Wetwork, Pure and Simple
The ideas of economists and political philosophers, both when they are right and when they are wrong, are more powerful than is commonly understood. Indeed the world is ruled by little else. Practical men, who believe themselves to be quite exempt from any intellectual influence, are usually the slaves of some defunct economist.
-- John Maynard Keynes
Setting: A pair of men stand looking at a large glass tank sealed in a hermetic incubation chamber. The tank is filled with viscous red ichors and thin strips of what appears to be double ply toilet paper.
“What is that?” asked Terrance to the doctor next to him.
“Your new skin,” replied the physician, “Did you know that your skin is the largest organ of your anatomy? The average adult human has over 14 to 18 feet of it.”
The shocked street samurai shook his head, “But I’m an elf…”
“I can see,” stated the doctor with a thin smile, “Anyhow, we manufactured the synthetic dermal layer via a soft nanotech factory in the tank. The soft nanites are weaving Kevlar and nano-scale composite ceramics in between the two layers of skin.”
Terrance grew concerned, “Wait a minute; I have a friend that uses that nano-stuff – is it safe?”
“Perfectly safe,” the physician assured the street samurai, “The rumors of rogue nanites unleashing some sort of plague are the stuff of bad tri-vid fiction. In fact, without the nanites working to encode the dermis with your genetic material, your body would reject the implant altogether.”
“Yeah, right – who needs skin anyways?” Terrance quipped.
The doctor continued, “Now, Mr. Amond, while the skin finishes curing, we will need to start working on you. We must first de-glove the top two layers of skin from your body using a chemical searing agent. Then, while you are suspended in an aseptic nutrient bath, the Robotic SmartDoc will introduce the layers of orthoskin one piece at a time. Meanwhile, my assistant will inject different soft nanites into the tank to act as a bonding astringent…”
“Whoa, stop it there Dr Strangelove, did you say the Robotic SmartDoc is going to be implanting the Orthoskin?” demanded an incredulous Terrance.
“Of course, in spite of the invasive nature of the procedure, it is all rather mundane. Rest assured, I will be monitoring the situation from my office….Now let’s talk about recovery packages – We have a wonderful 5-day 4- night spa treatment located in…”
But the elf had already drowned the Doctor out. Terrance had been shot three times during the last mission; he was going to get this Orthoskin implant – even if it killed him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I had to revive Terrance twice last mission, thought Carlito as we worked to stitch together pieces of the armor remnants from the vault guards at the casino.
I bet he’ll get good use out of this suit, thought the scientist.
It’s better to have the meat shields in front to soak all the blunt trauma, said the skull.
“Good point, Tommy, but we better keep that strategy to ourselves!”
Tommy’s skull sat on a pile of books with titles such as,
Cracking for Dummies,
The Noobs Rigging Manual, and
Reference 1213ed-54c: UCAS Field Guide for Electronic Warfare. After the previous few missions, Carlito had decided the team desperately needed the skills of a true hacker.
Coupled with the Musketeer’s commlink, complete with decent, though no longer cutting edge hacking utilities, Carlito’s cybernetic capabilities made him a natural fit to take on the role of hacker in the team. Yet, the scientist had misgivings,
I hope I don’t let the team down.
You can do it, Carlito! replied the skull.
“Thanks, Tommy.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Delivery for Alexander McQueen,” said the human at Alexander’s front door. The elf signed for the carrier document and the deliveryman left.
I didn’t even know people still used couriers, thought the lawyer. Most communication was done via email or vidlink messaging. Physical mail had gone the way of the dodo, the 8-track cassette or the spaghetti-wired mess of the last Matrix.
The envelope was marked with no return address or the identity of the sender, but Alexander knew exactly who had sent the package.
The shaman had received a vidlink from Paula Peterson in the early afternoon the day of the casino heist. Red had called the elf while he was still sleeping off the long-night’s activities around 3pm that afternoon
“Still in bed?” Red had greeted Alexander with a thin smile at the vidlink image of the elf tangled in his bedclothes.
“What’s it look like?” had replied an annoyed Alexander whom was still sprawled face down on his bed. Alexander’s ARO showed Paula’s long red hair and piercing blue eyes but the lawyer noticed that she did not use her personal commlink. Red had called him from a public console.
Why use a public console? thought the lawyer; but he answered his own question,
Unless she wants to remain anonymous .
