There is a lot of Leif in this Cyberpunk story, both in the character of Ramac, the injured operative who spends all his time plugged into the net looking for a carrier of the virus that can cure him, and in the character of Greye Sinclair, the twin who felt like half of a pair, grieving without being able to show it, for his brother.
Leif was physically and emotionally damaged by his military service and the end of his marriage, and came home to spend a lot of his time on the internet and playing combat games online. He was now half of a pair, having lost his wife, and felt alone and incomplete.
There are some poignant phrases in the story, such as this one from Chapter One:
"It is easier to feel for someone else than it is to grieve yourself?"
He wrote it as a statement but put a question mark at the end, probably intending to write, "Is it easier to feel . . . . " It's a revealing phrase as well.
Leif said that men were allowed only one emotion, anger, and thus he could not grieve or show his own emotions at the time he was writing this (and later), but he DID show other emotions; depression and apathy.
Although Leif talked to me quite a lot about this story in the summer of 2001, I don't know how he planned to go forward with the Greye Sinclair character and how it would eventually intersect with the story of Ramac. I wish I could remember more of what he told me, and I wish he had finished the book.
Writing can be very cathartic, and I think writing as much as he did of this story was helpful to him. When he got into school at KSU in August 2001, he began to find new contacts and reasons to live, and the novel fell by the wayside.
I urged him to finish it, and to be sure it was backed up, but he had lost the urgency of writing it as his own mind and body began to heal. Despite that, he knew the story had some power, both for him and potentially for others, and I think he was proud of it, which was one reason he posted it on the ZAON forum, but no one commented on it there, and that may have been a disappointment to him. Who knows? Perhaps if he'd had more encouragement from others who read it, he might have continued, though that would have surprised me, as writing was never one of Leif's preferred activities.
Regardless of all that, I'm glad to have this piece of his writing, and the few others I have.
Showing posts with label novel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label novel. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Leif's Cyberpunk Novel - Part 4 of 4
Chapter Two Beginning
Greye had been on the road all day. He had made it to Daytona. His ass was sore and he needed a distraction. And he could use a place to crash as well. He had been cruising the city for a while now. If he was going to be here for a while he wanted to get a feel for things. He made his way along most of the highways. He made sure he knew every means of exit, just as they had taught him. But his ass was getting raw. Xane had insisted on this damn saddle. He couldn’t argue that it did look good but he had wanted one that was a bit more plush.
“Well, Xane, you may be dead but you are still a pain in my ass.”
I felt good to say. Maybe if he could have a sense of humor about it, it would not hurt so much. Just as he was muttering to himself he saw a for sale sign. It was attached to a trailer.
“Perfect,” Greye thought.
It was almost sunset and he figured it would not be too late to call. So he pulled into the drive. It was a nice house. Not a rich man's residence but it was nice. Well maintained. Well groomed lawn and garden, sort of a Spanish style roof, a two car garage, and a half circle driveway. There were a Dodge Neon, and a VW Jetta in the drive. He wondered what was behind the garage door. They certainly don’t tow that thing with a Jetta, he thought to himself.
He walked up to the door and rang the bell. He waited for a few minutes but there was no answer. He tried again. Then the wind shifted and he caught the sent of a grill.
“Mmmm, barbeque,” he said to himself. “I hope they won’t mind a visitor.”
He walked around the path at the right of the house. There was a gate in the white picket fence that surrounded the backyard. He began to open it as he heard the playful yip of a dog. He decided to knock on the inside of the gate as he peeked his head through and coughed. Inside he saw the dog. A beautiful purebred Irish wolfhound. Staring at him with a protective but disciplined look that conveyed ferocity despite the Frisbee clasped in its teeth. The dog told Greye quite clearly that he had better behave himself.
A little ways from the dog was a girl. A young woman just out of high school. Laughing and playing with the dog 'til she noticed his presence. She must drive the Neon, he thought to himself. She was quite attractive, he was pleased to note. Soft brown hair and bigger brown eyes, with charming dimples as she smiled, wrestling the Frisbee from the dog. He could see the same eyes and dimples on what he figured was the owned of the Jetta, a lovely and vivacious woman in her forties dressed perhaps a little too chic for a backyard barbeque. She had a sultry grace to her movements as she set a picnic table with drinks and silverware, that had not been stolen by motherhood. But she was blonde. Her daughter's dark hair must have come from Daddy.
