From: Tun Kai Poh [t_poh@hotmail.com] Sent: Wednesday, March 17, 1999 12:57 PM To: blue_planet@mpgn.com Subject: [BLUE PLANET] - Story - Untitled (part 2) (continued from Part 1) * * * From the moment Ramon walks into the covered marketplace, he can feel the energy of the crowd. An elderly native referee argues loudly with spectators. Gloved handlers wait on the sidelines for their moment. Fighting cocks coil like snakes in cages, their combs and their spurs trimmed to nubs. A skinny Chinese man in mirrorshades collects bets as a cetacean drone hovers enigmatically over his shoulder. A guitarist plays to the crowd for small change. There are a few spectators here and there who stick out like sore thumbs, outsiders in town for the music festival, gawking at the exotic proceedings. Ramon doesn't stand out; he's used to cockfights. Vendors peddle bloody-feathered shuttlecocks, incense helices, novelty watches, imitation Love That Dolphin stuffed dolls, and other toys for the kids. Kids. Half-naked children scurrying underfoot across a biocrete floor covered with white sand and fallen tailfeathers. Fathers lift their young sons onto their shoulders to get a better view of the cockpit. An unattended native girl stinking of strong perfume shakes her fist in the air, cheers on her favorite bird, and screams for blood. The new match hasn't even begun. He wants to record this. Fumbles through the camera bag. Julia's 35mm is loaded with black-and-white film. Good enough. He starts snapping shots of the audience. A lean sweating white man in a U.S. Army jacket brings forth his contender, an equally lean white raptor with cold reptilian eyes. His opposite is a short, blunt-faced Filipino woman with impressive biceps. Her black stag seems wound up like a steel spring, even after she carefully lifts him from the cage with ungloved hands. The referee starts inspecting both fowl. "See?" the Chinese bookie says to someone behind Ramon. "No way it could be reflex serum." "But I saw the last time he fought. Elvis, I tell you, she's got him on something, and if it isn't juice, I don't know what it is." "Excuse me." Ramon can't help asking. "You think she uses reflex serum on her fowl?" The suspicious spectator, a yellow-skinned woman in dreadlocks, crosses her arms defensively. "Yeah! It's not like it's never happened before. Not her personally, but I've seen other trainers use it. Sometimes the cock's heart actually explodes after the fight." "That's insane!" "No, it isn't. The local LavOrg personnel make a lot of money selling juice on the black market, and half of it's sold to fowl breeders..." The bookie, Elvis, takes Ramon by the shoulder and pulls him away from the woman. "Don't listen to her; Sad Sally thinks everything's a conspiracy. The other day she said Hanover released the faked Westcape pictures themselves in a pre-emptive media strike, and then she started going into details and she lost me. I don't know where she went with that. Trust me on this one. Nobody juices up a bird at this pit. We run clean fights." Ramon turns back to the pit. "They weren't all fakes," he says absently, but Elvis doesn't hear him. "Pit!" The word is barely out of the referee's mouth when the two battle stags fly at each other, white and black flashing like lightning. Ramon only manages to shoot one picture before the handlers pull their fowl away from one another. The referee calls for the judges' scores, and four men and a woman on a bench begin writing numbers on pads. "No knives and no gaffs." Ramon is relieved and guiltily disappointed at the same time. Elvis theatrically waves at the judges for Ramon's sake. "It's mostly naked heel matches scored by committee. Only about twenty percent of fights go to the death. The rest of the time, the judges decide. Believe me, I'd like to see more blood, because it's always conducive to betting. But it's hard enough keeping them alive from day to day on Poseidon, and this way the birds can get a track record without risking death all the time." He pauses to hear the judges' decision. "Okay, this one looks like a tie. Pity. I was hoping for better from the American's bird." "Why?" "Look, the black one's only got one eye. A distinct disadvantage. I don't care what they say about Jessy, she can't work miracles on a crippled animal." Jessylinda noisily protests the judges' decision. Her small black eyes get cold and distant, and Ramon thinks of sharks' eyes for some reason. She calls out a challenge: "Hey, Slick. Want to try playing a real man's game?" The crowd hushes. "What, gaffs or knives?" The American's interest is piqued. "Your call. I'm the challenger. Let's see which stag's the better, once and for all." "Fair enough. I call Mexican knives. You want to talk