Father Jim." She really didn't know the man's name, but she was thrown from party to think in twenty nanoseconds. "Please have a seat, Father." The stranger attempted three times before there was a metallic crack and his right knee jerked out. "Old thing," he explained as he sat next to J.J. Skeeter looked accusingly at her. "Father?" His eyes said, 'I want an explanation for this.' "Father Jim, from the Southside Mormons," she said with a weak smile. "He keeps an eye on me, you know?" "Sometimes," the false Father said in a raspy voice, "she gets kinda crazy." She what? J.J. stuttered, "D-do you mind if I meet you later, Skeeter? I've gotta talk to the Father about something, since he's here. Maybe we can pick up where we left off." "Yeah," he said disbelievingly, standing up from the booth. "Maybe. Slot ya later, chick." When he was out of earshot, J.J. exploded. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she hissed. "You're twenty minutes late, you look like a goddamned squatter, and you ruin my private party." "I saved your worthless neck, girl," he said in the raspy, half-wild voice. "That man was on the over." "What?" "Doesn't your fixer teach his go-gets anymore? A trigger-for-higher. He's a hit-man." "So?" she sneered. "You might be killed soon just for being seen with him." "Oh, big drecking deal. Maybe I want to die, you ever consider that? Who made you my father, anyway?" J.J. realized what she had asked and lapsed into silence. Father Jim pulled a thin envelope from inside his jacket and put it on the table. "For a flash- getter, you don't wear a lot of jewelry." "Yeah," she muttered, searching through her purse, "well maybe I don't like jewelry. Too gaudy. Gimmie something classy any day." "Like that pendant?" He didn't move to point at it and didn't seem to look at it. J.J. began to notice that her contact did not move much at all. "Yeah, 'like that pendant.'" She put a box on the table and swiped the envelope. "You got something against simplicity?" He smiled thinly and looked at her from behind the goggles. "No," he carefully said, "but for a wageslave at a jewel store, you don't wear much of your wares." Her contact stood, his right knee clicking into place, and walked away. The small box was gone. "Hey!" she shouted. "Who the hell are you?!" How did he know where she worked? How did he even know who she was? "Oh... shit." J.J. Faust slumped back, defeated, in the empty booth. It wasn't worth going after him. She looked desperate and at the disadvantage, which made her vulnerable. She learned to live with that and the things that people did to people who were vulnerable. Well, J.J. thought as she frowned into the dancing crowd, they could think what they wanted. She knew she wasn't weak, and that was enough. She was never weak. Never. "What does it take to get some service around here?" she said loudly to no one. For the first time in six months, she waited for something to happen. ... Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins From: jenkins@magnus.ircc.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Ode to Joy Summary: Jump in anytime! Ode to Joy ... The bar danced to a modern beat, the sounds of numerous instruments sliding together as the man on the stage banged out chords and riffs on three keyboards simultaniously. Rock and roll had a certain beat, but this song had five. In slang, it was called "Funkpunk". J.J. Faust was dejected and insulted and just the very slightest bit scared. Her contact, gone for five minutes at the least, knew who she was. He had supposedly saved her from a man she was getting to know, like she slotting asked the bastard to, and then left her alone in the booth. For the first time in six months, she waited for something to happen... ...and nothing did. In a bar filled with people interested in enjoying themselves, nothing happened. "Serves you fucking right, bitch," she muttered to herself as she stood. Her contact, who she named Father Jim, was probably chipping some idiotic "pretend you're James Bond" persona chips. She bought his stories and let it unnerve her. She checked her chrono, it was almost one in the morning. She would be getting to sleep early tonight. J.J. made her way through the surging crowd over to the bar, smiling sweetly at men who looked her way, and sat. "Whisky," she said to the empty air. "Neat." "Ain't that a little much for a little sweet?" The bartender, Ratz, appeared before her. His plastic arm whined quietly behind the multiple beats of the music. She smiled. It sounded like he meant what he said. "No, not at all. Something I just need to calm myself a little." Ratz poured her the whisky but looked at her, almost studying her, before he set it down. "No, you don't look well." She shook her head and held the drink in her hands. "I don't feel bad, I'm just so frustra --" She cut herself short. In seconds, she felt herself chill and feel ill. "Miss?" That tone. That tone she was using reminded her of something, something she didn't want to remember. Something about herself and about the past. It didn't seem to make any sense, to be scared about herself, but she was. And she was frightened because she could not remember, some fist of mind-numbing paralysis preventing her from even knowing what it was that scared her. What is it, part of her mind screamed at the block, tell me! Mentally, she was trying to beat the answer out of herself, and something in her mind laughed back. Something in her mind had answered. "-- probably drugged off her senses. Goddamned pity what some girls will do nowadays for fun." J.J., fealing cold and clammy, looked around like a frightened animal, collecting her senses. The bartender was elsewhere, the music had stopped, and two men next to her were watching her slack-jawed expression with disinterested pity. Her chrono read two twenty-five, her mind read confusion. "I- I have to go," she said quietly to herself, and she headed toward the door, hoping that no one was watching her go. At least one person was. He had been watching her since she came into the Chatsubo all top-of-the-world and looking for trouble. To Father Jim it was simply clear: The J.J. Faust who entered that evening was not the same J.J. Faust who left. He looked across the table and nodded to a young street punk. "Follow, Wasp. I have things to do." ... There was no sky that night, no moon or stars or ripples of texture from the colorful downtown lights. And, in one woman's mind, there was no J.J. Faust. Lost in her own thoughts, she wandered along the street, the monorail station her ultimate goal. She tried not to think, her mind filled with white-noise caused by fear. The world around her became as nothing as the world within. She almost missed the monorail stop. There were people there, several wirepunks and squatters with nothing better to do, and a pair of rent-a-cops talking to each other over a thermos of coffee. Many of them turned to look at her. She just wanted them to go away. A wirepunk boarded the monorail when she did, there was nothing she could do about it. He glanced in her direction a few times, grinning every time she noticed him. Someone should do something about punks like that, she thought. The punk left the same station she did, she had no question as to why. The security was as lax at this station as the last. Someone had to do something. Only five blocks to her apartment and she did not know when the wirepunk was planning on striking. Footsteps came closer as she walked past the other buildings. Strong hands grabbed her on the shoulders, jolting her to a stop. Her fear flashed into anger as she was forced around. ... Wasp inspected the small river of blood that snaked out of the nearby alleyway. Light levels reorganized themselves as his eyes adjusted to the little light. A body sprawled on the pavement, a man with his skull obviously collapsed. A dim spot on a nearby wall revealed the weapon. He shuddered, glad he could not make out any color. He had watched from a distance as the woman was dragged into the alleyway, but his eyes could not readjust to the near-black alley. He began to move towards it when she left and continued her way down the street, proud as ever. Wasp headed toward the nearest phone. Someone had to be told. ... Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - for intent of readers and other writers, this may be used with caution. Have fun. From: jenkins@magnus.ircc.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Ode to Joy Date: 25 Mar 91 00:39:15 GMT Ode to Joy ... The blood came off easily, just warm water and a little soap. J.J. had easily told the man at the front desk that she was returning from a costume party, which he believed and let her return to her apartment. Someone had to take care of the punk, J.J. told herself as she washed the dies from her hair. He was gritty and hardly dressed for the part... though he did notice her. He was not worth being raped over, and that was that. What J.J. was thinking and imagining became blurred and confused, everything running together like whitenoise over music. Surely she was imagining that she had just killed someone. There was no blood, no body, nothing to convince her otherwise. She might have also imagined the bar, the man she danced with, and her frightening contact. It made sense to her that it wasn't real, part of something else, so when she later went to sleep nothing bothered her. She slept well. The ringing phone woke her up. It normally beeped gently when she bothered to activate the programming, but the apartment knew she was asleep. J.J. never tried to figure out how it knew these things, leaving it up to the proggers and netrunners. She reached from beneath linen. When she found the phone she pulled it to her face. "Allo?" she asked weakly. "Hello, little girl. I've got a special for you." At the voice of her fixer, J.J. cringed and sneered. "What's your problem, Don? It's...." The chrono read 2:14pm and her words died in her throat. "Look, can't I get some sleep?" She wasn't even tired, but did not want to deal with her fixer. "Sleep? It's still the weekend, girl, and business is fine. I thought you might be interested in this one, though. It's a request for some interesting stuff to be shipped over to a familiar place: Chatsubo. You remember that, don't you?" She remembered the name, but not much about it. "Yeah," she answered. She tried to remember. Dancing. "Good. This time around, though, you get to keep some. It's a nice sedative. Happy-Go-'Round." Dancing. A man in goggles. "I can't," J.J. insisted. "I have too much to do today. It should have been done last night." "Not even for a free piece of the action?" Don's voice was soothing and corrupt. Monorail. A forceful man. Death. "I... can't..." J.J. slammed the phone back down on its cradle, rubbing her neck with a shaking hand. Her skin was cold and damp, feeling of death. Dead. The realization had finally come to her: she had killed a man last night. She wanted to forget again, but couldn't. His face, wide-eyed with terror, appeared almost lovely to her now, framed by straight pale blonde hair. He was almost sixteen and really didn't want much, only to be noticed and accepted. J.J. Faust had her head cradled between her knees. She was crying. She just wanted to forget. ... Bleary-eyed and exhausted, J.J. looked up at the chrono in her kitchen. Midnight, God what an awful time to be awake. Coffee was brewing, though she didn't have enough will to take any drugs. She didn't want to feel any better about anything. 'Ten hours,' she told herself. It took ten hours to forget that face, or at least to blur it. 'Of course, I had forgotten and /I/ wanted to remember. It was my fault. Everything. I ruined what was so simple.' The coffee tasted good. It was something to think about instead of herself, her failure, a dead boy and her ruined safety from it all. Don promised her some salvation, though. Not very much and not for very long, but it was something she could hold in her mind and understand. The phone beeped quietly and J.J.'s heart lept. Was it her fixer, or someone else? She didn't want to talk to him, but she wanted to know if it was him. It was important. She let it ring five times. The answering program connected with the phone and J.J. heard her own voice from the phone speaker. "Hello, you have reached the apartment of J.J. Faust..." ... "...I'm not here right now, but if you would please leave your name and number with this program, it will try to help you as much as possible." The voice on the other end of the phone was calm, professional, and completely sane. Definitely not the same woman that Wasp had seen last night, either in the bar or afterwards. He hung up the phone at the beep. He was told to talk to this Miss Faust personally, not a telephone. He was told to somehow invite her to a wiz-rich gathering, some sort of frenchy dance party. Wasp didn't know why he was doing all this footwork for a cybercripple. The old man didn't pay very well, at least not yet, but had suddenly taken an interest in this Faust. Wasp supposed that he had, too. It took an odd kind of insanity to kill a man and leisurely walk away, one that Wasp had seen many times in many people, but never in a sub-executive drug-carrier. The old man had told him a lot about the woman, what she did and how much she was payed, but it was time he did a little research of his own. ... Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins, use only with forewarning From: jenkins@magnus.ircc.