And that is what she called out when she saw me. I turned my head to intercept the object of her attention. Tending a rather elaborate grilling apparatus was a tall figure of about fifty. A strong and vital man that had not taken on any of the customary paunch that typically accompanied his age. He had broad shoulders and a square jaw. His eyes sort of squinted in concentration. He reminded Greye of his military instructors. This likeness was further supported by the neatly groomed, mostly gray haircut and the jacket he wore. It was a commercial leather jacket but it bore the subtle, subdued rank of Sergeant Major on the collar and the sleeves carried the unit patches of the 82nd airborne, 10th mountain Division, the 101st airborne, and the 3rd Ranger Battalion.
Yes this man had been around the world, and mostly likely to hell and back. His teachers had taught him to recognize these things. And he could also guess from the presence of a well-trimmed beard that this man must retired.
They looked at him expectantly. He slid his way though the gate. He knew they must be confused at his presence. And his youth would not incline them to consider him a potential buyer for the trailer. They looked at him expectantly and just as the father looked as if he was about to ask, Greye decided to speak.
“Uh Hi! Sorry to interrupt but I saw your for sale sign out front and.....”
“Oh, you interested in the trailer?” the man asked.
“Yeah, I was just riding by and I saw it so I thought I would stop and see what you wanted for it.”
The man looked at him with an intuitive but quizzical gaze that Greye felt revealed more than he cared to show. He felt as though this man could read his very thoughts. It seemed he knew everything there was to know about him even though they hadn’t yet been introduced.
“Well, that depends,” he said.
“On what?”
“On whether I like you.” He smiled with a devilish grin that was both endearing and worrisome. He sort of cocked his head, squinted his eyes and seemed to be summing up just what sort of man Greye was.
“That ride of yours sounds tired. And I am guessing you are, too. Why don’t you join us for dinner and give that hog some time to cool off.”
“Oh, I couldn’t sir. I just...”
“Horse shit! If there is one thing I could never stand is people turning down good hospitality cuz they think it is polite. Now stop hovering at my gate, get in here and grab us a beer.” He pointed at a cooler with his spatula and then beckoned him in. “That is unless you got something better to do?” He looked expectantly at Greye.
Naturally, Greye had nothing better to do.
“Well, sir, if you insist,” he said, as he pulled off his gloves and opened the cooler.
“Son, there are two things in this life that I just can’t abide. #1 is people calling me sir when I am not at a restaurant. I was a Sergeant Major in the US Army with 500 young men tougher than you under my command and they didn’t call me sir, so I damn sure ain’t gonna let you. #2 is a Corona without lime, so make sure you get me two.”
“All right ‘Sergeant Major,’ what would you like me to call you?”
He wiped his hand on his apron and extended it.
“Sergeant Major William Thomas Sinclair, retired. But you can call me Bill.”
He shook Greye’s hand with a firm but friendly grip of his right and took his beer with his left.
“That a fact?”
“Sure Is. And this is my wife Stephanie, and my daughter Daphne.”
“Greye. Greye Sinclair!”
“Come again?”
“You heard me.”
“No shit. Well don’t be putting the moves on my daughter just yet. I know she is cute but you might be our cousin for all we know.”
“Daddy!”
“Hey, wait a minute.” He leaned in close to Greye. “You ain’t the son of some long lost broken heart whose momma told you I was yer daddy are you?” He winked.
“Uh, no, not that I know of.”
“Thank god. Thought I was in trouble there for a minute. Well have a seat, Greye, and let us show you that Southern hospitality is not a dead practice. Steph, fix our guest a plate."
Greye spent the evening with them, listening to Bill’s colorful war stories and embarrassing anecdotes gleefully aired by his wife. They talked about Daphne’s first semester at college and her dad teased her about all the boys she must be fighting off.
Greye allowed himself to almost believe he belonged there. Here in this seemingly perfect family. It felt almost like they were welcoming him in a bit too much. Almost unnatural. But then it came out just, and he understood it even if it didn’t make him any more comfortable.
“You know, Greye, you must be about my son's age. I bet you two would have gotten along like two bandito’s at a Mexican whorehouse.”
“Bill, don’t be crude,” Stephanie said.
“I suppose you're right, Honey. I shouldn’t torture myself, or the two of you, but I couldn’t help but think it was almost like he was here.”
“I am sorry. Where is your son?” Greye was almost afraid of the answer.
“Oh, he was a good boy, Greye. Followed in his Pappy’s footsteps joined the army. Went special forces and got himself KIA somewhere in Afghanistan.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“Well, shit happens I guess.”
Greye almost thought he saw a tear in the man's eye.
“Don’t help to think about it, I suppose. How about dessert? Steph,you got something sweet in there that can choke back these rising emotions that are bound to undermine my supreme facade of ultimate manliness?”
“Well, how does a raspberry white chocolate cheesecake sound?”