money, while you're at it?" Rain drums down on the tarpaulin covering the cockpit, but nobody notices in the renewed excitement. Elvis and the other bookies are overwhelmed by the sudden rush of bettors. Ramon finds himself alone for a moment, but not for long. The hover drone which previously accompanied Elvis flies up to his eye level. "You'd be Elvis' boss? The bookmaker?" "That is correct. I am Bookmaker." "I never knew a dolphin could be a bookmaker." "I can be anything a human is. My soul was shaped in the image of Man, twisted and covetous." "Uh..." Ramon doesn't know how to respond to that. He's not used to cetaceans spouting philosophy. "You seem to be well versed in the sport. Do you wish to place a wager?" "No." * * * "Your birth name is Maria Roxas. You and a twin brother were born in San Fernando, Chiapas, Mexico, on Recontact Day, 2165. Your parents were Juan and Juliana Roxas, both fervent Mexican Baptists. Counting your twin, you had five other siblings. Your family traveled a lot, following the seasonal jobs across the country. You received very little in the way of an education, but early testing showed that you were exceptionally bright. "You were also a very pretty girl. In 2180, your parents sold you to an illegal matchmaking agency in Mexico City for 20,000 Global Currency Units. It is believed that you were one of the very first maid-order brides sent to Poseidon. Shortly thereafter, your entire family was killed in a slum fire. "When you arrived in Haven with your forged papers eight months later, you discovered that the man who had sent for you had died while you were in transit. You were free. GEO employment records show that you worked as a waitress in a local nightclub for over two years, before the amorous affections of a local criminal boss forced you to flee the city. "In 2183, you were seen working as a prostitute in a logging camp near Kingston, but you quit barely two months later. You reappeared in Second Try in 2185, where you found a more stable job as an exotic dancer in a club on Cabo's Way, going by the stage name 'Ravishing Roxy.' During your free hours, you took CommCore correspondence courses and earned your high school diploma. You also struck up a close friendship with Jessylinda Portacio, a bouncer at the club. "In 2189, four members of a Haven criminal organization were slain in the club. Portacio was the prime suspect, but she somehow managed to escape capture. The GEO Patrol arrested you for aiding the fugitive in her flight, but in the end they dropped the charges due to lack of evidence. "Shortly thereafter, you vanished again, leaving no trail at all. However, Portacio did. She surfaced in Haven in early 2190, where she worked as a legbreaker for a local loan shark. She fled the town two months later after killing two GEO Patrolmen in a bar fight. A woman fitting your description, 'Carolyn Ruis,' appeared in town not long after, making inquiries about the killing. She spent several weeks there, working as a troubleshooter for the madam of a local brothel, before disappearing. "Jessylinda Portacio reappeared in Al-Mamlakah in 2191, slaughtered eight Atlas Materials employees in what became known as the Eid-Al-Fitr Massacre, and eluded authorities once again. A certain 'Susan Ramirez' flew into the Atlas company town barely two weeks later, where she provided a high-ranking executive with assistance in concealing a messy affair with a prostitute. In exchange, he gave her a file containing the details of the massacre. "I could go on, but we both know most of the details. A shootout in Atlantis, a gang war in Nomad, and so forth. From 2189 until late 2194, Jessylinda Portacio tore across most of the Pacifica Archipelago, leaving a trail of mangled bodies behind her. You spent that time following her, always a few weeks too late, often working as a private investigator. "In 2194, you caught up to Portacio in Kingston, where the two of you played a crucial role in preventing a war between three factions of the NRM. The two of you settled down in a shophouse given to you by an associate of Deon Malcolm's for services rendered. Your neighbors know you as Carol and Jessy, the Due Sisters. "Portacio's violent escapades have ended, for the most part, or at least are no longer as public as they used to be. Meanwhile, you have become known for your ability to solve people's problems. You have hired out your expertise to some of Poseidon's most colorful personalities. Your varied travel experiences and experience with the criminal underground makes you especially good at operating in places where privileged people cannot. It is the opinion of many that you are the best investigator on this world or any other. "How am I doing so