Short Story Competition

[Greenstone]

Ok TG your turn, I really liked it, although it seemed to be the introduction to a story rather than a short story. As I am somewhat familiar with mathematics, I have to say that you used it rather well. I have always wondered if there were a possible use for those seemingly unusable things that you call Irrationals

Really though, I did find a few spelling errors that could probably be fixed with a spell check. I really liked how you portrayed and covered all the basis of Malcomb Web's character, (except physical appearence which didn't seem to matter much in the story) Chad was well, cool, a tall guy with an enthusiastic approach to life. I liked him, he is your second main character.

All in all it is an excellent peice. This voting thing is going to be very hard.

[bluevorlon]

Un-Stickying...

Plz go vote...

[SajuukCor]

So many views and yet so little voting. Where all these people go?

P.S. Vote for me

[Greenstone]

Yea, Vote, but read every story first.

I should have voted for my own, Oh well That would not be right

[SajuukCor]

Of course read them all. I'm trying to print all of them, but I ran out of black

[Bedford]

N E U R O A S S A S S I N


He sat up quickly, breathing hard and fast. Sweat dribbled down his face, clinging to the edges of his thin nose and chiselled chin.

Beside him, the cool, crisp white emptiness of clean bedsheets.

His pager flashed yellow: a message, no waiting caller.

Fumbling, hands still a little unsteady from the dream that had shaken him, he reached for the minisoft and Hascon jockey lying on the bedside table. One slipped into the other, and the jockey plugged into the polished socket behind his ear; the jack fitted neatly into its slot at the base of his skull.

There was a small hiss of gas as the minisoft began to play, ferrying small electric currents to sections of his brain.

Within seconds, he had composed himself. His hands were steady as he went to the desk. Naked, he sat on the swivel-stool before it and lifted the pager's lid.

Good morning, sir, the machine's inflectionless female voice said, routed through his neural lace. Almost a statement: it was a good morning.

Okay, let's see the message.

The black screen cascaded into a page of royal blue, adorned with the pager's manufacturer's logo. A default setting; he hadn't bothered to personalise it.

Three commands into the menu-driven system brought him to the message. It was a relay from Carredos, a small, fictitious company specially created by one of his old contacts several years ago. Allegedly floating somewhere on the Atlantic with no access to cyberspace or from the authorities, it served as a highly secure communications link, isolated from the Comm-Net though still making use of its powerful transmission towers. It was the only way he could be reached by those who would hire him.

Open it, he told the machine. He glanced at the text scrolling automatically down the screen at his reading pace, and swore under his breath.

A new contract; more high-risk business from the megacorp lords in their super-condos. A lump sum in credit for him - and another disappearance for the media to drool over.

He was going hunting.




The walk was reasonably short, and the thick office tower of Elsidon Industrial Ltd rose high above his head: three hundred and sixty floors of reinforced polished glass and metal, shining in the mid-morning sunlight.

He wore black pants, white t-shirt and a sleeveless jacket on top, open to catch the false breeze from the underground. His hair, tinted mineral blue, was gelled back-over. Behind his left ear, the minisoft played in its jockey, filling him with a calm: countermeasure to the circulation of intense excitement inside.

He climbed the short flight of stone steps in bounds. Stopped not by any of the eight cybernetically enhanced guards who, he knew, had checked his biological emissions against the extensive list on Elsidon's personnel database - and found him to be a contractual employee.

He remembered sitting in a sterilised room six floors into the tower's foundations, whilst the men and women almost hidden behind screens recorded those emissions on electronic systems. He remembered grinning under the bright halogen lights hanging from the ceiling like vines, and a night of pleasure at her place because of it. He remembered the smell of disinfectant.

Through revolving glass doors and into an immense lobby, still crowded even after the official starting time. Across a shimmering green marble floor that had, he guessed, taken a dozen or so caretakers several hours to clean with vacs.

Up to a walnut-topped desk and the professional smile of a receptionist, only to be pointed towards one of many lifts.

Stuck in the claustrophobic chamber with around thirty suited men and women, all on their way to desk jobs. He did not envy them. Then the small crowd diminishing as the floors numbered higher, until just he, staring at the lift's digital display, minisoft playing an electronic frequency of calm on his brain.

The lift's doors opened out onto a wide red-carpeted corridor, lit low. Two enhanced guards stood at either side of the door, their backs to the walls, but did not appear to have noticed his arrival. Red LEDs flashed on their necks, indicating their immunity to the power of EMP. Bug-eyes lined the ceiling intermittently, like abandoned old brass light fittings. The wallpaper was cream, decorated with gold feathers. It looked brand new.