“My god, woman, I knew there was a reason I married you. Greye you got to try this. The only thing better in this world is...” he glanced at his wife, “Well, something I shouldn’t mention at the table.”
Greye had been on the road all day. He had made it to Daytona. His ass was sore and he needed a distraction. And he could use a place to crash as well. He had been cruising the city for a while now. If he was going to be here for a while he wanted to get a feel for things. He made his way along most of the highways. He made sure he knew every means of exit, just as they had taught him. But his ass was getting raw. Xane had insisted on this damn saddle. He couldn’t argue that it did look good but he had wanted one that was a bit more plush.
“Well, Xane, you may be dead but you are still a pain in my ass.”
I felt good to say. Maybe if he could have a sense of humor about it, it would not hurt so much. Just as he was muttering to himself he saw a for sale sign. It was attached to a trailer.
“Perfect,” Greye thought.
It was almost sunset and he figured it would not be too late to call. So he pulled into the drive. It was a nice house. Not a rich man's residence but it was nice. Well maintained. Well groomed lawn and garden, sort of a Spanish style roof, a two car garage, and a half circle driveway. There were a Dodge Neon, and a VW Jetta in the drive. He wondered what was behind the garage door. They certainly don’t tow that thing with a Jetta, he thought to himself.
He walked up to the door and rang the bell. He waited for a few minutes but there was no answer. He tried again. Then the wind shifted and he caught the sent of a grill.
“Mmmm, barbeque,” he said to himself. “I hope they won’t mind a visitor.”
He walked around the path at the right of the house. There was a gate in the white picket fence that surrounded the backyard. He began to open it as he heard the playful yip of a dog. He decided to knock on the inside of the gate as he peeked his head through and coughed. Inside he saw the dog. A beautiful purebred Irish wolfhound. Staring at him with a protective but disciplined look that conveyed ferocity despite the Frisbee clasped in its teeth. The dog told Greye quite clearly that he had better behave himself.
A little ways from the dog was a girl. A young woman just out of high school. Laughing and playing with the dog 'til she noticed his presence. She must drive the Neon, he thought to himself. She was quite attractive, he was pleased to note. Soft brown hair and bigger brown eyes, with charming dimples as she smiled, wrestling the Frisbee from the dog. He could see the same eyes and dimples on what he figured was the owned of the Jetta, a lovely and vivacious woman in her forties dressed perhaps a little too chic for a backyard barbeque. She had a sultry grace to her movements as she set a picnic table with drinks and silverware, that had not been stolen by motherhood. But she was blonde. Her daughter's dark hair must have come from Daddy.
And that is what she called out when she saw me. I turned my head to intercept the object of her attention. Tending a rather elaborate grilling apparatus was a tall figure of about fifty. A strong and vital man that had not taken on any of the customary paunch that typically accompanied his age. He had broad shoulders and a square jaw. His eyes sort of squinted in concentration. He reminded Greye of his military instructors. This likeness was further supported by the neatly groomed, mostly gray haircut and the jacket he wore. It was a commercial leather jacket but it bore the subtle, subdued rank of Sergeant Major on the collar and the sleeves carried the unit patches of the 82nd airborne, 10th mountain Division, the 101st airborne, and the 3rd Ranger Battalion.
Yes this man had been around the world, and mostly likely to hell and back. His teachers had taught him to recognize these things. And he could also guess from the presence of a well-trimmed beard that this man must retired.
They looked at him expectantly. He slid his way though the gate. He knew they must be confused at his presence. And his youth would not incline them to consider him a potential buyer for the trailer. They looked at him expectantly and just as the father looked as if he was about to ask, Greye decided to speak.
“Uh Hi! Sorry to interrupt but I saw your for sale sign out front and.....”
“Oh, you interested in the trailer?” the man asked.
“Yeah, I was just riding by and I saw it so I thought I would stop and see what you wanted for it.”
The man looked at him with an intuitive but quizzical gaze that Greye felt revealed more than he cared to show. He felt as though this man could read his very thoughts. It seemed he knew everything there was to know about him even though they hadn’t yet been introduced.
“Well, that depends,” he said.
“On what?”
“On whether I like you.” He smiled with a devilish grin that was both endearing and worrisome. He sort of cocked his head, squinted his eyes and seemed to be summing up just what sort of man Greye was.
“That ride of yours sounds tired. And I am guessing you are, too. Why don’t you join us for dinner and give that hog some time to cool off.”
“Oh, I couldn’t sir. I just...”