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Ode to Joy Date: 15 Apr 91 05:57:27 GMT [Wow! People all seem to post at once around here, like clockwork every other week there's a two-day spurge. Just an on-handed remark, do ignore me.] ... Ode to Joy ... J.J. Faust was bothered by everything through the day. The shower program wasn't working, work was too tedious, her co-workers were too nosy. At one point, she found herself shouting at one of the other gemologists. The vision of the boy was still in her head. She had slept fitfully for the few hours before she had to get ready for the commute to work. Police were around the alleyway where she killed him, searching for fingerprints that weren't on file and traces of drugs that were not there. It was a nice neighborhood and murder, any murder, was looked after. She managed to pull together enough effort to walk by as anyone would - suspicious but uninvolved. Riding the monorail, she thought about the other wirepunks the boy was with, the way they were laughing and enjoying themselves. She wondered if she killed a good friend or a leader. Terrified, she realized that she really didn't care. She didn't care and she hated being weak enough to think, even for a moment, that she did. "Good morning, J.J." She smiled at the man through a mask of courtosy and went into the office building. She recognized him, but somehow the name slipped her grasp. It didn't matter much, though. The building was short and thin, only ten stories. The jewelry store was, of course, on the first floor. A small but formidable chain, run by the best for the job. Jeron and White Jewlers. Managed by Lin Yomoto. Local designer, J.J. Faust. She was not truely a designer, but knew almost as much about design as she did about the jewelry. By title, she was a Gemologist. There were others in the store, but J.J. was the best and highest paid. Most of the day was a blur of layouts and precise construction; her mind was not on the job, but her hands were. She sketched up something in the time she had between jewelry. It was a monstrosity "Curious Jane." A necklace with a single tear-shaped gem, dark blue amythyst, surrounded by a silver lattice that would, she noted, be chain linked and flexable and easily large enough to lock someone's heart. Or overcome it. It was a beautiful peice, or could have been with some detailed work, but when she looked at her chrono lunch was over. The paper fell into the trash and she got back to work. ... The workday ended at last. There were still a few items left undone, but J.J. shoved them all into a "To Do" folder and assured herself she would get back to them. She found an envelope when she got home, on the floor in the foyer, obviously slipped under the door. Her name was written in an elaborate, maybe even hand-written calligraphy. "J.J. A. Faust." The envelope was a stiff paper, or maybe what inside was. With a single fingernail she tore it open and pulled out the invitation. It had to be an invitation, for nothing else she had ever seen before had so much flowery script. Missus J.J. A. Faust is cordially invited to join Mr. and Mrs. Gregory White this Tuesday next for a formal gathering added with Olde French venue. J.J. stared at the card. Mr. and Mrs. White? Mr. White was her boss' boss' boss (a man she jokingly called her Great Grandboss), the man ultimately the entire chain of jewelry stores worked for. Who he worked for she could only guess, but she didn't really care. Still, a letter. Not a fax, not e-mail, an honest-to-God letter delivered by human hands. As a young girl, J.J. received hand-written letters from Grandmother, living in Germanic state that wasn't quite so war-torn. It was really a Francish state at the time, but her Grandmother kept to old ways. The letters must have cost a fortune to send from Cochem to New York through some old postal service, but Grandmother wouldn't have it any other way. In the last letter J.J. ever received from her, Grandmother told her why she wrote by hand and delivered. "In the time when many things happen, in times of war and technology and strife, we must remember who we are or we will loose ourselves to our own ambitions." The chain of J.J.'s pendant chaffed her neck and she felt cold and hot. She scratched the area and her eyes focused back upon the card she was holding. The invitation was a complete surprise to her. Still, that was tomorrow night. She had all of tonight left to her and her alone. She had a murder to forget. ... Blue and silver tint added to the natural brown in her hair made her look like some joygirl, but J.J. fussed and braided and, eventually, came up with a style she liked. One braid was thick and silver, like some cybernetic attachment. Streaks of blue lead to the other, much thinner and smaller, which wrapped around her left ear. Chrome blue lipstick and a pale base made her look like some dead who refused to stop striving. J.J. smiled at that girl in the mirror and was returned a ferral clown's grin. That wasn't right, she thought. The girl was alien to J.J.'s eyes. Except for the old pendant she wore, the girl was a stranger in the apartment. This isn't right, she thought again. Sure it is. It's right. It's just for fun, just for tonight. And then, in the morning, I go to work without any consequence... because that, the girl in the mirror, isn't really me. The girl smiled again and left the apartment, leaving J.J. Faust somewhere far behind. ... Wasp yawned and sat in the pouring rain, huddled in a slick that wouldn't last a month. He didn't know why he bothered, the slick was just as wet inside as it was out. "You've got to get a car, boyo," he muttered to himself. From the alleyway he could see the front of the apartment building plainly and had been watching people walk in and out all evening. Plenty of cops, corps, rezzies, pretend-I'm-sanes, and a few reporters. None of them had been J.J. Faust. This was what his boss called "Stage Two" of the plan. The man, who had taken the name Father Jim, worried Wasp. He was crazed and brilliant both, and the old coot knew. That he had a plan, and that it involved this woman, didn't comfort Wasp any. But money was money, and the Father was paying well for Wasp. Well enough that he could get a car. "What the --" Scooping up a pair of electri-binocs, Wasp watched as a woman dressed in metalics and makeup walked out of the building. At first he thought it was some joygirl who didn't make it past the front desk, but then he saw the patterns on her face and hair were careful and stylish. And under them both was J.J. Faust. "Shit, that woman's crazy," he said as he stood. She was carrying a heavy- fabric "metal" umbrella, but wasn't wearing much more than a longcoat and a pendant. Here, in the middle of winter, that was this side of stupid. He almost went over and offered her a ride on his cycle. Don't get involved, he said to himself. Don't get involved. The only thing stupider than walking through the rain like that is to get involved with a psychotic woman. Or was she psychopathic? Shit, did it matter? He quickly remembered the many psychotic women he had been with in the past, and the many wounds he gathered and sometimes enjoyed from it. But he was told to simply follow her and keep her alive. That's all. "Knowing this woman," Wasp said to himself, "that'll be harder than it seems." He followed and watched J.J. walk toward the monorail station. What a fucking crazy bitch. ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - use with permission, but you knew that.] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Ode to Joy Date: 2 May 91 18:49:04 GMT Ode to Joy ... The tie was too tight, if one could call it a tie. Something kind of like a silk bandana threatened Wasp with suffocation, and he couldn't figure how to loosen it with the pin stuck in it. The pants and shoes were equally too tight. The only thing that he couldn't complain about was the jacket and overcoat, mostly because the kevlar lining that would doubtlessly protect him if anything happened. The plan, what there was of it, was the creation of Father Jim. Each time the plan took another step, Wasp was more impressed with the man's creativity and connections. The clothes, the equipment, and even the invitation was all provided by him. And the money. Greg White, Wasp discovered to his interest, knew very well that J.J. was on the list. Whether Father Jim knew the host or his boss, Wasp never got the chance to find out. There was only so many people he himself knew, and only so much time between watching over J.J. and researching other items of interest. Wasp was at the ball with the assumed name of Brent Gianno. An Italian name. Dirty blonde and oval-faced, Wasp hardly looked Italian. The only thing he assumed about it was that Father Jim must have been off his neuroware to give it to him. Then again, the man usually was. To Wasp, the ball was boring. Some sort of meet-and-be-rich type of party, he wondered what the real reason was about. Drugs? Mafia? Yakuza? Creative tax evasion? In fact, there were a lot of other questions that he could neither find out on his own nor from the multi-knowledgable Father. How was security arranged? What was the floorplan of the house? Why was J.J. really there? But security was tight all around and Father Jim wouldn't tell him. Even though he had a right to know. The house was beautiful, though. Wasp had an eye for art and culture, even though he spent most of his time with the dredge and druggies of the street. It was fashioned to... whatever time period it was supposed to be fashioned to. It had columns frilled at the top, porches that stretched for meters, spiraling staircases with rod iron railings, and its share of short balconies. And the entire place was white, with the exceptions of the modern holisculptures and laser art that were placed here and there, casting color where it was needed and leaving the rest a gasping naked white. Greg White knows his shit, thought Wasp. Harsh high tech paired with flowing classic art should not have worked together. The Harsh and Soft should have torn the feel of the house into something haphazard. The mixture was rare and inspired. Wasp was on the edge with it. He studied the mixture carefully as he wandered about most the first floor. Guards, and there were many of them, prevented him from wandering too far. But of course. But he watched J.J. like a hawk. He kept a red targeting triangle on his retinal display hovering wherever she was. It was about halfway into the night when he looked over to see whom was coming in so late... and almost called out angrily, "What the hell are you doing here?" But the answer was obvious; to meet, again, J.J. Faust. He looked absolutely nothing like himself, but Wasp knew his mannerisms well enough to recognize the man. Father Jim. Perhaps it was his street cyber-throwback which was the disguise, or perhaps it was what the Father had become that evening. A dapper, glittering gentleman who was clean, groomed, and everything worked from his vat-grown left hand (which usually had a tic) to his decrepid cyberleg construct. He did have a pair of dark Soyari cybersunglasses on, though. Wasp understood that Father Jim's skull had fractured in several places and his eyes were completely irreplaceable. Wasp imagined the Father Jim he knew with combed, clean hair and a working body and some supposedly 'olde french-style' suit. The man was the same but not as old as Wasp first thought. Father Jim walked almost directly up to J.J., who was looking elsewhere, happily talking with a few other people. "That man is crazier than I thought," Wasp muttered in amazement. After all he told the chipped fool he wanted to go after her. She could have lost herself at any moment and they both knew it. Wasp honestly didn't think Father Jim would do this. Wasp heard the introductions in french and had no idea what the Father was calling himself, but neither did he know what J.J. was calling herself. J.J. had four classes of college French and Father Jim was probably chipped, leaving Wasp completely out of the conversation. "Old fart," he muttered, drinking some wine. "Old clever fart." Wasp never realized the state he was in. His ears burning, nearly gulping wine... had he been watching himself from a distance he would have decided that he was very angry... or insanely jealous. ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - use with permission, but you knew that.] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Ode to Joy Date: 7 May 91 06:58:19 GMT Ode to Joy ... Monsieur Chas Douchot, much to J.J.'s pleasant surprise, spoke impeccable French. She could hardly keep up with him as they talked. He was surprising in other ways, as well. His dress and mannerism was careful and graceful and although his voice was dry, it was full of simple honesty. He wasn't very handsome in the modern sense of the word, but he acted handsome just as J.J. sometimes acted beautiful. She introduced herself as Josephine Faust, discarding the rest of her full name to make herself more eloquent. She responded in French to impress the man. He complimented her on it. Her heart began to race, warmth spread out to her shoulders. She recognized it immediately and, like it was a drug she was addicted to, she fell headlong into it. They talked about the party (it was boring, they both agreed), about the weather and if the rain would let up anytime soon, and then they started talking about jewelry. She shouldn't have been surprised, Mr. White did run the stores she worked for, but it made her a little uncomfortable. She shrugged it off with a sip of a sparking wine. After glancing quickly to one side, J.J. saw a man glaring at her for an instant then he quickly turned away. "Would you not agree that the jewelry of the French Renaissance inspired more of the modern-day pieces than any other period?" Chas Douchot asked her in French. "What?" She faced him, again. "Oh, yes." She didn't, but something was bothering her and she needed a little more time to think it over. She smiled politely and asked in English, "Could we speak normally for a while? I'm afraid it has been quite a while and my head is buzzing with trying to translate." Chas nodded once, very gently. "Of course." He had almost no accent. "But I am quite interested with French jewelry. Your pendant, for instance. French?" She looked down at it and held the chain between her fingers, feeling the cool gold against her skin. It really wasn't anything fancy, just a very simple pendant. "Yes," she said quietly. "I think it is." "French Revolution?" She looked up at Chas sharply, still holding the pendant. She looked at him with harsh eyes, but she keep her voice calm. "I don't know. But it's old, yes." Chas stopped before he spoke again and looked at her. "You look pale, Josephine. Perhaps we should move to the window?" J.J. relaxed. "Yes, please." She had overreacted for no reason and now the conversation would return to normal. "Why are you wearing the sunglasses here at night?" He answered as they slowly walked into small alcove a little separate from the main ball. "A near fatal accident, I'm afraid. It was rather gruesome and I'm sure you wouldn't want to hear the details of it." His dry voice sounded filled with emotion and tone for a moment, but it was simply the way he said it and nothing more. J.J. smiled and looked up at him with wide eyes. "Please? My life is so dull, sometimes. Nothing bad ever happens to me." She said it with such ease even she believed it. The tall man looked at her a moment from behind black lenses. He opened the window and stared out. J.J. saw briefly that he carried a wide knife under his jacket. She regretted asking, having under-estimated the man. "I belonged to a company, then." He paused, unmoving. "We were re-taking a plot of land that held some company goods in bunkers, going in to get the information out. We had panzers and goggle relays and some archaic computer link equipment and one man who could use it. We rose over a hill and they hit us with an ultraviolet flood. Burnt my eyes clear out, and most of my face. Company hardly had enough money so I got goggles instead of eyes. Camera lenses. The media used to use 'em all the time." J.J. found herself standing as still as he was, completely absorbed in his tale and staring up at his face, seamless and strong-jawed. Chas moved, breaking the spell. J.J. felt very self-conscious and cleared her throat, looking outside into the overcast night. "But tell me, Miss Faust," he said, "where did you get that incredible pendant of yours?" She blushed. "This? Oh, a friend." "He must have been quite special." What was he