“Well, I’ll be brief,” Red had stated, “I spoke with Svetlana and she indicated that you had worked out the deal.” Red smiled but her eyes burned like fire, “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
She must have found out about the side deal between Svetlana and I, thought the groggy lawyer,
Frag it if she can’t take a joke!
“Svetlana and I worked it out,” Alexander came clean, “She shouldn’t have shot me in the back – she won’t do it again.”
Red pursed her lips, but continued, “In any case, I am pleased you were able to complete your assignment -- I have another for you and your minions. Details will be coming your way shortly – along with some back-up. Be ready.”
Red terminated the call.
This McQueen lacks subtlety, yet his team overcomes challenges with power and resourcefulness. Perhaps this next mission will not go as poorly as I fear…
Later, after the courier had delivered the envelope to Alexander, the elf opened up the package, which contained only a RFID tag. Immediately, the RFID reader in his commlink picked-up the passive radio signal from the tag and an ARO popped-up into view.
Meeting at 7pm at Seattle Greyhound bus terminal locker 174, read the ARO.
Awesome[/], thought the elf, At least I can get some more shut-eye between now and then.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Slone, Carlito and the shaman were waiting at the bus terminal for the drop. The bored scientist asked Slone to start calling him Horatio.
“Every Hacker needs an alias to preserve his identity,” explained the scientist, “So from now on call me Horatio!”
“You mean, Ho-ratio?” smiled the Troll. Slone was still feeling groggy from the lack of real sleep and the localized anesthetics from the afternoon.
“Don’t make me squeeze my nano- jism on you,” relied the disgruntled human.
Slone shuddered as he thought about the soft-nanites swimming through his own bloodstream. The bodyguard had stopped into a body-clinic at a mall in Renton to get a few performance enhancing bio-implants. Slone had selected a couple of reflex recorders and a synthcardium enhancement. May as well spend some of this money, the troll had reasoned.
The doctors had assured him the bio-ware injections would augment his natural abilities without the need for invasive surgery. The Synthcardium simply layered extra muscle tissue around his heart to strengthen it and enhance circulation of oxygen through his body. The Reflex Recorders were soft nanities that would slowly weave extra neurons on the nerve clusters associated with the skills Slone had specified. The augmented electrical conduits in his nervous system would allow certain activities to accelerate and grant him finer motor control for those specific actions.
At least, that’s what the doctors had told him.
I hope they weren’t quacks like this chip-head, lamented the troll.
Slone stopped his idle musing as he witnessed a killer approach the group at the terminal. The orc moved even more smoothly than Terrance; Must be that mega-nuyen shuffle I’m seeing, thought the wary bodyguard. Terrance had not responded to their calls, so Slone was the only heavy on the scene.
Where is that damn leaf-eater anyways? wondered the troll.
Slone looked over the newcomer. The orc was of Asian descent and was heavily muscled underneath his fine Mortimer’s Greatcoat. The orc had very flashy accessories; a 1,000 nuyen chronometer, fashion-forward smartglasses – even his commlink had inlaid gold, silver and orichalum.
“I’m Sheng” greeted the orc, “I’m a friend of Paula’s.”
“How’d you get here?” asked the elven shaman.
“Paula sent me an ARO with the address to this locker,” replied the orc, “I’m here for the job.”
Slone shrugged, Terrance could fight but he pussed out on this run – maybe this one will last longer...
However, Carlito looked skeptical. The scientist furtively conferred with Tommy regarding the orc. “Tommy doesn’t trust him,” stated the human.
Sheng glared at the human and his pet skull. “What’s that supposed to be?” queried the orc.
“This is our Johnson,” replied the scientist, “His name is Tommy.”
“Right, I keep my Johnson somewhere else,” grunted the orc. Slone guffawed; Maybe he isn’t so bad, thought the troll.
“Is the troll with you too?” asked the newcomer looking at the giant metahuman. The shaman nodded for the team. The orc smiled, “Then, I’m really glad I’m not your target.”
“Speaking of which, shall we?” replied the lawyer, gesturing to the locker nearby.
Sheng produced a maglock key which had accompanied his own couriered invitation to the meeting. Opening the door, the orc found the locker empty except for two items:
A bullet and a holochip.
The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in
Engines stop running, the wheat is growing thin
A nuclear era, but I have no fear
Cause London is drowning and I, I live by the river
The Clash, London Calling