“Horse shit! If there is one thing I could never stand is people turning down good hospitality cuz they think it is polite. Now stop hovering at my gate, get in here and grab us a beer.” He pointed at a cooler with his spatula and then beckoned him in. “That is unless you got something better to do?” He looked expectantly at Greye.
Naturally, Greye had nothing better to do.
“Well, sir, if you insist,” he said, as he pulled off his gloves and opened the cooler.
“Son, there are two things in this life that I just can’t abide. #1 is people calling me sir when I am not at a restaurant. I was a Sergeant Major in the US Army with 500 young men tougher than you under my command and they didn’t call me sir, so I damn sure ain’t gonna let you. #2 is a Corona without lime, so make sure you get me two.”
“All right ‘Sergeant Major,’ what would you like me to call you?”
He wiped his hand on his apron and extended it.
“Sergeant Major William Thomas Sinclair, retired. But you can call me Bill.”
He shook Greye’s hand with a firm but friendly grip of his right and took his beer with his left.
“That a fact?”
“Sure Is. And this is my wife Stephanie, and my daughter Daphne.”
“Greye. Greye Sinclair!”
“Come again?”
“You heard me.”
“No shit. Well don’t be putting the moves on my daughter just yet. I know she is cute but you might be our cousin for all we know.”
“Daddy!”
“Hey, wait a minute.” He leaned in close to Greye. “You ain’t the son of some long lost broken heart whose momma told you I was yer daddy are you?” He winked.
“Uh, no, not that I know of.”
“Thank god. Thought I was in trouble there for a minute. Well have a seat, Greye, and let us show you that Southern hospitality is not a dead practice. Steph, fix our guest a plate."
Greye spent the evening with them, listening to Bill’s colorful war stories and embarrassing anecdotes gleefully aired by his wife. They talked about Daphne’s first semester at college and her dad teased her about all the boys she must be fighting off.
Greye allowed himself to almost believe he belonged there. Here in this seemingly perfect family. It felt almost like they were welcoming him in a bit too much. Almost unnatural. But then it came out just, and he understood it even if it didn’t make him any more comfortable.
“You know, Greye, you must be about my son's age. I bet you two would have gotten along like two bandito’s at a Mexican whorehouse.”
“Bill, don’t be crude,” Stephanie said.
“I suppose you're right, Honey. I shouldn’t torture myself, or the two of you, but I couldn’t help but think it was almost like he was here.”
“I am sorry. Where is your son?” Greye was almost afraid of the answer.
“Oh, he was a good boy, Greye. Followed in his Pappy’s footsteps joined the army. Went special forces and got himself KIA somewhere in Afghanistan.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“Well, shit happens I guess.”
Greye almost thought he saw a tear in the man's eye.
“Don’t help to think about it, I suppose. How about dessert? Steph,you got something sweet in there that can choke back these rising emotions that are bound to undermine my supreme facade of ultimate manliness?”
“Well, how does a raspberry white chocolate cheesecake sound?”
“My god, woman, I knew there was a reason I married you. Greye you got to try this. The only thing better in this world is...” he glanced at his wife, “Well, something I shouldn’t mention at the table.”
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Leif's Cyberpunk Novel - Part 3 of 4
Chapter Two Intro
Logan was making his rounds. He mused that he was probably the only doctor on the planet that still made house calls. But of course he was not a doctor anymore. At least not outside of the Non Enforcement Zone. Still, no matter what the law said he had always known what he was born to do. But today there was less healing to do than usual in Chi-town so he thought he would drop in on a few patients.
Sabrina’s baby was doing well and due any day now. Melinda was getting over her flu. Caesar’s gunshot had abscessed but the surgery would be minor to remove the bullet from his leg. And old Galen’s liver was still holding out despite his continuing friendship with Jack Daniels. All in all a pretty good day.
But as he approached the pitiful hovel in which Ramac had hidden himself he feared that his good spirits would be ruined. Ramac was in poor shape physically. He had no disease or ailments other that his paralysis but he seemed to spend every waking moment immersed in the net. In fact, Logan had suspicions that he even slept in full cyber-immersion from time to time. No telling what dreams he might have while his brain is plugged directly into cyberspace. Logan feared his patient was going mad.
Ramac had made arrangements with the local gang lord for protection, the closest thing to security here in the NEZ. He even had a local boy that brought him groceries. But what could have so obsessed him that he would not venture out? Ever.
From what Logan had learned over the years Ramac was a man to be feared. A “company” man before the revolution, an accomplished martial artist and a formidable soldier. He had been one of the most feared and respected freelancers in the international game. Whether it was acquisitions or assassinations, he was ruthless, brutal, and unstoppable. He was the best of the best. No matter what the cost he had never failed. Never until last October when Logan pulled him out of that alley, shot to pieces. But now he was a different man. Something was driving him but Logan could not guess what.