insinuating? "No. Not really. Just a friend." There was a pause, most likely filled with deep thought by both of them. He probably wanted to know more about the pendant. Don't tell, something told her. "His wife died," she said. "He gave it to me. It reminded him of her." Her. Her, the arrogant bitch. The woman had too many gems, too many trinkets. Never always enough room. She was too rich, thought too much. She deserved to die. "Really?" Chas rubbed his chin. "It is a wonder, considering how old it is. Do you know where she got it?" >From a drugged-up fence in Chicago. Fool never gave it to his girl, never gave anything to his girl. He should have died, too, but was too dumb. J.J. breathed heavily, deeply. Her shoulders and neck burnt hot, the blood rushing on the way to her face. "No," she snapped. "Why do you keep asking me these questions?" Chas smiled. "I'm a collector of sorts. Of fine things. And you, Miss Faust, are one of the finest women I have ever met." The collector beamed contentness. He thought he was oh-too-fucking-brilliant. Lock me up, darkness. Kill to get out, to move on. The torment was too much. No. No, not again. "No," she hissed. She looked up at Monsieur Chas Douchot but saw someone else in his place. He was old and covered in wires. His face was scarred in many places. Over his eyes were heavy goggles and his hands were metal chassis, the left hand had a twitch. He wanted something. Her. Her pendant. "No," she said louder, and reached like lightning under his jacket and pulled out his long knife. Chas started to protest. "Jos --" "Not again!" she shouted, taking both hands on the handle and shoving the blade into his neck. Blood splattered onto her as she pulled the knife out the first time. It felt good, the warmth of life against her skin. She watched as Chas convulsed, throwing himself against the wall and then falling halfway out the window. It's so good to do to someone instead of having it done to you. "I will not let it happen again!" Filled with joy, J.J. Faust used the knife again and again. ... Wasp stood, half-drunk, and stared. The action took less than three seconds and left him completely stunned. She shouldn't have done that. The wirepunk with intent to rape her, maybe, but J.J. Faust did not kill for a pendant. "Oh my God," Wasp whispered to himself. "Or did she?" There had been a flash of blinding light earlier which came from the window. Many of the guests were still stunned or out from the effects. A microcomputer in Wasp's cybernetic eyes had compensated immediately, but J.J. was gone. He ran to the window after his discovery and saw a flexi-ladder dangling there, a flash-flood attached to it, pointing conveniently at the window. Above, an aircar hovered, its turbofan whining in protest of the strain. A man stuck his head out the driver's side and called out. "Hey, you! Where's the boss?" "Taking a breather," Wasp called back. "Return to base, I'll talk to you later!" He looked out over the grounds and saw nothing, no one. Not even a guard. The alarms hadn't been sounded yet and Wasp took the advantage to leave before they were. He didn't know where he was going, but J.J. was in trouble with herself and needed help. Wasp knew he wasn't the right kind of help, but maybe he could find out what was going on. "Gods," he said to no one while he ran into the night, "what I wouldn't give to know what's going on." ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - use with permission, but you knew that.] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Ode to Joy Date: 28 May 91 04:39:54 GMT [I'm really sorry about what happened with the last Ode to Joy. In my opinion, it sucked flaky neurons. I am going to be re-writing parts of it so people whom are actually keeping a nice and neat, ordered archive <cough, cough!> can come and bug me about it. It should take about a week. On with the show.] ... Ode to Joy ... Out. Run. Free. J.J. Faust felt... nothing. Not the pavement against her feet, not the knife in her hand, and not the cold, wet air that would bring ice by morning, maybe rain before. She felt no pain or sorrow for the man she just murdered, she hardly remembered his face. What she felt was passion. Be free, she told herself. Run. Out, yes. Out of the city and away from these people. They want to close her in, stop her from existing. Never again. Freedom, she knew, was basic and sacred. She would fight to the death... no, fight to the end before being forced to give it up. But there were times when you had to volunteer to give up some of that freedom for survival. For food you must work, and for work you must be under the command of someone. No. No, you could be under the command of yourself. Your own protector, your own survivor. Depend on no one but yourself. The thought came as a leap of intuition, she found her heart racing at the possibility. It would be the truest freedom of all, to kneel to no one! The feeling lasted only a moment. True freedom would go against the only society she accepted, the one that gave her the ability to have her freedom. To take advantage of it would be wrong. The country had done so much to assure that she would be as much of a person as everyone else. It was up to her to make her own living, she knew this when she aimed at gemology. She knew it when she wanted to further into jewelry design. It was up to her to make of life what was given to her. Exactly. If they offer, then take. In college, J.J. took everything they offered. The information, the resources, as many classes as she could. She took and prospered from it. She had a good job and a good life, she liked both and always had. She took the invitation offered to her, she took opportunities given and avoided dieing at some punk's hands, she even took those chances with Don and his info-and-drug runs. She took what was given. So the greed was not bad, she decided. Not evil, but natural. It couldn't be evil. She had used it, she could use it again. She would take her freedom from the men and women who held the last shards of it. She would be her own boss, her own worker, her own self. And she would start away from anyone who would want to stop her. Away. And she ran. ... Wasp panted as he leaned against a nearby wall, the ferroconcrete pressed coarse against his hand leaving chaotic dimples in his palm. He had been jogging for fifteen minutes and prayed mercifully to no one particular that it wouldn't start to rain. The familiar blue-and-red strobe of a police cruiser was up ahead and Wasp took the opportunity to rest and observe. The strobes caused a visual stutter across his eyesight, leaving phantoms of the lights anywhere he looked. It made optic target systems near useless. This was, of course, their intent. One cop was walking about discretely, obviously trying hard to look in control of the situation while keeping the growing crowd away. Wasp often wondered if it was part of their psychological training, police drugs, or just the attitude of police everywhere. The other was talking on the radio. Nodding, talking some more, nodding. After a minute, Wasp knew something was different about this incident. With the hundreds of code-phrases that they could use this one cop was sure taking his time. A whine came out of the background noise of the late-night city and white/red strobes flashed off chromed windows far down the street. The truth was too obvious now. Someone was murdered, not simply wounded or the cops would be in more of a rush. Something was wrong with this one. Wasp pushed into the crowd that was forming as the ambunaught pulled up and two parameds jumped out to take a look, gear in hand. It was hard to hear the conversation with the crowd talking and gossiping among themselves, but he did catch fragments. "...too late. God, look at that..." "...people these days. A knife wound is enough, but..." Wasp, his face filled with disbelief, backed up out of the crowd. He knew who the murderer was and couldn't help running. Running fast and hard. Running in fear. ... Run. Free. Out. She wasn't just J.J. Faust, anymore. She knew that. She was something more, something better, and something completely her own. She was Josephine Julianne Arman Faust, a woman filled with joy at the bliss she discovered, the power and freedom she had. All she had to do was take. The blood didn't bother her. She knew what it was, a symbol of a life that was hers. She learned from a class in mythologies of a religion that believed in death was life, and in life was death, that everything was only a circle of events which was prompted by change. She was that change. Josepehine Julianne could not stop. She didn't want to. A small whisper of a thought echoed in her head. "Yes, be free. Be free." Her body began to protest. Slowly it began to gnaw on the edge of her mind, but soon it was a sharp presence in her thoughts. It cried out for rest. She screamed in her mind. Screamed at it to keep going. Screamed louder and longer as her body protested more and more. It would not, could no go on. She had to listen to it and knew she was still trapped. She loathed herself for it. She loathed and screamed at herself all the way into the darkness of sleep. ... Wasp found the next body before the police did, allowing him a moment to examine the area himself, trying to keep his stomach in check. The woman's head was almost severed from her body at the throat through repetitive stabs with, Wasp guessed, a Militech military survival knife. On large animals (and most metals), the knife would have been sufficient, but it worked too well on the small woman lieing in her own blood with a terrified, twisted look on her face. Wasp stumbled and leaned against a Newsnet terminal, trying to catch his breath. The lamp attached to the terminal shone the area brightly and there was only so much he could take. Wasp closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then opened his eyes... there! Something sparkled out of the corner of his eye, something sitting on the edge of the blood. He reached over and picked up a sapphire, about half a centimeter across. He initiated his optic targeting and found three more in the same area, then two more still strung together. It had once been a necklace, expensive but simple. Just a string of sapphires and perhaps the odd diamond. Simple but expensive. But how old? A week? A month? Fifty years old? As old as the French Revolution? The fear gripped Wasp, again, pulling his thoughts together into a single coherent thought. Fear did that for him. It was his tool, causing him not to run away but to run closer and work better. He had known fear even before his new eyes were installed and knew it drove him to the Edge with the money and the power and the prestige. Fear and hunger drove him to the dead Father Jim, and now fear drove him on to J.J. Fear and something more. He found two more women dead by J.J.'s hand, and scattered jewelry around the bodies. "Why?" he kept asking himself, on the verge of a fantastical answer. "The women, the jewelry, J.J. Faust, the knife, Father Jim...." How did they tie together? ... Josephine opened her eyes carefully. Her head throbbed a night of dangerous drug and drink mixes as her eyes tried to adapt to the odd lighting that virtually danced about her. It was bright and dark, her eyes felt blinded by light but could see no light. Several seconds revealed a dim and dirty light in the midst of complete dark and cold. She was in an alleyway somewhere, sitting up against a decrepid plastic dumpster and staring forward. Forward into the eyes of another woman. Bright green, almost irradecent with tiny flakes of amber-gold. Wilkmann Greenie-Genies. Josephine, herself, owned a pair of the expensive color-tacs. Panic held Josephine locked to those eyes. Not her own panic, but the panic of the green-eyed woman. It was an overwhelming panic, a terror that tried to rip deep down into Josephine's soul. There was a warning in those eyes. A warning of hideous death, cruelty on the level of mankind, but much more absolute. The woman's face was twisted with the same root terror and the same warning. Little splatters of blood dotted her delicate cheekbones and contrasted beautifly her pale skin. Josephine gasped and pressed herself backwards, scrambling to leave the alley, but she could no more stand than she could keep herself breathing normally. The green-eyed woman was dead, covered in so much blood that whatever she may have been wearing was now in deep red tatters. There was so much blood that the woman was perfectly white. There was so much blood... so much.... Josephine saw the wound like a gaping chasm. She saw it, every last nuance of it in a brief second. She saw where the skin and muscle ripped away, where the windpipe was draining the last dribbling bits of the jugular vein, where the spine had been cracked or torn. In an instant, she saw it, and even though she turned her head and squeezed her eyes tightly closed, she could still see it in her mind. Free, a voice in her head whispered. You did that, and you can do that when you are free. Yes, you Josephine Julianne Arman Faust. You did that because you are free. "No," she whimpered, tears starting to well to her eyes. "No." Yes. You are Josephine Julianne -- "No I am NOT!" She stood and shouted upwards, a river of tears blocking her vision. "I am J.J. Faust! I /am/ J.J. Faust! Who are you?!" Josephine... She screeched, "/I/ am J.J. Faust! Only I!" Julianne... "Show yourself!" Arman... "I demand it! I... I am free! You MUST tell me who you are!" Silence. Her words echoed and quickly faded from the alley. Then the quiet voice, again. Thoughts in her own mind. I am you. ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - use with permission, but you knew that.] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Ode to Joy Date: 2 Jun 91 07:09:45 GMT [Okay, folks, tell me if this is quite insane enough, yet, or if I should push the 'Twilight Zone' lever just a little bit further.] ... Ode To Joy ... J.J. Faust, or what was left of her, couldn't scream, though she tried. She sobbed pitifully to herself, about herself, and curled up in the trash next to the dumpster. It was cold, she noticed as the wind bit her face. Something wet curled around her ankle and she assumed it was the blood. I did that, she thought while choking on quiet sobs. The image of the dead woman was still clear in her mind. Me. Freedom. God, why did I listen to myself? She didn't smile, but felt the tears push back. It was a funny question, though. True, perhaps, but obviusly funny in a twisted way. Her situation, itself, seemed surreal, like something out of one of those soap-operas she always got caught up in. A woman, psychotic with drugs and music, goes out and kills her date and a woman she met only once. Our hero, wherever the hell he may be, comes along in the nick of time and prevents her from jumping into the freezing bay. Wait, she thought. The woman she met once. The woman with the green eyes. Memories danced and clouded about her when she tried to place the face. She determined to be rational about this when she was so close to completely loosing herself, but even the recent memory of the woman's gouged body hid her face. The eyes shone through, though, clear as a pair of emeralds. Emeralds. The necklace that lay between J.J. and the other body was broken, but not badly. Emeralds and small diamonds dotted a broken mesh that held something in the center, something large and clear that stared into J.J.'s eyes as clearly as she stared at it. Designed by Mario Toran of White Jewlers. Cost two million dollars. Seven were made. Three by his hand, four by jewlers in four other stores. Named "The Perfect Alien" for reasons J.J. never understood. Nothing was perfect. She named hers "The Alien's Fault." The center diamond was flawed, but on the necklace it looked like an alien eye. The designer was paid most of the commission for that sale, but the true interpretation was hers. And it was lieing there, broken, not more than a meter away. She had poured her heart into it, making the stone work just right, though Toran demanded to buy another. White, she heard, was strapped for money on this design as it was. She had saved the company money. In her heart, and her mind, the necklace was her design, as well. A whisper brushed through her thoughts. No. J.J. stood, quickly and defensively, forgetting about much the world around her. There was fear in that thought, and it was not her own. "Yes," she said tenitively. "That was mine. I would never destroy something of my own." Free. "I don't know who you are, but you're not me." She looked about cautiously, expecting someone to step out of the shadows. Free, the thought whispered again, a little stronger. "I am free." Heat rose through her cheeks and shoulders. "You've been using me." She said it, and she heard herself say it. She had been used, and she wasn't afraid anymore. Her mind had been violated, her life had been violated, and now her only creation had been violated. "How DARE you?" She spat the words in haste to say them. "Who the hell are you to go screwing about with MY life? And in hiding. Show yourself!" She screamed again. "Show yourself!" Nothing. The wind blew hollow whistling through some of the empty shells that were buildings, somewhere in the distance a siren wailed through the city, and there was some distant gunfight, barely audible. Outside the alleyway, no one spoke. No one moved from above, no one showed themselves. She realized how alone she truely was, in that moment. But inside herself, in her thoughts, was a single alien thought. It sounded like a child lost, crying out one word: help. Help. Over and over again, like a ghost in her mind. Help. A child-ghost, wanting only survival. Help. It was defenseless, now. J.J. must have known what it was and it knew how J.J. could help. Help. "Help?" she asked. The grip of compassion confused her, the sudden hits of reality about her and the voice in her mind spun her around, looking for a solution. Help. But there was no other solution. She did not know enough. The voice had to go. NO! "No!" J.J. gasped. She could feel it, cold and hard, biting into her neck like a garotte or a guilotine... or a knife. Terror, clearly her own, rang through her mind. Terror, ancient and alien, building for five hundred years, ripped through her soul. She never heard herself scream. ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - use with permission, but you knew that.] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Ode to Joy - Author's Note Date: 12 Jun 91 16:11:13 GMT When I started wirting Ode to Joy, it was based on an idea I had for a Twilight Zone set in the modern day. A woman is slowly posessed by a necklace without even realizing it. Even though her behaviour is a lot off, she is, to herself, perfectly normal. She gets the hints here and there and slowly, slowly peices it together. Every writer, or at least every reasonable writer, knows that what he, she, or it writes reflects the way they feel. Well, I certainly didn't think I felt violent or unnatural. But I get mono without realizing it. No illness, no pain, a little tired but no other signs. I need some 8-12 hours of sleep where I once needed 6-8. Then it slowly sets in, and I slowly, slowly peice together the problem from fatigue and occasional fits of voilence, which had never been there but didn't seem too unusual to me, at the time. The similarities, J.J.'s necklace to my mono, are close to its own Twilight Zone irony. I only realized a week ago about this, and had already finished the outline for the last Ode to Joy. (In fact, the last Ode to Joy was written first.) But my mono is receeding, will hopefully be gone by the end of a month, and life goes on. Both myself and J.J. have to live with what we have unwittingly done. And we are both changed by the experiences, perhaps for the better. Me, I'm not going anywhere. I'll still be here, writing away. Whether it will be with J.J. Faust and Wasp is up in the air. Yay or nay, it's up to you. But please, PLEASE explain your reason. Not forcing. It is, after all, /your/ life. [Don't you hate hidden morals? ;)] ... [Kent Jenkins is Copyright(c) 1991 by FASA Corp, which explains all the typos.] From amethyst!noao!asuvax!cs.utexas.edu!usc!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu!jenkins Thu Jun 20 11:39:08 MST 1991 Article 464 of alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo: Path: amethyst!noao!asuvax!cs.utexas.edu!usc!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu!jenkins >From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo Subject: Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Summary: Sheeeeeee's baaaaaaack... Message-ID: <1991Jun20.042919.20464@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu> Date: 20 Jun 91 04:29:19 GMT Sender: news@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu Organization: The Ohio State University, sorta. Lines: 128 Nntp-Posting-Host: bottom.magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu Well, I got three (count 'em, THREE) favorable responces. This is good enough for me. But hey, if you're just reading and there's something that you like or don't like in ANY of these stories, for God's sake, //LET THEM KNOW!// We now return you to your regularly scheduled psychopath. ... Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance ... Wasp looked at his watch. God, it was hard to imagine that he owned something so... expensive. He stared at the dull silver luster for a time, imagining that it was all a dream. He completely forgot to check what time it was. The car's voice spoke in soothing tones. "We are cleared for liftoff, Mister Rednix." The turbines hummed steadily under the chassis. Wasp pressed gently on the throttle... and flew. The navigation screen advised him of the course to take, the height to fly at, and even once warned him of possible collision with a small flock of sparrows. If anything was sucked into the turbine intake, he would fall some five hundred meters to his death. The watch, he thought with a laugh, would probably be fine. He landed, carefully, on the top of a low parking garage. He was seven stories above the ground and feet from the closest building. The experience of flight left him giddy, but glad it was over. His contact was standing there next to a long, sleek sportscar which looked like a Porshe to Wasp, but so did most sports cars to him. Porsches were almost everywhere the rich were. "A fad," he muttered to himself. Another man was with his contact. Tall and thick, he had to be hired muscle. Typical, but understandable considering the unusual request for the meeting. Wasp stepped out of the car and stood straight. Some six meters separated him and his contact. "Nice night, isn't it?" Wasp called out. The man frowned. "Yes," he said. Wasp thought he sounded disappointed. "It is a shame about Major Rednix." Simply a statement, that. Wasp nodded, trying to look solemn. "It is. He was... a man of our times." A line he once heard in a movie. "And trying times they are, that we have to meet in secret. Rednix did explain to you our agreement?" A question. Wasp froze. The meet was called by the contact, Wasp was playing blind. A dangerous game, like poker with armed players. "An Uzi beats four aces," he muttered. "Somewhat," Wasp then said aloud. "There are secrets that even I did not know." Many, he failed to add. Most. Wasp was bluffing a flush, and didn't want to boast four aces. He couldn't afford it since he came unarmed. "What do you know?" "Enough." There was a pause. Wasp felt his own fear in that pause. "Then..." the contact said, painfully drawing out the sentence, "we need... fresh kill. Tonight." The words stuck in Wasp's mind. 'Fresh kill.' Flashes of women with bloody dresses and torn throats edged into his thoughts. Or did the man mean animal? Wasp had to remind himself to breath as the rest of his mind tried not to go into shock. "That..." Wasp stuttered as he thought, "might prove... difficult. The night is pretty late for something proper." He couldn't believe he was suggesting what he was. "We understand your situation, but our own situation draws us to this need. We will pay full, though you are inexperienced, because of the time limit we have placed upon you." Wasp eyed the bodyguard carefully for a moment, guessing his armament. "Bet he has a submachine or better," he muttered. "I'm afraid that's out of the question," he called out to them. "I am inexperienced and it would be rather foolish if I took on such an expedition without more time." The contact seemed to clench his teeth. "Then make the time." "I'd love to, but I can't. Have to run." Wasp slipped into the car at the same moment his contact raised a hand. He didn't know whether it was to signal Wasp or the contact's bodyguard. He didn't wait to find out. The contact didn't drop his hand. There was no gunfire. Wasp left quickly and quietly with the bad, bad feeling he would be hearing from that man again. ... "Fresh kill," Wasp muttered as he typed the words into the small computer. The computer was once Father Jim's, like almost everything Wasp was surrounded with recently. The car, the computer, the watch, the business. All thanks to a mysterious woman named J.J. Faust. J.J. was an enigma to Wasp. A woman who was clearly psychotic and yet completely content with herself, a trait of sanity. Wasp knew insanity from his years on the streets and underground, dealing with people who lived the edge between the two. J.J. killed Father Jim. She killed one of New York's underground contacts. She killed Wasp's boss. And she went back to her life like nothing had happened, working a nine-to-five job at a well-to-do jewelry store. Just like that. Not even Wasp's old girlfriends were that over the edge. She killed five other people, besides, but they meant nothing to him. All horrible throat injuries, all rich women, but he never stopped to think about them. First she killed Father Jim. Wasp closed the directory he devoted to her and went back to the main directory. Password:_ Father Jim's information, all his tricks and all his blacklisting was under that password. And all his little secrets. The words "fresh kill" kept coming to mind. ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - You really want to use these people?] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Date: 29 Jun 91 18:32:51 GMT Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance ... J.J. Faust was a woman of little means, of little substance, and of little effort. She lived in her safe little world of work and home, venturing forth only to survive. Merely surviving, she was not really alive. She was not strong enough to do more than survive, the poor weak mind that lived in that body. She could only follow orders of others, do what she was told. Once, she had the chance to be free. The pure and total Freedom that some people seek yet never reach. The total Freedom of action, without guilt or shame. But she tossed her chance, like a weak and frightened animal. She tossed it into the waters of the harbor and -- Stop it, J.J. told herself violently. Her wandering thoughts usually kept themselves in the background of her mind, influencing her emotions through certain words and pictures. It had been a week since it had gotten so bad that those thoughts were in the front... her thoughts. She hoped they would go away when she threw the pendant into the water. The thing that the jewelry had somehow become was perverse and evil, causing J.J. to do things she never imagined herself doing. Going out to bars dressed like a fashionable hooker, stealing her company's jewelry, or... The inhalent felt like a sudden burst of clean, cool air to her system. Her thoughts went numb, her emotions went numb. A safe level of apathy set in and J.J. became mildly complacent. Five deaths from her hands meant little to her. Liquid Lobotomy, best the streets could offer for a few moments of absolute normality. But nothing, she thought with uncaring acceptance, will be normal again, girl. Nothing. And she continued working. ... J.J. knew when the drug wore off, as it was a quite sudden shock to her system, unlike many drugs she had taken before. The warning was a moment of absolute panic, one that she had learned to control. She felt phobia and fear clench her body into a psychosomatic trauma for an instant, and then it let go. Each time was painful, and to most people would have been the most painful moment of their lives, Hell in Just One Second. But J.J. had already seen Hell... in herself. If someone asked her, however, she would only shrug and tell them it's like PMS crammed into one little second. It was worse, but she didn't want to let anyone know. Only a few people knew what the drug was, anyway. Her answering machine beeped when she came home that evening. "How many?" she said, talking at it as she hung up her coat. "Four," the program told her in the soft, asexual voice that all her household programs had. The stock option; it was cheaper. Four? Who didn't know she was at work? "Play," she said, and walked over to the open kitchen, thinking more of dinner now than of the phone calls. The mundane matters that had taken over the last two weeks of her life were like gifts from God. The machine beeped. "J.J., you flaming bitch!" The words were harsh and thrown at her. She stopped and looked for a moment of horror at the machine. "Changing your phone number ain't gonna do SPIT for you, girl! I know where you live, and either you call me back or I'm gonna trash everything. Your apartment, your life, and then you. You hear me, girl? You hear me?!" J.J. just stood there, startled. Her heart raced and her breathing was shallow and quick. Fear rose in her, causing her to tremble like some small animal. It took the space between the messages for her composure to be regained, though she was still shaken by the threats. The machine beeped again. "J.J.? Look, hon, I'm sorry about that. I really am. But I, like, get worried about you, you know? You never call, I don't see you at the normal hangout spots, and then you go and change your phone number. If it's about the adrenal-theta shipment you dropped, I said I was sorry. Just give me a call, okay?" Don... fixed things up for J.J. He gave her all sorts of drugs and hot bar info, and in exchange she did things for him. Most of them involved carrying things to people in exchange for money or some sort of info. But then she dropped the pendant and then dropped him, destroying thousands of dollars of goods against her wall. She could still see the stains if she stood in the right place. The machine beeped again. There was a pause, a few seconds, and then a dial tone. The fourth message was cryptic an scared her even more than the first. The voice was young and sounded a little nervous, the way people talk when on-edge. "Look, J.J. I know who you are and I've known for a long time. We're going to meet someday, but I don't think you're ready for it. I don't know what 'zactly happened with you, but I was at the White's mansion on the fourteenth. I'm not going to call the cops" - a short chuckle - "but there might be others who will. You'll know me when you meet me." She almost reached for her Liquid Lobotomy but caught herself. She never considered Don to be a problem, just hot air scared easily by uniform. But she didn't know the last caller's voice. "TV," she said in a dazed voice, staring at the nothing in front of her eyes. "Channel twenty. I need something to deaden these nerves a little." The neuvo-punk the televid started spewing was oddly comforting to J.J., the threefold beat wrapped its way into her thoughts. It didn't matter what the words were, or that the guitars were out of tune. The music was real, it was now. ... When, in later days, I stared at walls, Thinking not of you But of the things that happened in the halls, I found your way was true. If words could bruise a man's own soul, Let the words fly true. A man of music can more than sing, So sing be black and blue. ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - Use with permission at own risk.] [Song? What song? Oh, THAT song. It's something I do in my spare ] [time. And it's mine, damnit. Mine! Mine! All mine! So there! ] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Date: 8 Jul 91 06:08:45 GMT Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance ... Dark. Empty. No one to call friend, nowhere to call home. Alone. Alone. Alone. ... J.J. Faust looked at the message and stared. Her heart raced and fear widened in her, the familiar draw to a relaxant she used to take pushing that fear further, the confused set of thought and possibilities pushing it further still. "Hey, J.J., you okay?" She looked up from the terminal into the face of McPhee, then tenitively looked away. She had yelled at him a few weeks ago for no good reason and felt badly about it still. "Yeah," she managed to mumble, discovering how dry her mouth had become. "Uh, yeah. I'm fine. I just need a drink of water." She got up to get one, forgetting about the monitor. McPhee looked cautiously at the message displayed on the screen. [Inter-Company Memo - From Main Office - Jeron & White Jewelers] Miss Faust - I have many things I wish to discuss and I would be honored by your presence at lunch today, 11 o'clock, at the Downtown Markee'. - Gregory White ... J.J. almost left New York right then, on her way to get some water. Mr. White doubtlessly had enough proof that she had killed one of his guests and might have enough suspicion to finger her for the missing jewelry. But she stopped herself. She would never be free if she refused to face up to her own actions. She would not give up her own honor just to survive another day. The Markee' was a high-classed French restaurant that was geared for the working upper class. The food was in small but delicious portions, cooked both fresh and fast, and very expensive. J.J. had never formally met Gregory White, though upon seeing him she remembered him in a haze that was the evening of his french ball. A round, slightly balding man with a stern look which easily turned into a smile to the people who spoke with him. "E-excuse me?" she said upon walking up to his table. "Ahha! There you are." He smiled grandly and spoke with a light southern accent. "You're five minutes late, but that never stopped no one's stomach before. Have a seat." His friendliness caught J.J. off guard, a little. Certainly this wasn't a man who was about to blackmail her or turn her in, was it? She relaxed a little, but kept up her guard. Most of all, though, she sat. "You look as frightened as a church mouse," Mr. White said in an almost bland baritone. "Relax. I own a jewelry store, not a guilotine. Now, do you mind if I call you J.J.?" She nodded, then shook her head. "Please do," she said at last. "Good." He leaned forward as if to tell her some terrible secret. "I, myself, hate formalities. Dreadful things. Kinda like visitin' your aunt for a while and having to be so nice to the old hag. You can call me Gregory." Some meaning came through to J.J. through the random sentences. "Uh... thank you... Gregory." She looked at a seat and sat in it rather mechanically. "That's a bit better. You really should relax, though. Do you know what ya want to eat?" She shook her head, again mechanically as she faught the paralyzing fear. The fear was not as much Gregory White blackmailing her as it was her acting like a shy ten year-old in front of her grandboss. Which she was successfully doing, anyway. Even her thoughts were jumbled. Gregory ordered for the both of them, including a glass of white wine for J.J. He had been drinking a scotch or a bourbon or something, she couldn't tell. Her smell, like most of her other senses, had refused to work for the time. After he ordered, and the wine came, Gregory waited for J.J. to take a tenitive sip before he spoke again. "My, you are a flighty one. But I can't say I blame you, with me calling you in on spur-of-the-moment to talk to you 'bout who-knows-what. I don't like putting things off, either, but what I have to say to you...." The pause was short. "You, Miss Faust, are an enigma." J.J. felt like running again, but stayed her ground. The reassurance of self- control calmed her a little. "For all the world I wouldn't have known you were in my employ unless someone finally pointed you out to me," Gregory said. He pulled his briefcase onto the chair next to him and filed through it, eventually retrieving several papers. He set them in front of her. The sketch on the top page, smeared a little from the wrinkles in the page, was a jewelry design, a complex net-necklace that would look like a gentle spiderweb when the silver and diamonds were placed together. On the page were the words "Curious Jane," the name of the piece. "Do you recognize them?" Gregory White asked as she stared at the top page. J.J. looked at the second. "Gore." The third. "Night Beyond Tomorrow." The last. "Freedom." She felt like crying in joy. "Freedom" was the sketch she made months ago, before the pendant came into her possession. Now it somehow came back to her after. Nodding, she carefully placed the papers back on the table. "They're mine," she said in a dry whisper. In a thought, she looked at Gregory and said, "How did you find them?" "That's not exactly all that important, J.J.," he said. "What is important is I showed 'em to a few of the designers and we all agree that you're good. Not the best, but a damned sight better than lots out there. Now, if we put you under the caring wing of a designer who knew the system back and forth, you'll probably make a damn good addition to the team." It was all still trying to make sense. Team? Design? "Don'cha get it, missy? I'm tryin' to say that you're getting a promotion. Assistant designer. Well, for now at least." J.J. smiled, lightly at first, almost dreamily. "Fresh blood," Gregory said, smiling at her. "That's what this company needs. Fresh blood." Yes. Fresh blood. J.J. felt almost reborn. She would be that blood, that new factor. She could finally get away from the things that reminded her of the pendant, and it started with the necklace she named "Freedom." Finally, she would be free of the pendant. ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - The fun has just begun... again...] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Date: 18 Jul 91 04:42:49 GMT Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance ... It was a Eurosolo, or that's what they were calling them. Americans would just as likely call them "hit men", but Europe meant Style, and there was always style in the name. So it was a Eurosolo who did Major Rednix in, or so was the word on the street. A slick, wired bitch with titanium-edged knife and top-mark stealth. Who hired her was anyone's guess, but the money was mounting and the kids were already out sniffing for clues, hunting for the bounty that didn't exist. Wasp was still alive because he never believed the word on the street, not unless he knew the truth. He knew the truth, all right, and it wasn't the Word. He knew the Major's killer was a low-level jewelry designer named J.J. Faust. Worker, go-fer, drug addict, murderer. The Major knew what was wrong with J.J., and he was trying to take her because of it. It must have been something very special, something the Major couldn't buy or swindle out of one of his many contacts. And he died with all the secrets. The damn fool had contacts in the Pentagon and in the upper structure of IBM and Sony. He had his fingerprints all over the government and army and in dark corners of the streets that Wasp wasn't stupid enough to tread. But that was Wasp the gang kid, young, naive. He had to be Wasp the fixer... but he still felt young and naive. He looked at everything he knew, time and time again, but couldn't come up with the solution. What was so special about J.J. Faust? Wasp picked up the phone, Major Rednix's phone, and dialed. He'd have someone tell him what the woman was up to, the way he had for the Major. ... Gregory White looked nervous, his eyes wide and face pale. It was a result of the gas lingering in the air, he knew, but he didn't like it. Already he was at high-risk of heart attacks without this idiotic gas playing with his medications. To have his body and emotions toyed with by someone's sick idea of a drug made him uneasy. "He's dead," he said into the haze. The room's light diffused in the mix of drugs and plain theatre smoke, making the shape at the other end a blurred silhouette. White, again, knew what he looked like, but the man liked to play his game of secrecy, of ultimate power. "Good," came the reassuring reply. It wasn't the voice of a madman, but of an average man having an average conversation about average things. "Was it fresh, Greg?" White nodded. "Yes. It was. Within minutes." The conversation revolted him. "Great! I was rather put off the last time, but this more than makes up for it. That's about all I need right now, Greg. I'll join you with the others when I'm done with this damn paperwork." White stood there for a moment, thinking. Not about any one thing, but about many. His wife, his son, the Yankees, wine, his employees... "Yes? Is there something else?" His employees. His wife. "We have a new employee. J.J. Faust." "Okay. Bring her in." Wines. Fishing. "She's with the jewelry company." "Ah." He sounded a little disappointed. "Well, maybe I'll get to meet her some other time." On his way out, Gregory White could not help wondering if J.J. had any family of her own. ... After the first day, Wasp knew something was wrong. His snoop had gone missing without pay, which was damn near a scream of danger. He wanted to send someone else out, but knew that people would start staying away if too many snoops up and died on him. Wasp made a brave decision and he told Mazda to stuff it. "A failing company, anyway," he muttered after slamming down the phone. Not only did this completely free him of three days, but of countless dollars as well. Nice as Mazda's offer was, getting anything from Transrail Europe was going to be far more work and money than it deserved. J.J. Faust was home and alone on this particular Friday night. Wasp arrived early so to catch her leaving for the bar scene. Wasp had heard from Don himself that J.J. was no longer working info-go-girl, but he hardly expected to see party girl J.J. Faust staring at the television wearing a grey sweatshirt and jeans when she could be out with the crowd. At a nearby payphone, Wasp dialed a few numbers and waited. A click. "Hello?" The woman's voice sounded tired, almost flat. "Yeah, J.J.? It's me, Mike." "Mike?" Was that fear, too? "Yeah. Mike Farrell. You know, from the Chat." "The what?" Confusion? Wasp started doubting he knew J.J. Faust at all. "Chat. Chatsubo. You know, out on Haven Mill Road?" There was a pause. Wasp felt like a complete fucking idiot, confused as all get out and misinformed by his own eyes. This was not the murderer J.J. This was someone else. His suspicions about her insanity felt more and more confirmed. "The dancer?" she said at last. "Yeah," Wasp lied. When're given a lead, no matter how far from the truth, Wasp would run with it. J.J. sighed in relief. "Mike, it's good to actually hear from you." She liked this man, Wasp noticed. "Yeah, well, I sort of... missed you down here, you know? I --" A brief pop of air and the phone shattered. Wasp threw himself away from the phone, a mental daemon reactively flipped on the optic targeting. Five possible targets, green circles, appeared before him. Two were moving toward him, the other probably stationary objects the chipware couldn't cipher out. "Stay right there, bright boy," one of the men said. They were both huge, almost carbon copies of each other. Tall, wide, barrel-chested, they had almost identical guns... long, wide barrels.... "Not moving anywhere. Just using the phone," Wasp said innocently, looking up. "Yeah," said the first, the other simply stared. "Look, this is a warning, kay? You leave Faust alone and we leave your head alone, kay?" "Uh... kay." Wasp nodded frantically. The two men walked almost directly away from Wasp, streetsmart quiet. "Shit," he said. "Bodyguards." One of them looked over his shoulder and spat. The face of a man who didn't care. The face of the street. ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - They're all my own twisted creations.] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Date: 22 Jul 91 06:51:17 GMT Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance ... Her dream. Her own dream, this was, working as a designer of jewelry. Deep in the age of information, where paper meant little and privacy smaller still, J.J. Faust was overwhelmed to be working with the one thing that could never be spoiled by the times. It wasn't easy by far, the changes she had to make and the provisions there were to do, but she was ready. As God as her witness, after her last ordeal this would work. It was one of those few moments when she found hope in what she had become, the suicidal social-grabbing bitch. There was light in the strength it gave her. The determination might not have been hers, but she saw and experienced it and could act on it. Nothing could stop her. She first met the man she had long admired, if not put in suspect from time to time. Mario Toran had designed many things that J.J. had, herself, put together, sometimes several of them. Unknowingly, it was by her hand that some of his designs were altered to meet the personality of each stone, to give each one a unique existence. It was her job, to do what no CAD/CAM program could. Not even the SmartCADs could replace intuition and emotion. Mario was a short Mexican, a centimeter or two shorter than J.J. herself. His eyes were infused with a dreamy madness, perpetually out of focus and never centered on any one thing. In the pale florecent light of the hallway, his olive skin looked almost a sickly green. He tugged at his wire-bristled hair as he studied J.J., his eyes giving her the idea that he was staring at her. "Do you know," he suddenly said, loudly barking each word, "how much older than you I am?" His accent made the words even harsher. "Uh..." Other people in the hallway began to stare. "No." "Mmmm? I'm forty. Forty. You are twenty-six. Youngshit!" She stared back at him, unsure what to do. "They are crazed. Crazed. You know so much about design? You call those tire markings design?" Yes, she thought. Then she snapped back, "Yes!" It felt good, but she quieted back down, conscious of the people staring at them. "Look, if I'm no good, then why am I working under you? You have no choice?" Mario frowned, pulling at a corner of his moustache. "Maybe I do." He was quieter, but the punch was still in his voice. "Maybe you actually worth some shit if I tell you how to do, eh?" He pulled a door open. "Come, we start now." No, it wasn't easy. She worked for a week on "Night Beyond Tomorrow." It was simple, involved a number of sapphires and silver, and looked to J.J. as a project that would never end. Sometimes she would wander the hallways, looking into half-open doors and nodding to people. She was never properly introduced to people, but they knew who she was. "New kid," one said. She was probably Mario's age, but she looked almost sixty. Especially around her eyes, something that was a common mark to these people. Their eyes, whether wild or calm, always had the same dark hollow to them. J.J. would have to be careful. "Jay somethin', right?" The woman had a mixed accent from all over the area. Bronx, Manhattan, and the like. It was becoming more popular among the whispers of the streets, but up here in the skyscraper J.J. thought she wouldn't hear it. "J.J.", she said, somewhat dumbly. She held out her hand as an offer, but it wasn't taken and shook like it was supposed to be. "Yer uptight, darlin'. Aren't ya?" J.J. nodded and looked at the worn carpet. "I'm terribly shy," she said. The woman laughed. "Look, I'm Suz." The u was long, making it sound like 'Sooz'. "You can call me 'Sue' or 'Susan' if ya want, but I don't much take for it." J.J. shrugged. "I'm just J.J." She felt uncomfortable repeating herself. "Well, J.J., welcome to the folds. Can't say as I've seen one as young as you come in. Do you take stims?" J.J. looked up at the old eyes, fighting an urge to say 'yes.' "Didn't think so. Ya look like a fawn when you do that, though. Nice and innocent." Suz paused a moment before she took a cigarette out of her pocket and lit it. It was some sort of inhaled stimulant, expensive but legal, like caffine in drinks or tobacco in cigarettes. Taxes kept them from everyone's doorstep, or they tried. "There's once a story I heard," Suz said amidst J.J.'s silence, "'bout this creature called a Unicorn. It's like a horse 'cept it's got this twisty horn coming outta it's skull, 'bout here." She pointed to the center her forehead. J.J. took a mythology course in college and knew, but she let her elder continue. "It's a pure thing, but since good an' bad are so hard ta tell apart, ya don't know what it's doin'. 'Course they tell ya it's good an' always will be good. "So anyways, this Unicorn's got an opposite. Vampire, one of the things kids aspire to down there." She motioned toward a window, the stimerette smoke weaving a warped pattern through the air. "Drinks blood. Pure evil. Least, that's what they tell ya, 'gain. Some stories go that vamps, hell, they love things deeper than us here mortals ever could. Same goes for Unicorns. I can't tell the damn difference. "But I'll be tellin' this to ya, J.J." Suz leaned forward an pointed at her with two fingers clenching the stimerette. "Good or bad, they both go for the same thing. Innocents." Suz leaned back again, resting her knees against a paper-cluttered desk. She looked out of the window at a graying winter sky. "You be careful here, Jay. We all got a past. You, me, everyone. Don't wanna see yours get the better of ya." She took a long drag from the stim. "One of us gotta be innocent when the Unicorn comes." ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - You're quite welcome to comment, though.] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Date: 5 Mar 92 21:46:17 GMT Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance ... [Last we knew, and it was a long, long time since I posted anything, J.J. Faust had been promoted shortly after killing someone at one of her boss' party. Sound suspicious? Yeah, that's what I thought. She's a jewelry designer with little ambition other than to enjoy life. J.J. has just been told that two men are out to kill her. Wasp, one of the "men", is only trying to help and Vit, a german hit-man, is trying to find the elusive woman "Faust" whom killed a very important black-marketeer. Got it? No? Well, archives are available at a modestly low price.] ... Gregory White stood, trying not to cough as the gasses in the room swirled about his head, making him want to retch or faint, purposefully distracting him. They were for "him," the "him" who ran Gregory, for his desires and delusions, to keep him from going through withdrawal. Maybe to keep him from dieing, Gregory didn't know. He just knew he hated the man, his charming viper's smile, his obsessions... his "hobbies." He stood in silhouette against a backdrop of gas and multi-colored light, distorted by the haze in Gregory's eyes and mind. He stood, for a few moments, in one of the long silences that usually hit him. Sometimes Gregory would catch a moment of rhythmic murmuring, almost chanting. "Where is she?" he said in a quiet tone. Gregory tried to shake cobwebs from his mind. "Where... where is who?" "The woman. Your new employee." "She said she was moving into the new apartment today. I gave her the day off. It's late, though. She could be almost anywhere." "She isn't there." Gregory shifted his weight from foot to foot. He seemed to be getting heavier as the conversation wore on. "I had her followed," Gregory said, "as you suggested." The blurred form motioned at the desk. "Call them. Find her." The phone, the desk, everything was just as blurry. Gregory's large fingers were uncooperative as he tried to dial the phone. After a brief conversation, he let it fall gently back into the rocker. "They lost her." "How?" snapped the quick reply. "They... they just did. One moment she was there, the next..." Gregory's voice trailed off. A few seconds of silence filled the room. "What of Rednix's lackies? The child and the German?" "They were trying to get to Faust's old apartment. They must not know --" "Leave," came the command, cold and measured. "I have a few calls to make." ... It was all too much. It was all too goddamn much for her. Someone was trying to kill her. Why? Why?! The answer was simple, of course. She killed a man, Chas Douchot. He was just a guest at Mr. White's party and she had killed him with his own knife. It sat at the bottom of her purse, now, slowly tearing at the leather when she walked. And she killed him with it because he wanted a pendant of hers. How could she have been so stupid? So /stupid/. She yelled out loud, not caring who heard. She let herself be controlled. "Stupid!" And now she was paying the price. "Stupid!" At least she had help -- Mr. White and Patrik Mivlosk. Still, she felt so... so.... "Stupid!" J.J. Faust screamed in the woods. It was a woodland park, not far from New York City. She could see the bright lights sprawling across the horizon where the leafed ceiling broke. It looked vaguely of dawn, constantly encroaching on the horizon like some man-made hope. Sometimes a slight wind brought a sound from the city, but she ignored it. She ignored all of it. The moon was full and shining boldly though the trees, casting shadows of uncertainty across the ground and across J.J. Not that she needed it. Not that she wanted any uncertainty. Or trouble. Or success. She just wanted to be left alone. J.J. stood in a single fluid motion. She was free, though. There was hope enough in that. She shook lightly, Mentally shaking off her worries for the moment. No one had made her do anything she didn't want to do since... since she left the pendant on the bottom of the bay. And she took a smooth step. And another. A breeze tugged playfully at her jacket, edging her on. She put her jacket and pocketbook by a large tree, spinning gleefully in the breeze. J.J. Faust danced. She danced through the trees and through the wind, not afraid of anything, not even in the dark. She knew where the trees were, where there were low branches and where there were roots. The wind echoed in her ears, blowing an eerie music, one she heard before, once, running through a field in England. She was ten and thought it was the fairies coming out to play. She danced then, for them, but in the way children dance, all simple energy, running around the field with her arms out wide, giggling and trying to catch the musical spirits. She wasn't going to catch anything, this time. There was nothing to catch. Only the music welling up in her ears and spreading out through her soul. She danced, around branches and deeper into the woods, feeling nothing but elation. Nothing but joy. A pair of glinting eyes, wide and the darkest brown. J.J. saw them and faltered, stumbling back like a startled foal. The boy's face watched, himself frightened, or maybe awed. His pale face appeared to glow in the moonlight, save the scrapes and bruises. It was well after midnight. The child could not have been older than ten. What was he doing here? Without a word, the boy lifted his arms and held something, offering to her. There was hope in his eyes that she would take it. J.J. reached, tentatively. Her pocketbook. It felt heavy and alien in her hands, dragging her arm listlessly to her side. Standing in the quiet, the child spoke first. His voice sounded so young, so fragile. "Are you a ghost?" She looked down at herself. The dress was beige and simple, her skin glowed much like the child's. Her face must have looked much paler framed with dark brown hair. She regarded the boy's questing eyes. "No," she said in a quiet voice. "I am no ghost." "A fairy?" The eyes looked so hopeful. She knelt. He wanted to believe she was something mystical. Maybe he needed that; she wasn't going to tell him the truth. Children had visions. It was part of their innocence. "What is your name?" she asked with a soft voice. The child relaxed, settling himself on grass starting to collect dew for the morning hours. "Gary Kinman," he said and added hopefully, "I liked your dancing. I didn't mean to spy on you." "That's alright." A shuffle of feet. The child studied his hands nervously. "Can," he started, then stopped. "Can you do magic?" J.J. let the shock show on her face. She didn't want to lie, but the boy was in need of support. "What..." she faltered unintentionally. "Why does a strong boy like you need magic?" "My daddy's gone." The stress in his voice was overwhelming. The boy was on the verge of tears. "I don't know where. Mommy doesn't know, too." Kinman. He started talking rapidly, keeping his thoughts a step ahead of the tears. "He didn't come home. He just didn't. Mom cries, ... <& so on>. Oh, you have to find him!" J.J. tried keeping her voice. God, the poor child thought she could use magic. She was nothing of the sort! She was a designer, not a myth come to life! J.J. felt the helplessness swell up inside her. "What was... what is your daddy's name?" Gary choked on his sadness to think. "L-Lloyd?" Lloyd Kinman. No, she was not a fairy, no creature of magic, but she was not helpless. J.J. smiled for the boy and reached out to smooth out his hair. His entire face was dotted in patchwork moonlight. He looked lost and fragile. "Gary Kinman, will you be here tomorrow for me?" His mouth was open slightly, looking at her in awe. J.J. laughed quietly and stood. "Who are you?" The question was in a hushed voice. J.J. turned and danced into the woods, behind a tree and around another, pulling herself over the low branches. "Faust!" she called out, hearing the word echo slightly in the night. " faust " the woods answered. She laughed and galloped away. ... From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Date: 21 Aug 91 05:48:31 GMT Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance ... The dress was red, ripped and stained with blood that was not hers. J.J. stared at it, entranced by memories she couldn't quite remember. Emerald green eyes, a scattering of cut gems, a combat knife... She shook herself away from the thoughts and grabbed something else which hung white and about the shoulders, a sleeveless mock-turtleneck. It was old and conservative, but it made her comfortable. A little makeup, a gold chain about her wrist. She wanted something to make her relaxed, a little dust or a McCoy of downride, but had none and would not call Don for more. J.J. felt like a child, going out to prove that she could, scared of everything that could happen to her, scared of herself. She remembered what Suz told her, "Don't let your past get the better of you." She looked at the bloody dress. "Someone's got to be innocent when the Unicorn comes." Suz expected her to be that innocent. She wanted to know why, but was never told. There was no way she could have asked anyone else. ... Cold, but not bitter. It was one of the few nights that was gentle, the wind light and the air dry. With some luck, thought J.J. as she rode the monorail, it might even snow on the city. New York was always beautiful in the snow. The bar, "Chatsubo", was quiet that evening, small packets of people hung together as if out of desperation, nursing their drinks and conversations carefully. Music was piped through a mixer on the stage and out a pair of massive speakers, though someone had turned the music down. She looked about her, at the faces who glanced up at her and back to their business. She knew she wasn't welcome, but she was tolerated. As long as she caused no trouble to their haven from the world, she knew she would be all right. The bartender was young but no stranger to the streets. Stubble and scars decorated his face in an unusual pattern. His arms, too, were lined with scars that looked old, faded. She wondered about them before he spoke. "The floor show doesn't