far, Ms. Roxas?" Carol doesn't respond. She sits still, as she has done for the past ten minutes. She should be saying something, a cutting remark, a verbal shrug. But there is nothing. Gertrude doesn't show her elation. Inside, it's like her first day on the job, all over again. "I'm afraid all that talking has made me thirsty. I shall ask the Lieutenant to fetch a drink." She pauses on her way to the door. "Do you want anything?" "No." The single word cracks as it leaves a dry throat. * * * Short diamond-edged knives, the Mexican kind. Jessylinda ties them onto the stag's heels at just the right angle. She licks a finger and slicks back a black feather. Ramon watches through the camera lens. The past, like tinnitus or background radio static, remains at the edge of his consciousness, just out of reach. He can't quite remember his father; she doesn't resemble him enough to ring a bell. Oh, she has that cruel look in her face, and the thick hard knuckles of a pugilist. But she handles the animal with a tenderness Ramon never saw in his father. There is no reminder of the past here, no superimposition of images. The bets are all laid. The crowd is tame, attentive. Bearded prospectors and native women alike stand on tiptoe to see. The children who sit on their parents' shoulders have the best view in the house. "Pit!" The one-eyed black stag leaps just a little higher, and seems to plunge into the white one's back. But the American's bird twists aside at the last moment and strikes high, nicking the neck with his bladed ankle, spraying the sandy cockpit with drops of blood. Children cheer. Ramon captures the image on film. The animals strike and pull away and strike again. One-eye lunges, kicks, and suddenly, absurdly, is stuck in his opponent's side. The white stag goes down, the black one pulls free. His trainer clenches her fists and punches the air. But there is something wrong. One-eye staggers drunkenly, then falls too, blood gushing from the neck as his wound opens wide. The crowd unfreezes and the commotion of the cockfights resumes its normal volume. Elvis is already arguing with several bettors and the American is throwing a glove down in disgust. Sad Sally crosses her arms and grumbles disapprovingly at the whole affair. Jessylinda falls onto her knees beside the dying bird, like a new widow at a presidential assassination. She picks up the broken little body, holding it like something fragile. The dark and ugly features of her face untwist for just a moment, and Ramon sees beauty in sorrow. He focuses and takes her picture. CLICK. She starts. The mask falls back and she turns to see who has exposed her. She snarls for less than a second, and then Ramon sees a blur of movement coming at the lens. She fills his view ever so briefly. There is a loud cracking noise and a powerful impact as the camera smashes against his face. Ramon sees his father's face clearly now, clearly for the first time in almost twenty years. Then there is darkness. * * * "You love your sister, don't you, Maria?" "You're more of a genetic dead end than I thought you were, trying to get to me through her." Carol's eyes can't help but stray to the glass of cool ice tea by Gertrude's hand. She badly wants a drink of water. It isn't right. Someone once told her that people used to believe that you could steal someone's soul with a camera. They should've seen what Gertrude Baum can do with a few words. "I can see to it that word of her new life here in Kingston reaches the right ears." Carol stares defiantly across the table, into the older woman's icy blue eyes. "Kingston never signed any extradition treaties, and not even a Marshall could serve a GEO warrant here. Not without starting a war with the NRM." "It doesn't have to be official. There are Atlas executives who lost family members in the Eid-Al-Fitr Massacre. They're still nursing their rage. All it takes is one team of assassins. Or maybe one of Mr. Bishop's covert operations...don't laugh." "Lady, nothing on this planet can kill Jessylinda. She'll joint and bone them and hang you with their guts." "But you forget one thing: they can scatter her new life to the winds. She'll have to run again, and there're not many places left where she isn't wanted for one thing or another. Kingston is her last refuge, and I can see to it that she loses it. More importantly, I can see to it that you lose her." Gertrude lets it rest at that and waits. She waits for a long minute. Carol gets up to leave. "If that's the worst you can threaten me with, we have no more business to discuss." Gertrude stands, too. This is the moment she's been waiting for. Everything up to now has been window dressing. "If not the stick, then the carrot. I can give you something you thought