Logan opened the door and entered. The room was dark except for the window that looked up at the street. Its light cast dreadful shadows through the dim. Logan could barely make out Ramac’s silhouette against the backlighting of the window, but he knew what he was doing and knew that it would not bother him if he turned on the light.
The single bulb warmed the room with its light but the decor it revealed gave no comfort. This was not a home. Ramac lay were he always lay. Limp as if comatose. His beard had grown long. His muscles atrophied. As usual he was deep in the net. Only the slow rise and fall of his chest and the net dive monitor on his computer gave any sign that he was alive. Some say that the freedom of the net is like a drug to the disabled. In the net they are whole. Their virtual body or Icon may not be corporeal but its only limits were that of the mind that controls it. But there was more to this than just freedom of movement for Ramac. Logan knew that. There was something else.
There was no way to reach Ramac directly during a net dive. His brain was effectively disconnected from his body. So Logan pulled out his PDA and sent him an email.
{Hephaestus! Medicine man. Time for a check up.}
{Busy. Can’t extract for at least 2 hours}
{No need to. I am standing right next to you}
{Ah. Do what you must then. I must concentrate. I am almost there.}
{What are you looking for Ramac?}
{Please Isaac! I can’t now. I am close. I have almost found her!
Logan was making his rounds. He mused that he was probably the only doctor on the planet that still made house calls. But of course he was not a doctor anymore. At least not outside of the Non Enforcement Zone. Still, no matter what the law said he had always known what he was born to do. But today there was less healing to do than usual in Chi-town so he thought he would drop in on a few patients.
Sabrina’s baby was doing well and due any day now. Melinda was getting over her flu. Caesar’s gunshot had abscessed but the surgery would be minor to remove the bullet from his leg. And old Galen’s liver was still holding out despite his continuing friendship with Jack Daniels. All in all a pretty good day.
But as he approached the pitiful hovel in which Ramac had hidden himself he feared that his good spirits would be ruined. Ramac was in poor shape physically. He had no disease or ailments other that his paralysis but he seemed to spend every waking moment immersed in the net. In fact, Logan had suspicions that he even slept in full cyber-immersion from time to time. No telling what dreams he might have while his brain is plugged directly into cyberspace. Logan feared his patient was going mad.
Ramac had made arrangements with the local gang lord for protection, the closest thing to security here in the NEZ. He even had a local boy that brought him groceries. But what could have so obsessed him that he would not venture out? Ever.
From what Logan had learned over the years Ramac was a man to be feared. A “company” man before the revolution, an accomplished martial artist and a formidable soldier. He had been one of the most feared and respected freelancers in the international game. Whether it was acquisitions or assassinations, he was ruthless, brutal, and unstoppable. He was the best of the best. No matter what the cost he had never failed. Never until last October when Logan pulled him out of that alley, shot to pieces. But now he was a different man. Something was driving him but Logan could not guess what.
Logan opened the door and entered. The room was dark except for the window that looked up at the street. Its light cast dreadful shadows through the dim. Logan could barely make out Ramac’s silhouette against the backlighting of the window, but he knew what he was doing and knew that it would not bother him if he turned on the light.
The single bulb warmed the room with its light but the decor it revealed gave no comfort. This was not a home. Ramac lay were he always lay. Limp as if comatose. His beard had grown long. His muscles atrophied. As usual he was deep in the net. Only the slow rise and fall of his chest and the net dive monitor on his computer gave any sign that he was alive. Some say that the freedom of the net is like a drug to the disabled. In the net they are whole. Their virtual body or Icon may not be corporeal but its only limits were that of the mind that controls it. But there was more to this than just freedom of movement for Ramac. Logan knew that. There was something else.
There was no way to reach Ramac directly during a net dive. His brain was effectively disconnected from his body. So Logan pulled out his PDA and sent him an email.
{Hephaestus! Medicine man. Time for a check up.}
{Busy. Can’t extract for at least 2 hours}
{No need to. I am standing right next to you}
{Ah. Do what you must then. I must concentrate. I am almost there.}
{What are you looking for Ramac?}
{Please Isaac! I can’t now. I am close. I have almost found her!
Leif's Cyberpunk Novel - Part 2 of 4
Chapter One....
Thane awoke early. He hadn’t slept much that night but he thought it best that he leave before the others awoke. Thad was still sleeping. Thane had felt his eyes on him as they went to bed. Everyone so concerned for him. Perhaps that was their way of avoiding their own feelings.