One of the guards wore an optical band over his eyes. He held out his palm until both 'soft and jockey were removed, then deposited them somewhere inside the grey lining of his dark suit.

'You know the door,' said the other guard, on his right. 'Just go right on through. They're waiting for you.'

He nodded, then began strolling down the short, expensive corridor.

There's only one door, you inhuman bastard, he thought, as he put his hand on the glinting knob and twisted.




'I think we all know why we're here, gentlemen.' The old man looked around the room, grinning like the bastard he was.

Nick sat in a poly-chair that had moulded for his comfort when he stopped moving. Before him was spread some of Elsidon Industrial's top brass.

The old man Elstein, of course, wearing his usual grin of derangement, as Nick had come to interpret it. Chief of Security Jakobsen Mandich to his right, prosthetic eye flashing red whenever it caught the light on this, the two hundred and ninetieth floor of the Elsidon office tower.

The other man, on Elstein's left, was as much a stranger to Nick as the six others who sat beside him, in their own dark green poly-chairs.

'Once again, an unforeseen problem has arisen and must be dealt with in the usual matter.

'I won't drone on,' he continued, 'because none of us have the time for such niceties. And I'm sure most of you disposed of those at some early point in your teenage lives.' He smiled, perfectly white teeth as artificial as the stained teak desk upon which his elbows rested. 'If you'll excuse me, I must be going. Chief of Security Jakobsen Mandich will take over from here. Good day.'

Elstein's body stiffened, flickering in the high-backed leather-bound chair for a moment until the signal output was ended by a hidden tech. Then it was gone.

The bastard, Nick thought. Didn't even have the decency to come and see us personally.

But decency was a nicety, not a necessity, and it seemed the old man had no time for those, or so he claimed.

Mandich cleared his throat and began briefing them.




When Mandich dismissed them all, Nick hurried back to the guard and picked up his Hascon.

He stood alone on the way down in the lift, and activated the minisoft. Sudden and to his surprise Pain began to coat his body like a boiling sticky liquid, burning his head and on through his nerves; down his spine until he managed to switch it off.

More human than I thought, crouched gasping for air on the chamber's tiled floor, as two figures tried asking him what was wrong.




He sat in the old man's seat, arms folded, with Rendice in one of the poly-chairs before him.

'Do you think they suspect?' the other man asked, almost with disinterest.

Mandich snorted. 'I doubt it. But it makes no difference. We just want to see if it works, and this guy has put himself in a position that so happens to serve that purpose. Experience will be a unique selling point if we decide to purchase their skills again.'

Rendice nodded, eyes averted in thought, finger and thumb plucking at his lower lip as though it were some exquisite instrument.

'I don't know,' he said mildly. 'It just seems… early.'

Mandich chuckled demonically. 'It's a bit too late for that, my friend. Preparations are already in motion for the second hit.' He leant forward, grinning. The glowing red prosthesis of his right eye pulsed once, casting its hellish glint on Rendice's features for a few seconds. 'You don't want out, do you?' he asked.

Rendice's head bobbed from side to side, 'No, no.'

'Good,' he said, leaning back. 'Grab a car and get after them. I want you at the base and ready to report before the end of the day.'

Rendice stood calmly. 'As you wish.'




Outside, a white AG van was waiting for them on the edge of the sidewalk as they had been told there would be.

They each stepped inside the van through its open doors and took their seats. All the windows were blacked out, and only a faint glimmer of light penetrated: misty shapes through the tint.

When the door was closed and locked from the outside their only main source of light came from a fluorescent tube bolted to the ceiling.

He fished through the pockets of his jacket for another 'soft but found none, as the van vibrated, picking up speed and leaving the sidewalk for one of the higher layers of dense traffic.

He stared at the floor, the smoke from Big Jo's nic filling his nostrils, saying nothing.




* * *




The night of the hit.

Once more, excitement rode the adrenal rush as he crouched in slick mud. Fear had been repelled quickly at the purchase of a new calming minisoft.

In his hands rested a silenced Renfield 980. "The ultimate sub-mac," the salesman in clean striped shirt and loud tie had told him, unaware or careless as to the way in which it would be handled.

Killslowfast was his one-word motto: the only rule he had on the field.

Belts of ammunition he had earlier secured around his waist and he wore a bullet-proof vest. He was no heavy-weapons guy, and he knew it.

There was a sound behind him, of a boot in mud being released. He did not turn. The tracking equipment he'd had installed in some posh highstreet gear-surgeon's clinic told him it was a friend.

Nelson's crouched figure stopped beside him.

'How's it going?' he asked, peering over the low bush. Fingleton's Park, opposite the building of their target. 'Any signs yet?'