lost. I can give you back a piece of your past, Maria Roxas." She speaks quickly, laying out certain facts, but omitting the crucial details. She spends three minutes explaining what she has to offer, and why only she can offer it. If she had cracked Carol's facade of strength before, now she shatters it. "Mother of God." Carol sits again. "Odd choice of words. You're not Catholic, Maria." "What do you want me to do?" Carol's voice is weak now, truly weak. "I want you to track down a woman, a musician named Jessica DeMarco Vasquez. She may be in Haven, and you should start searching there. Find her and bring her to me. She has valuable knowledge." "Jessica Vasquez? The horn player? The one who used to be in the Price?" "Yes. And then I want you to make contact with Jeanette Harwati-Colton. Tell her that I have something for the Children of the Widow, a data file containing the truth about the Athena Project. In exchange, they will call off any attempts on my life." "They marked you for death? Oh, sweet Jesus." Carol looks at the table, not seeing anything. Then she looks up again. "Wait. What the hell do you need me for? If you know this much about me, how hard can it be to find them yourself?" "I do have a good deal of information on the two women I seek. But as I have said, you can go where I cannot. And you will succeed where others might fail. There are certain...complications. The least of which is that I don't have much time, and neither do you." "What's the matter, the Hanover Security Service not all it's touted to be? Hah." Carol's smile is ironic and mirthless. Gertrude holds out a dataspike. "Everything you need to know on the matter. The folder labeled INQUISITOR gives you a system supervisor account in all of Hanover's internal databases. And I've opened a Hanover expense account for your travel expenses. Both expire the moment I do. As does my offer. And to sweeten things, upon the moment of my demise, all my files on Jessylinda will be mailed to GEO Internal Security and certain individuals in Atlas Materials." "You've got it all worked out, haven't you?" "I would prefer if you left immediately. There is an unmarked VTOL with a pilot waiting for you on Pad B3, five minutes' walk away from here. Officers Stolz and Dietrich will take you there. You can read the spike en route to Haven. I'll be waiting in the Volkhaus until you call." Carol shakes her head, trying to take it all in. She stands up and sticks the spike into a jacket pocket. "Rolf Danzinger was wrong about you." "Ah, yes. You worked for him once, didn't you? 2195, a year before he...left us. I never found out what it was you did for him." "I'm not telling you. But I remember what he said about you, his prized student and protege. He said you were a cold ingrate bitch. He said you were a machine with no feelings at all. But he was wrong. I can smell the fear on you. You're fucking desperate and I'm your last hope." Gertrude stirs her iced tea with a straw, keeping her eyes on Carol's. "The plane is waiting." (Copyright Tun Kai Poh, 1999) Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com *************************************************************************** To unsubscribe from this list send mail to majordomo@mpgn.com with the line 'unsubscribe blue_planet' as the body of the message. From: Tun Kai Poh [t_poh@hotmail.com] Sent: Wednesday, March 17, 1999 12:54 PM To: blue_planet@mpgn.com Subject: [BLUE PLANET] - Story - Untitled (part 1) More fiction, once again a continuation of what has gone before. It's Chapter 5 of the overall storyline, tentatively called "Some Die In Kingston." This chapter is a bit long, so I'm splitting it into two parts. I couldn't decide on a name for it, although it will probably have one by the time Dave Klegman puts it on his site. * * * Untitled (part 1) By Tun Kai Poh There are many places in Backbay where the roosters will crow you awake before sunrise. This one is a weathered old three-story shophouse made almost entirely of a rare type of coastal plywood that fast fungus won't eat. The racket always comes at 7 in the morning from the rooftop brood pens where Jessylinda Portacio keeps her gamefowl. You'd think that they'd be crowing at all hours as their internal clocks keep trying to figure out why the sun rises six hours later each day, but the people at Lavender Organics are very clever bastards, and they've managed to engineer the 30-hour-day gene for chickens. It took them long enough, but somewhere around 2196, the local LavOrg branch realized what kind of demand there was for genetically modified gamefowl in Kingston. Cockfighting was introduced to the colonial settlement by Mexican and Filipino miners, who flooded into the town after the Long John gold