Is it easier to feel for someone else than it is to grieve yourself? How long had it been now since Xane died? A day? A week? It had all been blurred. Like a bad dream. Nothing seemed real without him. The world just wasn’t right. There were supposed to be two of them. Two of him. The world just didn’t make sense with only one. Thane tried to imagine how normal people thought. The way that they talked to themselves in their heads. The way they looked at ideas from different sides. He couldn’t. At least he had never had to. Xane had always been there. He and Xane had had those conversations with each other. No thought was complete until they thought it together.
Thane went to the sink. A cold splash to wake him up. It was still dark after all. He looked up and saw the face that would haunt him. His face. Xane’s face. He wondered now. While the doctors mostly studied them, they also taught us a little of what they had already learned. Taught us psychology, about the effects of losing a twin on the survivor. Thane guessed they would be right. That he would go mad.
He didn’t know what to do or where to go, but he knew that there was little reason for him to stay. The Gemini Project existed to study twins. What use would he be to them now? What reason would they have to continue his training?
Now today was the day of the funeral. He couldn’t stand any more sympathy. It made him sick the way everyone tried to comfort him. He knew they meant well. Some he thought might even love him, the other twins. They had lived together for years now. They had become friends. Icarus, Thadeus, or Rus and Thad, had been their roommates. They split the pairs for some reason he couldn’t remember. Kari and Kali, the spicy Latin duo that were the trouble magnets of the bunch. Mira and Mia, the silver-tongued Japanese vixens that all the teachers loved. And Julie and Josie, the sweet and spunky but very temperamental redheads that he and his brother had been in love with for so long. And finally, Thane and Xane.
Why is it that parents give twins similar, even rhyming, names? Thane wondered. He thought it strange that all of them had been named like that but it seemed to fit somehow. An odd coincidence.
What a group they had made. But everything had changed. It could never be the same now. There had been ten, now only nine. Five matched pairs. But he was not a pair anymore. Four and a half.
And that is what he felt like, half.
He quietly packed his backpack. He had few possessions. Most of their things belonged to Gemini. He grabbed his music, his laptop, some clothes, a few pictures. As he left his room he turned. By the dim light he saw the names on the door across the hall. “Icarus / Xanatos.” Rus and Xane’s room. For a moment he almost went in. Was there anything in there that he might want? No. Nothing in there was of any use, and whatever he took would only remind him of pain. There was only one place left here that had any item of value. The armory.
The armory itself had no locks. The weapons were kept in individual lockers. Thane had free access to his weapons since he was over twenty-one, as did all the other twins that were of age. All the other weapons had to be released by the armorer. Thane went to his locker, put his thumb up to the lock and opened it. Inside lay his pistols. A match-grade Hammerli .22LR, and a stainless steel Heckler & Koch .45cal U.S.P. He put the Hammerli in his pack and tucked the H&K in his belt.
Then he drew the real treasure they had given him. A katana. A true Katana. Not an ancient sword, nor one of those cheap replicas that you see in catalogs. It, and it’s sister piece, were made specifically for him and his brother by a Japanese master swordsmith. What was his name? He couldn’t remember. But they were identical. Identical swords, identical pistols, identical twins.
He heard the door open. Footsteps. He sheathed the blade. It was Rick, the armorer. Was it six o’clock already?
“Thane! You okay?”
“I am fine, Rick. I couldn’t sleep. Think I need to blow off some steam. I was thinking of running the gauntlet.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll set up the program for you.”
“Thanks, Rick. Oh, and could you open Xane’s locker for me? I want to use his pistol.”
“Uh, sure Thane I don’t see why not. Gimme a second.”
“Thanks, Rick.”
Rick went into the control room and a few moments later Xane’s locker opened.
Rick’s voice came over the intercom. “I am powering up the gauntlet now, Thane. What level would you like me to set?”
“Gimme a steady progression from seven to ten. Full velocity projectiles.”
“Ouch, you sure?”
“I am sure. Gimme a few minutes to warm up before I get out there.”
“No problem. The system is cold. I won’t have all the drones on line for about 20 minutes.”
“I’ll take my time, then.”
Thane took his brother’s weapons, packed them away and left. But Thane did not go to the gauntlet. Most days he would enjoy blasting holes in drones with high caliber pistols while dodging paint balls. Today he had other plans. He went to the garage. He walked past all the vehicles. The cars, the bikes, both street and racing models. Here at the Gemini project they were schooled in many disciplines: art, music, science, sports, driving, racing, piloting, fencing, shooting, martial arts, language, literature, mechanics. Anything that might have some practical use so that they could study the affects of genetics versus training.