'Nope,' he replied, riding the continuous undulation of excitement. 'Not a fucking peep out of any fucking place. Until you came along.'

The black man shrugged, but said nothing.

They stayed crouched for several minutes more, watching the slow, eternal flickering of lights in the residential tower block as though somehow, by following the random sequence, they would gain an answer to all their questions.

Dennis' voice echoed ghost-like in his ear. Okay bum-chums, come to daddy. I've got a trace on our mutual friend. Surveillance is pointless now.

Nelson grinned at him in the darkness. There were few working streetlamps in downtown.

'After you, boy-ho.'




'Is that everyone?'

Dennis MacSeddon surveyed the group through his glasses. The thin, seated figure nodded at Hénri. 'Okay, schmuck: close the door.'

The van was larger than the transport that had taken them to Elsidon's secret military outpost in the mountain, several kilometres beyond the city's edge.

All six of them could stand comfortably between the banks of flickering machinery tacked onto both walls. An ancient and empty drinks machine sat in the far corner behind the driver's seat.

When the door was closed, Dennis cleared his throat. 'Okey-dokey. I have a positive triangulation on the sixer. The idiot just used his phone, so the Comm-Net came in handy for that.

'I can track calls - source, destination and shit - but I can't block them. If you're spotted, I can't stop them calling the cops, okay? Any questions?'

There were none. They had been told as much and more by Mandich at Elsidon. This was just a reminder.

'You're already in two groups. Objective one is to take out the single security offices on the ground and eighteenth floors.'

He looked sadly at Nick and Nelson. 'I'm afraid the two Ns have a lot of stair climbing first thing: both lifts are out.'

Now that the required speech was out of the way, the electronics operator seemed to relax. 'Remember what Mandich said, "Accuracy, speed, stealth". Don't let some fucker put the buzzer on you just because you used placcer-ex and took out an entire floor, okay?'

Nick grinned.

'Are you finished yet?' Big Jo asked. 'Only some of us are just dying to get in there.

Dennis laughed. 'Be my guest,' he said, grinning widely. 'And take a throat-mike each,' pointing to a pile of plastic packets on top of one of the machines. 'Instructions inside.'




They moved from the van, towards the steel tower block, dodging between refuse crates and the shattered beams of light from broken streetlamps.

No one saw them, five bloodthirsty figures in black, as they half-crouched their way along the block of derelicts.

Nick's jockey still played the calming 'soft. He would take a break from it when the job was over, perhaps find a girl as a temporary substitute. He shouldn't just rely on the artificial kick the machinery gave him - a second source would be healthier.

They reached the badly lit emergency fire escape stairwell that scaled one side of the tower, and began to climb it.

Dry hands cupped the Renfield, its laser sight already on: a red line through the grey mist that permeated this place, clinging to the very metal of the winding steps.

The stale smell of old pee and cheap beer rode invisible air currents up to his nose. He was uneffected, concentrating hard with the 'soft jockey's aid.

Behind him, large figure of the black man Nelson, temporary optical band stretched across both eyes; the ability given to see the world from a butterfly's point of view: heat-seeking IR.

Nelson carried a triple-barrelled sawn-off, his personal choice from the vast array of weaponry that had been made available to them at the base, capable of pulling apart a body at fifty metres.

He passed a door upon which was stencilled the number '3' in crisp white paint. Only another fifteen floors to go and then both teams could begin their take-out of the grey tower block's two security stations.

There was no doubt that the officers would be armed, and possibly sporting the results of bio-retributive surgery, the likes of which could only be seen inside dank prison cells. Nobody wanted to be a security officer; it was society's little irony that those who had sought to victimise the vulnerable served time and came out to protect.

Nick snarled, raised the intensity of the minisoft's emissions by a notch and continued the upward trudge on ribbed and rusty floor.




Big Jo crouched on the reflective floor of cold synthetic blue marble, craving the warm stimulation of a nic.

The floor wasn't particularly clean, littered with the remains of drinks and food cartons that were occasionally picked up and carried by the odourless wind. It was the single remain of an elaborately decorated lobby that had once served the Sécian residential tower. Now it was nothing more than a derelict, abandoned to the harsh elements and vandals who couldn't spell.

What had once served as main doors opening out into a reception area of equal standard were badly boarded-up rectangular metal skeleton frames, glassless. A white-painted door with two small frosted window panels served as the tower's new main entrance.

Modern, Big Jo thought when he saw it. The lazy bastards.

There was a Gatekeeper electronic locking mechanism stapled to the door-frame's left leg. It was a purely low-key affair - anyone with enough brains would just knock through the chipboard covering the old doors - but it blocked his team's only stealthy entrance.