start until ten, mademoiselle," he said in a light, possibly fake french accent. The words were accented against her, a polite request. The word "leave" unspoken. "Ki-Rin," she said in reply. She emptied it and a second before the floor show began, the band some third- rate Midwest rangers playing two year old Top 40 hits. J.J. knew the words and the moves and let herself sway slowly to the music. The feel was still there. The move, the beat, the want to dance and let it all out. She slipped off the stool and joined the few dancers, mostly girls and sailors or other men of the same moral question. Alone. J.J. felt the beat inside her and let it move her, the music telling her where to place her hand, how to hold her head, to stop and sweep an arm in an arc before her. The beats, three of them now, each took control, one at a time, told the music how to act, told her body when to jerk or her feet to shuffle or move. She wasn't alone; the music danced inside her, with her. She closed her eyes and continued the dance, feeling no one as it happened, brushing only air and floor, and even the floor became insubstantial. The air was just a part of the dance, her movements a part of the song. Pose hand, brush face, touch shoulder, move and lean to the side. At last, the beat faded off to nothing. Then there was applause. ... Wasp applauded with the rest, simply amazed. He never knew J.J. danced, never discovered it in his research. She never had danced professionally, that he knew. Her dancing on the floor wasn't very professional, but held so much power and certainty that it made the ancient music come alive. The musicians felt it, too, watching her. The old song was thrown in with bits that Wasp had never heard before, variations of the scales and chords come to life until it became more than an old song. The drummer, with a look of stern determination on his face, worked in yet another beat, modern set against the old. He was carrying three of the four beats, something Wasp didn't imagine. To Wasp, a man of the streets, it was music, modern among the best. J.J. quickly made her way to the bar after she opened her eyes. She looked embarrassed, maybe insulted. Wasp wasn't any good at guessing that kind of thing, let alone why. He wanted to know, almost needed to. Someone walked up to her as he stood, an average, unobtrusive man. Blonde, young, Wasp figured he was a corporate type. He stood too straight and moved as if he was always presenting his words. J.J. would shoot him straight down. She laughed, Wasp smiling as he watched. She nodded and then shrugged and nodded more. Then Wasp's smile fell as she put on her jacket. They started to leave. "J.J. doesn't do things like that!" Wasp hissed to himself. "She's here for the thrill, that's all!" He started towards them as they headed toward the door. The blonde man looked over his shoulder, straight at Wasp, ice blue eyes making Wasp stop and stare. The man smiled wide, eyes flashing recognition, and nodded a greeting. A greeting reserved for enemies. ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - You're quite welcome to comment, though.] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Summary: Part 17 - just to let you know Date: 26 Aug 91 19:51:34 GMT Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance ... Alone. Sadness. Death. Only death would avenge. Vengeance. Anger in the darkness, in the cold, in the alone. Power. Yes, there. Growing, slowly, steadily. Power to think. Power to avenge. Power to kill. Three words, the very first three without Another. Power to think. 'It shall die.' ... The trail was wrong, half hidden and half misleading. Vit followed it to five major cities and many rumors, most of them came to a dead-end. American culture infuriated Vit and the size of the country helped little. He couldn't look for someone who was "out of place" for it was he, himself, who was the stranger. His english was rusty and he spoke with a distinct german accent. Many people were uncooperative. Many people were also dead. Vit stopped liking his search long ago, soon after Dallas. He faught with many uncooperative people, many small-time gangs, to find the lead was again false. He didn't understand the insult he gave them, if there was indeed one, but he would not make the same mistake again. The pain he suffered trying to get out of the huge state was more than he was willing and when the Arkansas backwater hack-doctor told him some of the shrapnel was bone it almost made him ill. The child they sent to him didn't even know he was carrying a bomb. The country was falling apart, Vit could see. Far more than Japan. America's ideals were old and the leader militaristic about them, or he wouldn't have been chased to Texas' boarder, hunted every step of the way, while in New York he was openly welcomed and California simply accepted. No one nation could work together when their feelings were so far apart. The flight landed in New York early in the morning, Vit's chrono still said it was 1:30 but he had just left Seattle. The sky was a light gray and slowly becoming lighter, the snow was piled up on the edges of the runway, thin compared to the snows in Germany. The trans-American flight took less than five hours, but Vit felt as if he had been on for days. He took all flights that way, never liking the food or the service or flying at all. He had already wasted too much time. He had found the woman's last name, Faust, but that didn't help. A german name, maybe, but Vit had already had Europe checked for such a woman, and so would half a dozen others of his kind, all working alone, all working against each other. The bounty must have risen, though, if no one had caught her yet. If she wasn't already dead. But what made him the angriest was the searching. He had been to New York twice, he had started his search in the city, and had now come back to it to cover some steps he had missed. Someone in Seattle had told him, "Try the Chatsubo. If no one there knows, nobody can know." A gloat and probably a lie, but the man had known Vit's name. There must have been truth in it somewhere, suspicion wracking at Vit throughout the flight. The Chatsubo ended up being a hole-in-the-wall bar not unlike many he had been too in Europe, but the differences were obvious and somewhat unnerving. The band, and the music they played, was dead and lifeless as were the people dancing before the stage. Many of the bars he had frequented, even those elsewhere in the States, were much more juiced than this. The clientele were not all American, either. There was some French, some Asian, and Vit heard a few words of german float through the drudging music and background mutter. The talk dropped suddenly, alerting Vit's attention to the door. When he saw no one, he looked quickly around him. Everyone was watching the stage and the woman who danced before it. She reminded Vit of a French dancer he one knew, he met her in a London slum, dancing for food and very little money, and took her back to Pont-l'Eveque where she told him her family lived. He never loved her and wasn't sure why he helped her back. But the woman near the stage moved much like her, when she wasn't coming down from wiz. Like the music carried her and nothing else. "Who is the woman?" he asked the bartender in his rusty english. "I don't know," the young man replied in a bad french accent. "She just came in, drank some, and started dancing." "Then she is not a dancer here?" "No. I can't say as I've ever seen her before." Vit nodded and took a seat at a table nearby the bar. If the woman was a free-lancer, she might know something. If not, then it would be business as usual. He found himself applauding quietly with much of the rest of the bar. The woman looked startled at first and walked cautiously to the bar. No, he decided, this woman just danced to dance and when she was met by a suit, he dismissed it as someone unimportant. He began for the bar when he caught the look in the blonde suit's eye, a look he recognized as a warning and a threat compacted by the smugness of his smile. Vit snapped his head to see the target, a dirt-blonde young man, standing in mid-stride, almost gawking as a reply. He was dressed head-to-toe in frills and leather that Vit knew as 'gang wear.' Soon after the suit and the woman were out the door, the other man started toward it quickly, determined, Vit thought, to get himself killed. "The suit is armed," he told the punk as he passed. "So am I," was the flat response. "Then you will die." The punk turned on his heels and looked at Vit. Vit was a few centimeters taller than the man and by far much heavier. "This is a personal matter, okay chum?" "I understand. I also can lend help." The punk looked at him carefully, as a man valued a gun. "You'll help me? For what?" His voice was suddenly cool. There was something in Vit that he needed. "Information," Vit said carefully. It was the english word he was most familiar with. The punk scratched his messed hair and squinted, the shadows under his eyes becoming more obvious. Whether from drugs or deals or sex, this man did not sleep much. "On what?" he asked. "A woman, one that I cannot find." "Okay. Tell ya what, you help me get through to my woman and I'll help you get information on yours, 'k?" "No." Vit paused, searching the punk's face as it became twisted in confusion. "I work alone," he said as the punk began to object. "I will help you get to this woman who has left and you will tell me all you know about the woman I seek." "It's a deal. You wanna write this all legalshit-like?" Vit leaned carefully forward, looking down on the young punk. "My word is enough." "Oh... oh, of course. Yes, your, ah, 'word'. I value the 'word', too." He combed his hair with his fingers, again. " So, tell me, who is this woman you need to find?" Vit lowered his voice now, it almost echoed in his own ears. "She has many aliases, but seems to favor one. Faust." The punk suddenly looked at Vit with a mix of horror and disbelief, yet not uttering a sound. This one knows of her, he thought without any relief. So many of his previous leads went nowhere. Yes, this one knows her and looks ready to break his word. The safety on his gun was already off. It was likely that no one would hear the hissing noise of the gun's silencer. ... J.J. Faust (from the very beginning), Don the Fixer (from part 1), Skeeter (in part 2), Father Jim (also from part 2) aka Chas Douchot (part 7) aka Major Rednix (part 11 - deceased), Wasp (from part 3), rape-minded wirepunk aka J.J.'s first kill (part 3 - brutally deceased), Gregory White (part 5), Rob McPhee (part 13), That Really Strange Guy from part 14, the two bodyguards who threatened Wasp (part 14), Suz (part 15), Vit (part 17 - this one) AND the flight attendant (who had a non-speaking roll up above a bit) are ALL... [ Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - So, how 'bout them Celtics, eh? ] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Date: 2 Sep 91 02:47:57 GMT Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance ... He was a very nice man, this Patrick Mivlosk. Not unrealistic, simply kind and helpful. J.J. Faust was also surprised to find that he worked in the same building she did. "Administrative paperpushing," he said in a flat businessman's accent. "I keep the building from falling apart, mostly." J.J. thanked him with a laugh. "It'd be hard to work there without it, then." It was relaxing to meet someone familiar, though the familiarity was only as far as place of work. She let her guard down a little to talk to this not-so- stranger when he complimented her about her dancing. She told him, while they walked through the cold night air, that she had taken ballet lessons as a child at the insistence of her mother. She was six, then, and never liked it. She liked to move, but never liked the strictness of the form. Patrick, who insisted she call him Pat, invited her to a small party he was giving that evening. "It's more a way to relax, actually," he admitted as he started the car. Electric, thought J.J. Fairly expensive. "A few of the people you work with'll be there, too." He seemed pretty happy about this, so she smiled politely and looked on forward. They had become quiet, after talking about living and moving. Pat lived overseas for a few years, it sounded like Russia or one of the old East Bloc countries, but had moved back for the familiarity. J.J. herself had never lived anywhere but New York, all across the state, and knew what he meant. Then the pause. The car's motor humming, the wheels pressing away half-melted slush. "J.J.," Pat asked without looking towards her, "do you do drugs?" She was about to protest the question but stopped. "Why?" "Your kind, the designers downstairs, you all seem to have something. Some kind of release." He laughed nervously. "You're all just a little weird." J.J. was quiet, not knowing what to say. "You're new, though," he quickly picked up, as if trying to apologize. "I mean, you don't really seem to be weird, like the rest of them. You're normal." He paused and quickly added, "Unless you don't want to be." She wondered how old he was. Twenty-five? Twenty-seven? He talked like an excited schoolboy, though. His pale blond hair and wide, interested eyes made him look completely honest. "No," J.J. said shyly, looking out the side window. "I used to do a lot. Wiz, 'drenlin, broadbase stim.... Gave it up, though." "Right before you were hired." She snapped her gaze on him. How did he know? Her look must have been enough to ask. "It's in your eyes," he said. "A little. It's in all of their eyes. It'll go away in a few months." "You?" He shook his head. "Can't stand any of it. Makes me do funny things. Here we are." J.J. watched as he pulled into an apartment bloc parking lot. "I wasn't on anything, tonight," she said. "I know." ... The place was an entire flat on the third floor. This place, it appeared, was full of them, four on each huge floor. Security was tight enough that they had to walk through metal detectors under the scrutiny of an ominous black ball that hung from the ceiling. The flat, 3C, was large enough to fit nearly fifty people if you worked around the open kitchen and artwork. It was much like J.J.'s apartment only larger and much better decorated. Sculptures and paintings scattered the large room, plastic and chrome were the main medium, each twisted and melted into a dance of man-made materials, each one dark and foreboding. Sort of a neo-gothic, thought J.J. The paintings were similar but mostly depicted man-into-machine melds, where a man's arms and legs faded into the supports of a motorcycle's wheels, or where many people had been placed together in a twisting array to make a huge mural of Dante's Hell. When she looked at it from a distance, J.J. could see it was an electronic schematic. Mario, her very teacher, was the owner of this flat. He began yelling at Pat when J.J. first arrived but Pat raised a hand and said a few calm words and it was suddenly okay. She had never seen Mario so calm, but she chalked it up to nerves from the