Thane often wondered where they got their funding. There was a hell of a lot of money floating around. Was it government, military, corporate? Did it matter? All that had mattered when they came to Thane’s parents a decade ago was the schooling. “Give us your kids and we will give them the best schooling and training in every area that you could ever hope for.” Or something like that.
It wasn’t a bad deal. The education was top notch. And what scholarship school would send you to racing school? Or teach you to shoot? They still got to see their parents plenty. Those that had parents. A few of them were orphans. A couple more were orphaned along the way. Thane and Xane were among them.
Thane wondered. His name, was it a curse? For him and his brother to be given the name for death. Thanatos Greye Sinclair. And his brother Xanatos Greye Sinclair. First his parents killed. Then his twin brother dies without explanation.
He wondered. Would he be next? Or maybe his big brother Gabriel? No. That was nonsense. Thane didn’t buy into that. He didn’t believe it. In fact he didn’t believe in much of anything anymore.
Thane walked the rows of cars and bikes. He came to the stall with his and Xane’s bikes. Twin V-twins. A pair of 2000 Ducati 996's, one red, one yellow. He and Xane used to trade. Neither really owned either bike and they enjoyed the confusion it caused when people tried to guess which of them was on each bike. Which one should he take? Which one should he leave behind? Neither.
He went into the shop where they learned mechanics. There in the corner where they had spent countless hours was their project. A Harley-Davidson clone built from scratch, straight from the pages of the S&S catalog. It was low in the tail, had long wide forks, drag bars, tons of deep chrome, and was bathed in a gorgeous dark chameleon blue that changed color with the lighting and looked like you could reach right into it.
They hadn’t even finished it yet. Thane had just airbrushed the tank with the twin skulls that had become their mark. The grim reapers that had been their namesakes. Xane had put the last of the clear coat on it the day of the seizure. The paint was still wet when he died. They had never even started it.
Thane threw his leg over and caught the kick pedal. He paused and realized that his brother would never know if it ran. Would never know what sound that ram air butterfly carburetor, and straight pipes would make when they came alive for the first time. He kicked the pedal. Nothing. Again, a pop. Again. A sputter. A twist of the choke and a little gas and he had it. It roared to life with a visceral vibration. Thane was both excited and sad. This was now his alone. There would never be a fight over who would ride it.
But now twenty minutes had passed. The gauntlet was online by now. He was expected at the range, and the noise of the unmuffled bike would attract attention. It was time to go. He threw on his backpack and cinched the straps tight. Took a firm grip on the bars, squeezed the clutch, dropped it into first, and twisted the throttle wide open. When the deafening roar of the big twin peaked he let the clutch lever snap forward. The back tire spun instantly, squealing loudly and leaving a thick black line. Thane fishtailed around the corner out of the shop.
He was about to shift to second when he saw a slender figure silhouetted in a window. It was Julie. Or Josie. He couldn’t tell from this distance. It didn’t matter. He loved them both. But this was the front of the building, which meant it had to be Josie’s room. Julie’s roomed faced the courtyard.
He let the bike glide to a halt in front of the gates. He lifted his sunglasses to look at her as the sun broke over the trees. The sun hit Josie’s face and for an instant lit up her eyes. Then she squinted and held up her hand to shield them. Thane stared at her for a long moment. There were so many thoughts he would like to tell her, but he hadn’t the words nor the strength right now. Even from this distance he could feel the warmth of her gaze. Her eyes seemed to plead with him not to leave but understood at the same time. With her other hand she made a sort of impotent gesture, putting her hand to the glass as if either to plead him to stay or to wave him goodbye.
Thane reached out his hand to her. He mouthed the words goodbye. He saw a tear roll down Josie’s face and he could see her lips move. He wasn’t sure but he thought she said, “I love you.” He tried to pretend she had only said goodbye. He had to leave and it only made it harder to think that there was such a powerful reason to stay. He had avoided them both the past few days. He didn’t know how to act around them now. And he didn’t think they knew what to do either.
He and Xane had dated them both. And both pairs had swapped for fun to she if they could tell the difference. Most times they couldn’t. At least not until afterwards when they slipped up. He really couldn’t have chosen between them. Neither could Xane. They had even talked once about whether they could date both together without jealousy. Now more than ever Thane didn’t know what to do. Among the most painful feelings was the thought that now Xane could not get in the way if he were to pursue them both. He hated himself for thinking that. Hated himself for having the Harley to himself. Hated himself for thinking that he could have them both for himself.