He'd told Dennis, who was scouring the area's cyberspace grid with his equipment, seeking to hack the lock from there.

That was fine with Big Jo. He looked up. Hurry your ass, you motherfucker. There's a storm brewing.




They reached the eighteenth door on the stairwell. His heart pulsed with an anticipation enhanced by the electronic device linked to his brain.

Sweat moistened his palms and fingertips, soaked up by the sponge-like grips of the sleek black Renfield.

He tried the door, locked, then stood with the slim balcony's railing pressing into his back as Nelson kicked the heavy door open with black-soled boot.

Riding the emission wave of the minisoft he thought he saw tiny flakes of white paint peel their way off the door from the force of Nelson's kick, and descend to the threadbare carpet beyond.

'Yo bro,' Nelson said, voice lower then usual. 'You okay?'

He nodded twice, then pushed past the slightly bewildered black man, backing against a wall and checking both arms of the L-shaped corridor. They were devoid of any organic life.

He pulled Nelson in beside him, and reminded him not to close the fire escape door. Doing so would alert the Secs - the condo's security officers - to their presence. Mandich had told them as much.

Nelson put a hand to his throat, activating the skin-coloured mike hidden there. They all had one at Dennis' urging: it was the only comm link they had between them.

'Okay,' the other man said, voice still low, almost a whisper, 'we're in. Eighteenth floor.'

Nick heard Dennis' voice through the micro-receiver buried in his ear. He remembered having the small yellow ball installed. It had reminded him of wax.

'Shit man,' Dennis' voice whined, 'you guys know how lonely it's been out here?' Almost without transition he continued, 'You got to cut their data wire, stop them from calling the cops should you bastards let 'em panic before you open fire.'

'Where?' Nelson breathed.

'Eighteenth floor wire's down the hallway opposite the stairwell. Wait for my signal. Hénri, Big Jo and Spence: your wire sits right next to that Gatekeeper box. Just blast it once you're on the inside.' The man took a breath, 'Your group moves when I say - I've got to find that cheap shit of a lock.'

They stood side by side in the corridor, waiting. Nick's excitement had subsided a little, and a cool draught of air from the open door rubbed across his face as it was drawn around the corner and down the empty corridor.




'Okay! Move it you shitheads!'

He moved.

The door would only be unlocked for forty seconds. The tension audible in Dennis' voice hinted at how far he had pushed himself to find and temporarily deactivate the Gatekeeper on the local cyberspace grid.

Big Jo's shovel-like hands gripped the extended barrel of a Shark and Lampbert K57: a top-quality German-made machine gun rifle that he'd picked from a rack back at Elsidon's covert military base.

He inched the white door open with the toe of his boot. No alarm bells. He gestured the other two in as he held it open, then let it swing shut. On a slow hydraulic arm, it made no sound.

He reached for his throat and sub-vocalised to Dennis, 'We're in.'

'Good shit, man. Now wait.'




'Nick, get your dumb ass over to that wire. Now both teams listen. I've got to have this timed perfect: there's no backup or fall-on if this is messed. You at the panel Nick?'

'Yup.'

'Remove it, then-'

'Oh shit!' Nick breathed.

'What?' Dennis fired back.

'We're seen,' growled Nelson. 'Nick, get after him. What colour's the wire, Mac?'

'Colour?' the man spluttered. 'They got no damned colour.' A pause. 'Can your optical rig be reached by cyberspace?'

'Should,' was the doubtful reply.

'Give me a minute, I'll have to jack in. Jo? Blow the wire.'




Nick, riding a new electrical surge of emission, ran after the Sec. From behind there didn't appear to be any enhancements, any physical reinforcements or bio-ret.

He rounded a sharp-angled corner and stopped. One long straight of green threadbare for the next thirty metres.

The salvo of bullets launched themselves without his recognition: slammed into the runner's back and neck, pushing the body down onto the worn carpet: a flake of human paint, cast adrift from the greater picture in merciless mirth. It twitched.

Killslowfast was his motto. Knowing when to apply a single part of its double-meaning was something else.

He walked up to it, crouched and began feeling for a pulse.

Anybody home?

He stood. The Sec had fallen on his stomach and he could see down into the carved tunnel paths of flesh, muscle and sticky red the bullets had left behind in their wake. Circuitry glinted down there, caught in the light of a flickering halogen tube.

A movement ahead caught his eye, and he looked up to a see a head disappear around the far corner some twenty metres away.

Run rabbit, run.




'Hey Roy my man! How's the babe?'

Roy Hending looked up from his terminal screen and into the crude optical band wrapped around his Sergeant's head.

