Archipelago Intro Contest:

Entry by G.N. Law

Harry Takes A Ride

G. N. Law

	The bi-weekly shuttle for Kingston was boarding as scheduled. 
You can always count on Hydrospan's hover-launch service to run on time. 
Large, rocket shaped, the craft sat serenely in the water. A hatch was 
open on the port side where a young woman in Trans-Archipelago uniform 
greeted each passenger.

	Harry boarded the launch with the regular commuter crowd - Incorp 
salarimen in fashionable suits, various dependants of Incorp salarimen,
kindly grannies with their ubiquitous umbrellas, pets. He made his way 
to a seat in the very back of the launch where he was joined by one of 
the smiling  old umbrella grannies.


	Clutching his armored briefcase close to his chest, Harry prepared 
for the inevitable lurch of the hover-launch casting-off. He was very 
glad to be leaving this small Biogene research enclave. In the briefcase
was his salvation, his emancipation from wage-slavehood. Delivery will 
afford him with a total gene-engineered identity makeover, which in turn 
will allow him to disappear into a life of beachcombing and yummy daiquiris. 
That was what he thought he signed up for when he agreed to come to 
Poseidon two years ago. The only combing he's gotten to do since arriving 
on this wet world is through his thinning hair and more recently, 
Biogene's top-secret files. Let's not even get into the daiquiris. 

	A few minutes after the crew secured the hatch came Harry's 
anticipated lurch as the hover-launch throttled its way into open waters. 
Droplets sprayed passed the porthole as the hover-launch increased speed 
and rode higher atop the sea. Only three and a half-hours to Kingston.

	The seats in the hovercraft are laid out so that passengers 
sat two together and facing two others across a narrow interactive table. 
On the table were numerous touch pads and flexible displays. One could 
engage in a duel of chess or check out CommCore news. The truly adventurous 
can even attempt to put things on it. 

	Harry set his briefcase down on it instead of in the overhead 
compartment. He checked his chronometer. In three hours, sixteen minutes, 
the files and tissue samples will be in GenDiver's greedy hands. The 
sample is from Biogene's prototype aquatic neodog. The faithful canine's 
making a comeback as man's best friend, a position currently held by the 
gen-lifted dolphins. Score GenDiver one, Biogene zero. And Harry? 

	Harry millions and millions.

	Sometime during his daydream, Harry noticed that there was now a 
man sitting across from him. Dark shades, black leather jacket, Free Zone 
cowboy boots, obvious mods - the man fairly reeked of menace - a menace to 
Harry's ego. Here was a man Harry's age that looked better, dressed better 
and obviously lived a more exciting life than Harry. 

	Harry took a righteous breath then, and resolved not to pity this 
man, who was obviously a Biogene grunt. By this time next week, Harry could 
reshape himself into an equally ominous figure but without any responsibilities 
to an Incorp state. It was another thirty minutes into the ride before 
Harry realized that this man could represent a menace of a more deadly sort. 

	When Harry was a child, his mother constantly reminded him of all 
the myriad things a boy had to do to avoid embarrassment. Though the woman 
was long gone, Harry still carried his mother's voice with him. Whenever 
something bad was about to happen, the voice would pipe in a nagging 
warning. Most of the time, mother's voice would just remind him that there 
was toilet paper being trailed behind his shoe. Right now though, mother 
was suggesting dire possibilities about the man opposite him.

	What if this wasn't just another company heavy commuting to Kingston? 
What if they'd found out about his treachery? What if this was the operative 
they sent to bring him back? Had he covered his tracks sufficiently? ... oh 
damn. Flipper must have yapped. He should've guessed that the neodog would 
talk. They must have bribed the mutt with rubber shrimp.

	Sweat formed on Harry's brow. He scrutinized the man for signs that 
the man was in turn scrutinizing him. The dark shades that the man wore 
made it impossible to tell which direction he was looking at. The man's 
head was turned a little towards the porthole though, so it was possible 
that he was looking at the waves outside. The most worrisome thing was the
way the man had his right hand inside his leather jacket. Harry settled
back to watch that hand for sudden moves.

	Another hour passed in ominous silence. The launch hit a wave crest 
and the passengers were momentarily lifted out of their seats. When they
settled, the man's right boot was on top of Harry's left foot. There's
no question now. This was An Assassin. 

	Harry took a hasty glance at the man's wrists. There it was! A
Biogene logo beside a crosshair icon-tattoo on the inside of the man's
left wrist. Biogene military grade reflex modification. Only top Biogene
operatives are given that modification. Your average human would go
insane from the heightened sensory input. These moddies have to do
constant distraction exercises to cope with reality.  

	Wonder what's he's got in his jacket, mother asked. Flechette gun?
Heavy magnum? Replica Walther PPK? Probably sound suppressed. Harry's
armpits felt like two soggy pools.

	Maybe he'll just take me in, Harry prayed. I'll return the sample
and everything can go back to the way it was. Back to nine to nine in
the cubicle. 

	You're small fry, Harry dear, mother said. Not worth throwing back,
good only for anchovy paste. If they wanted you back, they would have
stopped you before you boarded. Biogene probably thinks it's quicker and
cleaner to just kill you and throw you overboard. 

	Harry's final ride continued. Outside the porthole, night settled 
in. The Assassin shifted in his seat, his right hand still tucked inside 
his jacket. Kingston harbor was coming into view, lights glittering in
reflection on calm water. The boot on Harry's foot has been there for
almost two hours. Obviously, The Assassin was toying with Harry, telling
him that there was no escape. Harry's palms were wet with fear. Mother
reminded him to wipe them.

	It was now or never. He had to take out The Assassin before the
hover-launch docks. After all, The Assassin was probably planning to do
the same thing to him. I've got to get him before he can get his hand
out of his jacket and kill me, Harry thought. Somewhere in Harry's dim
past was two weeks of Karate classes. He'd quit when they started on
something harder than breathing exercises. To heck with it, sometimes
you just have to use what's at hand. Or in this case, in hand.

	The darkened hover-launch was rapidly nearly its destination. 
The Assassin began to withdraw his hand from his jacket. Fast as the 
man undoubtedly was with his modifications, he was no match for the
suddenness of Harry's armored briefcase. Ferro-Plastic and nose made
contact. Ferro-Plastic won with shooting stars and singing birdies. 

	A quick check revealed to Harry that the man was still alive.
That was a little disappointing, frankly. All that cartilage into the 
brain stuff must be overrated, mother said. 

	Snow played across the inside of the smashed shades. It dawned on 
Harry that they were TeleVisors. Harry pried the assassin's - he'd stopped
thinking of the guy in capital letters - hand open. Clutched in the hand
was a rectangular sized device, instantly recognizable by billions of
males as a remote control. A remote for the TeleVisors.

	There was a light tug at Harry's elbow. It was the kindly old
lady, smiling and entirely unperturbed by all the excitement. In her hand
was the umbrella, pointy end aimed at Harry's heart.

	Modern science truly is amazing. Mother thinks they can even 
engineer wrinkles.