tedious job of explaining every little detail to her. He was not a good teacher. Two of the other designers were there, as well. J.J. was somewhat disappointed when she didn't find Suz among them. Pat introduced her to three of the people he worked with and two managers of Mr. White's stores. The party, though being small, was fairly open. The designers talked with Pat's friends about designs or they'd talk back about their business (keeping the building in order, they said). Mario was very quiet, however. J.J. never got around to asking him what was wrong, always afraid to make the initial contact. It was almost midnight when Pat interrupted into her conversation. She was talking to one of Pat's friends about her family, never considering how odd the question was. "J.J., I've got to get going, here," he said in his quick, boyish way, somewhat urgent. She nodded. "How will..." "Talahain, here, can give you a ride whenever you want." He motioned to the man J.J. was talking to. "Right, Tal?" Talahain nodded. "No problem." Pat was out the door before J.J. could say another word, the door closing behind him with a soft "click." "Very nice man, isn't he?" J.J. asked of Talahain. He hesitated a moment and said, "Yes. I don't know what we'd ever do without him." Somewhere in the flat was a clock, one that J.J. couldn't find. It chimed midnight, twelve times ringing in J.J.'s ears. The conversation had stopped, the movement, everything. The last chime echoed in the flat when J.J. first heard the hissing. It was quiet, she wasn't even sure what it was. Then the smell hit her. Sweet. Oversweet, almost putrid, like the condensed smell of flowers. Her thoughts concentrated on this single thought, how it all reminded her of flowers, old, rotting on her grandmother's grave in Germany, yellow geraniums, wilted brown, covering the week-old grave. Her mind remaining on the thought, the flowers she placed on the newly covered grave, and sat... trapped... ... Everyone turns to face the back of the loft, the door at the back opens and a man steps out. The man is dressed in a robe, huge and heavy, draping from his arms and shoulders, colored a red so dark it looks black, but it is not velvet. The lighting is changed, the man becomes the center of attention. His face is shadowed by the hood and the shadows, but he cannot be mistaken. He walks forward, speaking. Sometimes you can understand him, sometimes you can't. They circle him, everyone in the room, and watch. His speech becomes rhythmic, hypnotic, and they begin to sway. The man comes towards me, holding a red-gloved hand towards me, beckoning me to take it, to join him in the circle. I do. He speaks to me, I almost cannot understand him. "What name is yours?" "Julianne Faust." "Who is your maker?" Confusion. I cannot answer a question I do not know. "Who gave you life?" "The ones who birthed me." Your parents are always the ones who give you life. He speaks and you cannot understand, but he speaks again so that you may. "We will teach you, Julianne Faust. The time is drawing near. You shall be with us when it comes." He holds my hands tightly to a cup, warm and filled, and begins speaking again. When he stops, he pulls the cup, and my hands, to my lips. The drink is warm, but not so warm, and salty. He doesn't let me drink it all. "She is here," he says to all. "Dance for us, Julianne Faust. Dance for us." ... Her grandmother was there, sitting in an old floral-print chair. Her face looked strong and sure, as though the signs of her age were strength and not weakness. She was relaxed, a pose reflecting acceptance. She was bold and wise, except her eyes. Her eyes were grey and remorseful, reflecting her wisdom and pity. She said nothing but spoke anyway. J.J. knew then it was a dream but let the dream continue; the sight of her long-dead grandmother was comforting to her. "The unicorns and the vampires," her grandmother told her, "are very much the same. They love what is innocent and unspoiled." J.J. could see Suz in her grandmother's face, vaguely, as though the two were one for the moment. But then her grandmother began to fade, slowly, with a whisper in the background. "Dance... dance..." Her grandmother's eyes darkened as the whisper grew louder, the wisdom fading. "But in his love, young Joy, the vampire takes the innocence away. The unicorn returns it anew." The whisper came roaring into the dream, J.J.'s grandmother shattering in its force, the sound roaring in her mind. Then darkness. ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - Enforced by Liralen Li Securities.] Wasp cringed. "Yes. I will. I don't think she's going anywhere any time soon." "You can promise this?" A glance at the complex, again. Suite 349 was hers. "Yes," Wasp said at last. "Yes, I think I can." ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - Void where prohibited by law.] ... [Like I said, it isn't very good. That's because with school and everything, I have very little time to actually think about what's going on and what's going to happen. Is this an open invitation? Not for complete control, no, but I am taking comments, notes, suggestions, encouragement, discouragement, and MAYBE... just maybe I'll even take in a character or two. But until then, keep reading, keep writing, and by Ghost keep replying. - Kent Jenkins] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Joy and the Art of Motercycle Maintenance Date: 3 Oct 91 18:22:56 GMT [Because it's been a month, this is the last posted J.J. Faust section followed quickly by the next section which, admitedly, isn't very good. - Kaj] Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance ... He was a very nice man, this Patrick Mivlosk. Not unrealistic, simply kind and helpful. J.J. Faust was also surprised to find that he worked in the same building she did. "Administrative paperpushing," he said in a flat businessman's accent. "I keep the building from falling apart, mostly." J.J. thanked him with a laugh. "It'd be hard to work there without it, then." It was relaxing to meet someone familiar, though the familiarity was only as far as place of work. She let her guard down a little to talk to this not-so- stranger when he complimented her about her dancing. She told him, while they walked through the cold night air, that she had taken ballet lessons as a child at the insistence of her mother. She was six, then, and never liked it. She liked to move, but never liked the strictness of the form. Patrick, who insisted she call him Pat, invited her to a small party he was giving that evening. "It's more a way to relax, actually," he admitted as he started the car. Electric, thought J.J. Fairly expensive. "A few of the people you work with'll be there, too." He seemed pretty happy about this, so she smiled politely and looked on forward. They had become quiet, after talking about living and moving. Pat lived overseas for a few years, it sounded like Russia or one of the old East Bloc countries, but had moved back for the familiarity. J.J. herself had never lived anywhere but New York, all across the state, and knew what he meant. Then the pause. The car's motor humming, the wheels pressing away half-melted slush. "J.J.," Pat asked without looking towards her, "do you do drugs?" She was about to protest the question but stopped. "Why?" "Your kind, the designers downstairs, you all seem to have something. Some kind of release." He laughed nervously. "You're all just a little weird." J.J. was quiet, not knowing what to say. "You're new, though," he quickly picked up, as if trying to apologize. "I mean, you don't really seem to be weird, like the rest of them. You're normal." He paused and quickly added, "Unless you don't want to be." She wondered how old he was. Twenty-five? Twenty-seven? He talked like an excited schoolboy, though. His pale blond hair and wide, interested eyes made him look completely honest. "No," J.J. said shyly, looking out the side window. "I used to do a lot. Wiz, 'drenlin, broadbase stim.... Gave it up, though." "Right before you were hired." She snapped her gaze on him. How did he know? Her look must have been enough to ask. "It's in your eyes," he said. "A little. It's in all of their eyes. It'll go away in a few months." "You?" He shook his head. "Can't stand any of it. Makes me do funny things. Here we are." J.J. watched as he pulled into an apartment bloc parking lot. "I wasn't on anything, tonight," she said. "I know." ... The place was an entire flat on the third floor. This place, it appeared, was full of them, four on each huge floor. Security was tight enough that they had to walk through metal detectors under the scrutiny of an ominous black ball that hung from the ceiling. The flat, 3C, was large enough to fit nearly fifty people if you worked around the open kitchen and artwork. It was much like J.J.'s apartment only larger and much better decorated. Sculptures and paintings scattered the large room, plastic and chrome were the main medium, each twisted and melted into a dance of man-made materials, each one dark and foreboding. Sort of a neo-gothic, thought J.J. The paintings were similar but mostly depicted man-into-machine melds, where a man's arms and legs faded into the supports of a motorcycle's wheels, or where many people had been placed together in a twisting array to make a huge mural of Dante's Hell. When she looked at it from a distance, J.J. could see it was an electronic schematic. Mario, her very teacher, was the owner of this flat. He began yelling at Pat when J.J. first arrived but Pat raised a hand and said a few calm words and it was suddenly okay. She had never seen Mario so calm, but she chalked it up to nerves from the tedious job of explaining every little detail to her. He was not a good teacher. Two of the other designers were there, as well. J.J. was somewhat disappointed when she didn't find Suz among them. Pat introduced her to three of the people he worked with and two managers of Mr. White's stores. The party, though being small, was fairly open. The designers talked with Pat's friends about designs or they'd talk back about their business (keeping the building in order, they said). Mario was very quiet, however. J.J. never got around to asking him what was wrong, always afraid to make the initial contact. It was almost midnight when Pat interrupted into her conversation. She was talking to one of Pat's friends about her family, never considering how odd the question was. "J.J., I've got to get going, here," he said in his quick, boyish way, somewhat urgent. She nodded. "How will..." "Talahain, here, can give you a ride whenever you want." He motioned to the man J.J. was talking to. "Right, Tal?" Talahain nodded. "No problem." Pat was out the door before J.J. could say another word, the door closing behind him with a soft "click." "Very nice man, isn't he?" J.J. asked of Talahain. He hesitated a moment and said, "Yes. I don't know what we'd ever do without him." Somewhere in the flat was a clock, one that J.J. couldn't find. It chimed midnight, twelve times ringing in J.J.'s ears. The conversation had stopped, the movement, everything. The last chime echoed in the flat when J.J. first heard the hissing. It was quiet, she wasn't even sure what it was. Then the smell hit her. Sweet. Oversweet, almost putrid, like the condensed smell of flowers. Her thoughts concentrated on this single thought, how it all reminded her of flowers, old, rotting on her grandmother's grave in Germany, yellow geraniums, wilted brown, covering the week-old grave. Her mind remaining on the thought, the flowers she placed on the newly covered grave, and sat... trapped... ... Everyone turns to face the back of the loft, the door at the back opens and a man steps out. The man is dressed in a robe, huge and heavy, draping from his arms and shoulders, colored a red so dark it looks black, but it is not velvet. The lighting is changed, the man becomes the center of attention. His face is shadowed by the hood and the shadows, but he cannot be mistaken. He walks forward, speaking. Sometimes you can understand him, sometimes you can't. They circle him, everyone in the room, and watch. His speech becomes rhythmic, hypnotic, and they begin to sway. The man comes towards me, holding a red-gloved hand towards me, beckoning me to take it, to join him in the circle. I do. He speaks to me, I almost cannot understand him. "What name is yours?" "Julianne Faust." "Who is your maker?" Confusion. I cannot answer a question I do not know. "Who gave you life?" "The ones who birthed me." Your parents are always the ones who give you life. He speaks and you cannot understand, but he speaks again so that you may. "We will teach you, Julianne Faust. The time is drawing near. You shall be with us when it comes." He holds my hands tightly to a cup, warm and filled, and begins speaking again. When he stops, he pulls the cup, and my hands, to my lips. The drink is warm, but not so warm, and salty. He doesn't let me drink it all. "She is here," he says to all. "Dance for us, Julianne Faust. Dance for us." ... Her grandmother was there, sitting in an old floral-print chair. Her face looked strong and sure, as though the signs of her age were strength and not weakness. She was relaxed, a pose reflecting acceptance. She was bold and wise, except her eyes. Her eyes were grey and remorseful, reflecting her wisdom and pity. She said nothing but spoke anyway. J.J. knew then it was a dream but let the dream continue; the sight of her long-dead grandmother was comforting to her. "The unicorns and the vampires," her grandmother told her, "are very much the same. They love what is innocent and unspoiled." J.J. could see Suz in her grandmother's face, vaguely, as though the two were one for the moment. But then her grandmother began to fade, slowly, with a whisper in the background. "Dance... dance..." Her grandmother's eyes darkened as the whisper grew louder, the wisdom fading. "But in his love, young Joy, the vampire takes the innocence away. The unicorn returns it anew." The whisper came roaring into the dream, J.J.'s grandmother shattering in its force, the sound roaring in her mind. Then darkness. ... [Copyright (c) 1991 by Kent Jenkins - Enforced by Liralen Li Securities.] From: jenkins@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (Kent Jenkins) Subject: Joy and the Art of Motercycle Maintenance Date: 3 Oct 91 18:26:27 GMT Joy and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance ... Steamy flame [The music started low, filled with Is left to blame bass, the lead singer growling, nearly For passions of an ancient kiss. hissing the words. They felt oddly Imagine this. passionate on the listener's ear, a quiet moan of music that bordered Quiet madness, erotic. The words were simply a Sane as time, part, a way of conveying the feel. Takes a trip along the mind. Then, in a crashing moment of extacy, A different kind. the band collided for the chorus...] Love and hate, they are an art of balance. [You could hear the straining Innovate what could be there to harness. noises of the instruments, A speeding motor ride,