He blinked. 'The kid? She's doing fine, Sid. Turns three next week sometime.'

'No, no,' Sid said, doing a bad job of hiding his mirth and the mocking twist of his mouth as the eyes on the side of his head blinked erratically. 'The other babe. The one who… does stuff.'

He tried not to show his disgust. There was a small trickle of saliva forming at the corner of Sid's mouth.

'Allison's fine,' he said at last.

'Uh-huh. Tell me, Roy,' leaning closer, 'does she charge you for the pleasure like all the other guys?'

He stood up fast, face red with anger and something else.

'Beat it nigger!' he shouted, slamming the base of his palm into Sid's optical band.




Big Jo opened fire on the two men in the small cam monitoring office. He sent Spence and Hénri into the other two rooms, hearing the shouts and gurgles of the dying Secs as they were killed by silent bullets - and as he checked for any signs of life.

None. They were dead alright, whoever they'd been.

He eyed the strange protrusions at the temples of the small black man's head, cursed beneath his breath.

He tried contacting Dennis but there was no reply and the others stood outside.

'We move,' he said to them, voice calm and equal. 'Upstairs.'




'Shit.'

'What the hell was that?'

Dennis' voice chattered inside his ear, taught and barely controlled, as he whirled around, swinging the sawn-off up into perfect balance.

The canister popped as he fired: a spew of yellow cloud rising into the air, tinged blood red. The shotgun's boom echoed in the dimly lit, bouncing off threadbare and damp, chipped walls as his image-amplification band identified the gaseous composites.

97.3 percent probability that it was EYE gas. If it was, it couldn't affect him, not with the band strapped to his face.

'Shift yourself back to the wires, asshole,' Dennis chirped. 'I don't give jack shit about the body or the lacrimator. I can see through your eyes with or without it.'

'Stop bitchin' me, Big Mac,' Nelson snapped. 'I'm moving.'

He headed back to the vertical wiring column strapped into the corridor's corner, and pointed the band at the exposed white wiring. That colour choice had to be deliberate. Maybe it made more sense if you pointed an EM decoder at it.

Dennis pulled at his attention.

'Okay,' he said, sounding a lot calmer. 'You see the third wire in from the right?'

Nelson nodded, 'I see it.'

'Yank the bastard out.'

He did so. There was a tiny spark from the frayed copper, and then nothing.

'Tut tut.'

Nelson stood. Most of the gas had dissipated. 'What is it Dennis?'

'The cops. You pulled the wrong wire. The pigs know we're here. Oh fuck.'




There was a body lying still on the floor. Liquid tainted the carpet red: shimmering in the light as he moved on past.

He saw Nelson standing a few steps back from the conduit in the wide corridor, aiming the triple-barrel.

'Wait!' he cried, voice stratchy and high from the rush of having killed another man.

Nelson turned to face him like a turret, face cold and unshifting.

'What?' he growled from behind clenched teeth.

'What the fuck you doing?' The Renfield was steady in his hands. 'You trying to blow our cover?'

Nelson moved his head a minutest degree into the negative. 'Dennis and I got the wrong wire. The pigs'll be down here in minutes.'

He cursed and touched his throat-mike. 'Dennis? Dennis?'

There was a thin electronic whine, then MacSeddon's voice began to sound in his ear.

'Yo chum! Sorry I left you so like - had to do a little surf to the big N's optical rig. You all got ten minutes to make the hit before the oinks are inside. The others are on seventeenth. Wait for them by the stairs then head up to twenty-first. Apartment six-ten, remember?'

'Okay Dennis,' Nick said, 'We got it. Do the others-?'

'They know Nick. I've been talking to them from c-space through the light fittings. It was weird, man.'

Nick laughed. The flow of pulsing energy seemed to have been dammed. The electronic waves were smaller now.

They headed for the stairs.




The entrances to the stairs on each level were close together, meaning it didn't take them long to reach the twenty-first floor. One minute, he guessed: that left nine and then the cops.

Come and get it you grunts.

The numbers of the apartments went clockwise around the building. Six-hundred sat on their left, coming up the stairs. Six-ten should be somewhere at the end of the next corridor.

He ran beside Nelson, feeling slightly dwarfed by the black man's size. None of them had spoken to each other since the eighteenth floor: psyching themselves up.

Mandich's words vibrated inside his head, echoed by Dennis' quotation: "Accuracy, speed, stealth". The three major traits a pro gained, in that order. But real pros weren't made, they were born.

They stopped before the corridor ended, each breathing steadily. He had removed the 'soft. This was where the real kick came in; the real rush.