rush began in 2187. Kingston rapidly became the colonial cockfighting capital. Now, raising chickens on Poseidon was hard enough with fast fungus infections and native parasites attacking your brood at every turn. The last thing a gamefowl breeder needed is his roosters waking him up at 2800 hrs just because they think it's dawn. Gamefowl breeding on Poseidon remained a tricky science for years, but once LavOrg introduced its special breeds, with their immunological symbiotes and enhanced blood oxygenation and hardwired killer instinct and 30-hour-day genes, the new state of the art was established. The Incorporate's enclave on Cape Fortune became a regular stop for the town's hundreds of gamefowl breeders. And most important, people in Backbay could actually get some sleep again. An hour before the roosters start crowing in a chain reaction that will quickly spread across the darkness of the western Annotto Parishes, Jessylinda Portacio wakes up. One minute she's a lump of hard angles snoring in a water hemp hammock in the second floor workshop, and the next, her small piggy eyes snap open and she flips out onto her feet, unfolding into a squat, vaguely feminine figure rippling with muscle and latent brutality. She throws on a faded blue shirt and shorts, brushes her short hair, eats a quick breakfast of cold salted fish and beer in the kitchen next door, then opens the refrigerator to get an expensive bottle of LavOrg buttermilk for her brood. She picks up a bag of feed from the cupboard and goes up onto the roof. Feeding the chickens up on the roof takes ten minutes, and they eat better than she does. The next half hour is spent on upkeep: cleaning the pens, counting eggs, checking the fowl for parasites and fast fungus, introducing a weary old battle cock to the new LavOrg Hatch VI hen in the hope that they'll breed instead of tearing each other to pieces. Jessylinda lovingly runs her callused fingers through white and brown tailfeathers. She picks out a one-eyed black champion stag, the winner of three tournaments in his one and a half years, and gently but firmly puts him into a carrying cage. Five more minutes to gather everything she needs in a water hemp bag. Down the stairs. A quick kiss on the cheek of her sleeping sister Carol, who has always occupied a couch by the back door on the grounds that she might have to make a break for it one day. Then the best damn gamefowl breeder in Kingston is off to Fight Day, cage in one hand, bag in the other. * * * The dying woman looks into the mirror and sees somebody else staring back with her eyes. Somebody else was always waiting underneath, waiting for the right time to come out. Gertrude, somebody else says, why are you doing this? You could get offworld if you really wanted. Hanover not wanting to let you go is no excuse. Rolf got out, why can't you? Because I've got responsibilities, she replies. Because I've never walked away from a fight in my life. That doesn't mean you have to tear down everything you've ever built. No, I suppose not. You're doing it because you've always wondered what it would be like. You've had your finger on the button for so long. This is just the excuse you've always wanted. Would I be that heartless? To bring chaos to Poseidon, to throw Adolf and Hans and Werner into the maelstrom without good reason? Oh, love, you're a heartless one all right. Just like your father. My father was a good, kind man. I was referring to Rolf Danzinger. The man who made you who you are. The man who taught you to lie and blackmail and claw your way to the top. He taught me to stand up for myself. That's all. The rest I take full responsibility for. That's why you covered all of it up, eliminated the witnesses? Nobody died! The mind-job was a mercy after what happened to that boy! Careful, love. You're letting me get to you. I thought only Joey Lester could do that. Shut up! Admit it. You're a pathological destroyer of lives. Now you're going to tear everything down just to save your worthless hide. Shut up! It was my job! I was doing my job! That's what they all say. "Shut up!" Gertrude Baum hits a key and deactivates the mirror, which fades into the blackness of a flat screen display. She is once again alone in her room in the Volkhaus. It's not quite dawn. She hasn't slept all night, but transhuman metabolism can handle that easily. Her face is shiny with sweat. She knows that she needs to set her mind onto business. It's the only way to stay sane. "Bodycomp. Call Lieutenant Berring." There is a click, a series of short electronic tones, then a voice. "Frau Baum?" "Lieutenant. Has the subject left the premises yet?" "No. We saw someone else, a few minutes ago -" "Short, thick-shouldered Filipino woman with a bull