Nelson retracted his head. 'Nothing,' he mouthed. Nick nodded and moved forward, staying close to the right wall: the doors; their small, engraved metal plaques.

Six-ten was just where he'd expected it to be, a corner apartment and probably bigger than most on this floor.

He stood facing the false-wood door, knowing the others were waiting patiently, single-file on his left.

He stepped forward, kicked the door open with his foot.

The silence afterward as he walked into the room was almost deafening. He suppressed the urge to shout. Behind, he could hear Nelson telling Dennis that they were in - too fucking right - and heard the whining voice in his own ear. Seven minutes plus thirty. The killing they would definitely manage to pull off. As for getting out…

The main room of the Sécian apartment was sparsely decorated. A microwave and radio sat unplugged on top of a low glass-top coffee table: Japanese craftsmanship. A brown cardboard box sat next to them, flaps pushed down. There were some clothes strewn lazily on the tattered couch and another table.

It stank of temporary living, or else a shift of abode with plenty of time to move and a few things left behind.

Then he heard the shower, or rather the sound of someone singing badly from inside.

He gestured for Spence and Hénri to check the rest of the rooms - kitchen and bedroom - leaving Big Jo and Nelson in the main room by the door, whilst he headed in the direction of the toneless voice.

The door was slightly ajar when he reached it. Tainted yellow light spilled through the gap, onto the sun-bleached carpet that ill-fitted the main room, not quite reaching its walls.

Sounds of running water washed his ears, and the voice of the bathroom singer. Male; undoubtedly so.

He pushed the door open with the toe of his boot, took in the toilet and sink - orange soap and thin white towels. He pulled the trigger at the naked, white figure behind the misted plastic doors.

The screens shattered and disintegrated upon projectile penetration. Bullets thudded into the man - and the thick tiled wall beyond as he fell into the shallow pool of water at the shower's base.

Plaster and blood formed their own pink-grey concrete with the continuing flow of clear water.

He checked for a pulse.

As he stood up, Dennis' voice began again in his ear.

'I've lost the target's signal. You took him out, huh?'

'He's sixed,' Nick said, glimpsing his soaked figure in the mirror as he moved into the main room. 'You got an exit for us?'

'Sure have my man. Go back to the stairs and plummet.'

Nick nodded, facing the others. 'You get that?' They had. 'Then let's go.'




All five of them left apartment six-ten at an easy jog; relaxed - their job almost complete. He'd killed fast twice within the past few minutes - an eternity, it seemed, of exposing blood and guts and bio-retributive circuitry - the minisoft was plugged in to take advantage of that.

They reached the top of the flight of stairs. Dennis' voice came through all their micro-receivers; 'Shit, gentlemen: pigs bearing down on us. Fast.' A fumbling sound; clatter. 'Got to run. Head for Mandich's safe-haven. Move!'

They looked at each other - thoughts for the pause - and reached a collective decision: to split up. It was the only way they'd have any chance of getting out - especially with the cops stumbling, fashionably unprofessional, about the scene.

No words were spoken, as Big Jo, Hénri and Spence went back towards the apartment - it's white mute - and the exit beyond; out onto the emergency stairwell.

He and Nelson turned their backs and went on to descend the squared ring of spiral stairs.




As they neared the lobby, their pace slowed instinctively. The sound of voices reached their ears; muffled and deepened by super-light, super-strong helmets.

Nelson gripped his triple-barrel, bared incisors animal-like, and rounded the corner.

Nick was not long to follow, but the larger man had already taken down three of the armoured policemen. Their bodies lay on the floor - a twist of mutilation delivered from the shotgun, close range; but he had little time - enough to acknowledge them, no more - as four more entered the room from the left and a further two from ahead.

On impulse he pulled the trigger, cut the two down in seconds: the first dead as he bounced off the man behind. confusion working to his advantage - aeons to pick off the single pillar of human flesh.

He pivoted on his heel, unleashing heavy metal into a falling body - deceased: from Nelson's own fire.

Then the reception area was empty. Small pools - droplets and dribbles - of deep red blood coated the floor: an organic film of life-giving fluid taken so mercilessly from the dead. He looked at Nelson and grinned.

The big man grunted and turned.

'We've got to go. Outside I mean.' He shifted his head, giving Nick a profile of stony features. 'You ready?'

Still grinning, he nodded. Swirls of electric stimulation rippled inside his head - on the very layers of his brain - with that motion.




They stepped out from the broken, ancient lobby entrance, pattering of raindrops, and the white eye of a police AG heli upon them, tracking their movement.

He put half the distance between them, then began opening fire on the pigs.

Their squeals, whine of bouncing bullets and mysterious, indecipherable voice from the heli in his ears. A blue charge flew towards them, slammed into Nelson's shoulder, ripping his left arm from its socket. His face grimaced, contorted by unimaginable levels of pain. Orange splashed onto the black tarmac that slid beneath their feet, and was then stifled.

Cyborg, was all he had time to think, as a second bolt hit the ground not two metres away from him.

And he ran, to Nelson's screaming war cry: verbal rage from the wounded beast.

Rain formed irregular puddles in the cracks of the ground, but he dared not slip. His eyes caught the dark protection of an alleyway. With thoughts only for his personal survival, he clutched his rifle and ran: away from Nelson and the pigs; away from the ricochet of launched projectiles and Nelson's angry shouts of dismay. Loss - betrayal.

He ran.




* * *




The lift's doors opened onto a wide corridor. Few lights contributing toward the ambience - or making it. He stepped out, foot making no sound, bouncing, on the thick red carpet. There were no guards - he had proven his worth in battle; on the field.

He ignored the bug-eyes, pushed his fear upon the absence of a minisoft into the back of his head, as he placed one foot in front of the other: confidant stride. The wallpaper was cream, decorated with gold feathers. It looked brand new.

He came to the door, took its handle in his palm.

There's only one door, he thought, smiling, as he twisted, pushed and strode on after it.




The nameless man from their first briefing sat behind the desk opposite the door: a vaguely pigmented shadow of a silhouette.

He did not rise; motioned instead to a polished wooden chair of curvatures and twists - padded on the seat and back.

Deliberately keeping his face blank - immune to the taunting grin of Rendice's lips - Nick went to the chair, and sat down.




'He got away Nick.'

'Did he shit.'

'He got away. Put a copy of his mind on the grid and channelled it off to some island in Indonesia.'

'But I shot him!' - losing grip, fumbling with the threads under the edge of the chair; slipping.

'Oh, you got the body all right, gave the cops something to think about. But he's still out there: his intelligence, sentience - call it what you will.'

Shock.

'We want you to try again. We'll provide you with the necessary equipment, even bring the local grid down if we have to. Then you strike. Of course, it's possible the mind-state is copying itself right now, even as we speak - but copies can be traced.' Grin. 'How about it?'

Shake of his head. 'No.'

'What?' Short, concise: question and demand rolled into one.

'No. I - I need a rest. A break.' Looking up, comfort of the minisoft absent and sorely missed. Claustrophobia closing in as with the walls. 'Stress.'

Rendice dipped his head: relayed information from an invisible source. 'Fine. We have no problem with that. A few days tops.'

Nod.

Big smile, predator prey. 'Excellent. We'll call you.'

He began to rise; started to leave.

'And make sure you don't get too close Nick. You know what happens.'

Reference to prosts and his own reputation with them. He just grinned, as he always did.




* * *




Street corner, twelve blocks from the Elsidon office towers. He knew where he was, but had wandered aimlessly to get there - lost in thought.

The others had made it, of that he was glad, and Nelson's arm had been replaced: a show of old man Elstein's gratitude. A pity it did not extend to the rest of them.

Above, the sky had become overcast. Already had fallen, the first few significant drops of water - to a downpour, no doubt: natural scourging of the urban landscape.

He pulled the collar up on his sleeveless jacket and gave it all one last look; began to walk away. Home to pack, then off to Indonesia - immediately. He understood Rendice's use of words.

And then- Who knew? Off to a life: of little meaning and great emptiness, but for the feral rush of a kill.

…

The rain fell.

[Bedford]

That means we have until the 4th Nov (midnight GMT) to get all of these read, right? Okay; no problemo...

[bluevorlon]

Why do we suddenly have a new entry?

[blackjack]

damn... dunno who to vote for...

[ionfish]

Why do we suddenly have a new entry?

Because Bedford (who, I must remind you, started this madness) was about 350 miles away from his computer when we reached the deadline, and subsequently couldn't post his story. As without him we wouldn't have this competition, I thought it only fair to extend the courtesy of adding his entry to him.

Halfway through voting, and mista blu is in the lead... good luck everyone, short of winning.

(oh dear, looks like I forgot to shut off "noir reference mode" when I finished Shadows...)

[bluevorlon]

Because Bedford (who, I must remind you, started this madness) was about 350 miles away from his computer when we reached the deadline, and subsequently couldn't post his story. As without him we wouldn't have this competition, I thought it only fair to extend the courtesy of adding his entry to him.

Fair play there, but the problem is that people who have already voted won't be able to recast their votes, should they like Bedford's entry more than their original preference...