neck?" "Yes, Frau Baum. She left the shophouse carrying a rooster in a cage." "Ah, that would be Ms. Portacio. The adopted sister." "Should I detach a man to follow her?" Try to tail the sister? It would be a waste of life. "No. Stay where you are, and call me when the subject is up and about. I shall be there myself in about thirty minutes." "Yes, Frau Baum. We'll try to -" Avian cacophony echoes down the alleyways and canals of Backbay, drowning out the phone conversation. The roosters are awake, crowing the morning in Kingston. Gertrude walks to the window and tries to open it, but the room's AI informs her that the windows have to remain shut for security purposes. She spits out the override code. If it is to be a sniper, let them try, she thinks. I want to hear this. The bulletproof window slides open. The distant sounds of the roosters come across the waters of Annotto Bay and into her room. The sun, still below the horizon, lights up clouds to the east, turning them red and orange. So many more roosters today compared with ten years ago, when she first came to Kingston as a journalist for United Bavaria Media. She marvels at how the town has grown. It's as good a place as any to make her last stand. "Give me a lever, and a place to set it..." "Frau Baum?" "Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself. Carry on." She terminates the call. * * * Ramon Ortega has only been in Kingston for twenty minutes when he hears the cocks crow. He hasn't heard the sound in years, and this waterworld town was the last place he expected to hear it. He stops in his tracks, halfway down the ramp from the seaplane. Behind him, an old lady complains loudly, bringing him back from the past. He apologizes and quickly makes way for the other disembarking passengers. He's spent far too long in that cramped cabin, and is glad to be on solid land - or at least, solid pier - again. He swings his heavy camera bag around to his back, stretches his arms, groans. He aches all over. Not as young as he used to be. There it is again: The sound of the cocks crowing. Old memories don't come easy for him, but this one swims out of the depths and bursts through the surface like a breaching whale. He's a boy in Guadalajara again, and it's the day of the cockfights. He's sitting on the porch with his sisters, watching his father's truck pulling out of the drive with chicken cages stacked in the back. His father won't be spending the day at home, drunk and growling. Not today. Today is like Christmas. Today is Fight Day. The memory fades. "Excuse me, miss," he asks a muscular young dockworker in English, "I didn't know they kept chickens here." "Your first time here?" She laughs when he nods. She's wearing a black armband with NOA written on it in red. "Those are chickens, yes they are. They're not for eating. Too expensive. No, they're for the cockfights." "Cockfights? Where can I find the cockfights?" She laughs louder. "Give me a five-bill and I'll tell you." * * * The roosters wake Carol Due from lazy dreams of stormy days in Barker's Gorge. She gets up from the couch in slow motion, yawning. She sits in front of the hallway mirror and brushes her long brown hair. It takes her nearly ten minutes to struggle into a dark green drysuit. Then she shrugs into a black rainjacket, ties on her running shoes, resets the watchdog alarms, and ambles out the front door, locking it behind her. Two blocks away from home, the stench of chickens finally fades and she can taste the morning scents in the hot, humid air. Somewhere up on a rooftop, someone is pepper grilling trident fish. Pharium smoke wafts out of a curtained doorway. A small native girl walks by, wearing a whore's perfume in her hair. Carol knows that it's a whore's perfume, but she wonders about the girl. Over the noise of the roosters, she can hear guitars and drums and sound boards, in distant rooms or makeshift stages, reminders of the tumultuous festival that seems to have gone on forever now. Thousands of people have come to Kingston for the Zion Music Festival, crowding Cape Fortune and Backbay and the countryside all around. How many will decide to stay? She climbs a steep sloping ramp onto a platform built on someone's roof, and finds herself at the morning hawker center. Sundancers sizzle on hotplates. Noodles slap into bowls. The cooks laugh and trade rude jokes and gossip in half a dozen languages as they fill orders with deceptive ease. Prospectors share a pot of hexa boar stew. Kids run from table to table, taking orders. Carol's breakfast is a slow, relaxing affair involving a heap of fried yam cakes with rubber shrimp and No. 12 sauce, and a cup of fruit juice. She lets her fingers dance casually over a Sword of Zion symbol crudely