Ah well, *shrugs and wanders off to read Bedford's latest masterpiece*

[ceejayoz]

blu - I'm sure that if anyone wants to change their vote they can PM Ion and change their vote...

[Bedford]

Originally posted by bluevorlon


Fair play there, but the problem is that people who have already voted won't be able to recast their votes, should they like Bedford's entry more than their original preference...

Ah well, *shrugs and wanders off to read Bedford's latest masterpiece*

You want to change your vote?

Thanks IonFish for popping me in there...

And sorry to any of you out there who may have to change their vote.

[blackjack]

/me does a double take

B&B has votes?

Odd people...

[Don Armageddon]

/me does a double take

B&B has votes?

Odd people...

You insult the great Don? DEATH TO HIM!!!

No, seriously, I didn't have time to read all the stories. But I do remember reading Born and Bred and a few other "oldies" a while ago, so I picked the one I liked the most. And "Born and Bred" has a very interesting concept.

P.S. This has been one hell of a turnout! I hope the RBFA is at least this popular!

[ceejayoz]

Is voting over?

[bluevorlon]

Well, the votes are in, the polls have closed, and we have our winner...

mistar ionfish, please step up to the podium to collect your award

GG sir, a very deserving winner, amongst a wealth of talent,

All the stories were incredibly good, and well done to all who entered...

[ionfish]

What can I say? Thanks everyone...


Let me expand on that a little...


My undying gratitude goes out to my numerous and most worthy opponents; your stories pushed me, and my abilities, further than I could have by myself. Greenstone, Blink, bluevorlon, blackjack, Collector, Omi-kun, molotov, SajuukCor, Bedford, Mr-e-Man and TheGeneral, I salute you.


I won't say I don't deserve the great honour that you've chosen to bestow upon me, as slighting your judgement could seriously damage my chances in any further competitions.

However, I will say that my opponents surely deserve their moment in the sun, and I have no doubt that it will come – I feel lucky to be able to post my work in a place filled with such literate and talented writers, and such insightful and intelligent critics.


I must also extend my thanks to all those who voted for me, and to all those who voted for someone else: your dedication – in reading such a cornucopia of brilliant stories and still being able to decide on one to vote for, whichever one it was – is admirable in the extreme.


Lastly, I’d like to thank the following reprobates… Bedford, for dreaming up such a fantastic idea, and following it through to the hilt with two brilliant stories. I still haven’t figured out how on earth he didn’t get any votes – I can only conclude that it was the unfortunately late posting of his entry that did it.

And of course bluevorlon, for his unflagging support (despite us being rival contenders for the prize) and helpful criticism of my work (although he wouldn’t let me see Sparks before he posted it, damn his eyes).


I think I also owe deep apologies to the following authors for my unashamed parodies of their work: James Ellroy, Dashiell Hammet, and Raymond Chandler. Sorry guys, I couldn’t have done it without you.


As a final note, my one real regret is that not all of the forum’s most popular writers participated (Xellos, Reflection, Armageddon, crobato, I’m talking to you), and hopefully next time around they’ll get their brains in gear and provide all the writers who did such a brilliant job this time around more worthy opposition than yours truly.

gg

- ion -


[Shameless plug]

I’ve got a “director’s cut” of Shadows currently in production, which will be far superior to the original version, as it’ll be around half as long again and should include deleted scenes, far more character development, and a couple of new subplots. Hopefully it’ll be completed by the time the Relic Fiction Awards trundle round the corner…

Oh, and thanks to my brother for thinking up such an apt alternative title to my story…

[molo]

congrats to all the entrants ... I do, however, want to point something out.


This thread had close to 500 pageviews, yet only 25 voted. What happened there? I think, perhaps, the voting period was a little short.

Otherwise... great idea. Great job to both Ion and blu!

[blackjack]

I would like to congratulate Ion, blu and molo. In that order.

I bow to you guys for writing such thought-provoking and powerful fiction. And I demand that you take your talent... and give it to me, 'cause I need it more than you do

[ionfish]

molo: several points on that issue...

1) the poll was open for three days, and there was quite a considerable time before that when most of the stories were up.

2) Some of us have viewed the thread a fair few times, and repeat views do increase the view total.

3) By the end of the voting period, voting had slowed down immensely... I think there were only two or three votes on the last day.



blackjack: thanks, man... but I need my skills so I won't be an unemployed slacker for the rest of my life.

[cenpjas]

Ha, blueV and IonF voted for each other!

good deal

-cen

[cenpjas]

Sorry for not voteing, although I did look in now and then, but I have been busy and almost to tired to come here at all.

Who would I of voted for?..... guess I'll just have to read them all again and find out.

-cen