carved into the tabletop. "Mickey!" she calls cheerfully in Spanish to a hefty bearded black man behind the yam cake stall. "Elvis was saying that Cat came home last week. Why didn't you tell me?" Mickey frowns. "He doesn't want to talk to you. You stay away from him, now." "I've got his money. I can pay him everything I owe him." "Doesn't want your money, either. Haven't you hurt him enough? Boy! Come here!" He calls his runner back and reprimands him for ignoring a customer. By the time he turns back to Carol, her seat is empty, and a folded Hanover ten-bill lies by her plate. She's gone in search of Elvis. Elvis Teoh works for the only cetacean bookie in Kingston. Today is Fight Day; he'll be down by the cockpit, taking bets. If Mickey won't talk, Elvis might, for the right price. Maybe she'll get there in time to see Jessylinda's stag fighting. Short cut: down Sanderson Row and to the left, past a whitewashed wall covered with fresh anti-Hanover slogans. She can see the roof of the Blue Mountain Saloon off to the right. There's a reggae band warming up inside. That's when she first realizes that somebody is following her. Two men with radio communicators. They're making it plain that they want her to know she's being followed. She glances over her shoulder. They pretend they don't see her seeing them. They could probably keep up this charade for hours. About-face. "Hey, boys." To their credit, they don't seem unsettled. She bats her eyes playfully. "I could get you into a lot of trouble if I wanted to. See that gang of native youths with the Ruth Noa armbands? I could tell them that you're HSS plainclothes, and that would be the end of that." The shorter of the two is a little less upset than the other. "How'd you know?" "Hah! I didn't! But they'd believe it. Tall blonde Aryans? You sure look the part." "That's not fair!" the taller one protests. Carol is having too much fun. "Racism is a wonderful thing. Want to tell me what this is about, or do you want to play some more?" "Uh, there's someone who wants to talk to you. She's waiting in the upstairs gaming rooms in the Blue Mountain." "I don't deal with Incorporates any more. And if I did, I wouldn't deal with you. Don't know if you've heard, but your scrip's heading for a fall. It's got something to do with some pictures floating around on CommCore..." The short one is listening to his personal communicator. "Uh-huh," he says to it. He snaps it shut and directs his gaze to Carol's eyes. "It has to do with your sister Jessy. Have we got your attention now?" Her eyes narrow, just like Frau Baum said they would. "What's it got to do with her? If you're using her name in vain..." "No tricks. Just talk to my boss, right?" "Right." Carol stalks into the Blue Mountain. She used to go there pretty often, until they started turning it into a pathetic tourist trap. It's lost all its ambiance, all its spirit. The gaming rooms upstairs are a joke now. Nobody cuts deals and makes threats up there anymore. Just gambling. Carol figures she's dealing with someone with a soft spot for the old days. It should be interesting, she thinks. Another HSS plainclothesman at the top of the stairs. He lets her into the room. There are two chairs on opposite sides of a gaming table, and one of them is occupied. "Sit down, Carol," says Gertrude Baum. "Or should I call you Maria?" Carol turns as hard and serious as gravestones. "Talk." (continued) Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com *************************************************************************** To unsubscribe from this list send mail to majordomo@mpgn.com with the line 'unsubscribe blue_planet' as the body of the message. From: Michael Daisey [mdaisey@amazon.com] Sent: Wednesday, March 17, 1999 2:19 PM To: BP list Subject: [BLUE PLANET] - The Gaming Outpost. Not intending to spam, but I have a position as a staff member at the brand new Gaming Outpost. You can reach it at the following link: http://www.gamingoutpost.com/ Here you can find breaking news as it happens in the RPG industry, discussion forums and more: there will be feature reviews and articles starting in the next two weeks. I'd love to feature Blue Planet prominently, as I am in charge of small game company promotion and reviewing. If anyone from Biohazard could email me, I'd love to talk. I'd love to see a Blue Planet forum, and more Blue Planet links, so please submit them and check us out. Thank you for your time. -- Michael Daisey aka mrmister Gaming Outpost Staff Member http://gamingoutpost.com *************************************************************************** To unsubscribe from this list send mail to majordomo@mpgn.com with the line 'unsubscribe blue_planet' as the body of the message.