Thane tilted his head and they had a short moment of understanding. Then he pushed his shades back down over his eyes, squeezed the clutch, and gave her one last glance. He put his foot on the shifter and felt the tranny drop heavily into gear. He decided that was the last step. He would not look back. He let the bike idle for short but endless moment while he gathered his strength. Then he snapped the throttle and eased out the clutch. As he sped away his vision blurred and he could feel the salt of his tears drying in the wind as they trailed back to his ears.
"Just the cold morning wind," he told himself. "I need to get better sunglasses."
Thane came to an intersection. North or South? He would head south he thought. To Miami perhaps. But first he needed money and he was hungry. So he drove north into town. The banks would not be open for a while yet so he pulled into Denny’s. He sat down ordered a colorfully named platter of saturated fat, and tried to think what to do. He didn’t know what he would do but he had plenty of marketable skills and even at 21 his education was equivalent to a master's degree. He would simply ride until he felt like stopping and see where the road took him.
On second thought, Miami might not be such a good idea. He wanted to disappear for a while and the city might be good for that. But he thought it better to avoid the cities for a while. He also thought about his name. He wasn’t a criminal. They had no right to follow him. But he knew that someone would come looking for him. Either the staff or one of the twins. Investigation was also among the skills they had learned.
He would not go so far as to create a new identity. That would likely cause more problems than it would solve. But he would not make it easy on them. He needed time alone, and if he was to make contact with them ever again he would be the one to initiate it. So, he thought, he would not use his first name. He wasn’t comfortable with it anymore, neither for its mythological significance nor for its similarity to his lost brother's.
As he thought about it he glanced down at the table. He saw his reflection in the lenses of his sunglasses. His face was distorted in the lenses. He hadn’t shaved this morning and his beard had formed a dark shadow. He was only twenty-one but he had been going gray since he was seventeen. It showed the most in his beard.
That was it. Simple, legal, and easy to remember. He would just use his middle name. Greye. It seemed appropriate. Both he and Xane had had the same middle name. Now that there was one the one of him it seemed to make sense. He decided that would be his name from now on. Greye Sinclair. He felt a little better now. He hated to be just one but if that was his fate he needed to have a singular identity. Greye Sinclair would be it. Satisfied, he finished his breakfast, left a fair tip and was on his way.
The Bank was open now. He parked the bike in front, walked in. He went to the teller and pulled out Xane’s drivers license. With proper ID and the right face he had no difficulty accessing Xane’s bank accounts. What startled him were the amounts. Xane had over $5000 in his checking account alone and his various other assets totaled nearly $100,000. Where the hell did Xane get that kind of money? And why hadn’t he known about it? What had Xane been into? There was no way he could have gotten ahold of that kind of money living the life they did. It just didn’t make sense.
Greye considered the worst. Had Xane acquired it through criminal means? Even if that were true, when would he have had the time? It was a mystery but one that would have to wait. Greye transferred the funds into new accounts at a new bank. He cleaned out the checking account and pocketed the cash. Then he went to his bank and transferred his assets to the new account. His pockets and his belly were full. There was nothing left to do.
He took two coins from his pocket. A dime and a quarter. He dropped the dime on the sidewalk stood behind it and flipped the quarter. He was facing east. The quarter came to rest left of the dime so he decided he would go north. Daytona, maybe. Bike week was coming. Xane had hoped that they would have the bike ready in time. Seemed like a good place to start.
He picked up the coins and climbed aboard his bike. His bike! It would be a while before he got used to that thought. He kicked the starter and headed for the highway.
Thane awoke early. He hadn’t slept much that night but he thought it best that he leave before the others awoke. Thad was still sleeping. Thane had felt his eyes on him as they went to bed. Everyone so concerned for him. Perhaps that was their way of avoiding their own feelings.
Is it easier to feel for someone else than it is to grieve yourself? How long had it been now since Xane died? A day? A week? It had all been blurred. Like a bad dream. Nothing seemed real without him. The world just wasn’t right. There were supposed to be two of them. Two of him. The world just didn’t make sense with only one. Thane tried to imagine how normal people thought. The way that they talked to themselves in their heads. The way they looked at ideas from different sides. He couldn’t. At least he had never had to. Xane had always been there. He and Xane had had those conversations with each other. No thought was complete until they thought it together.
Thane went to the sink. A cold splash to wake him up. It was still dark after all. He looked up and saw the face that would haunt him. His face. Xane’s face. He wondered now. While the doctors mostly studied them, they also taught us a little of what they had already learned. Taught us psychology, about the effects of losing a twin on the survivor. Thane guessed they would be right. That he would go mad.
He didn’t know what to do or where to go, but he knew that there was little reason for him to stay. The Gemini Project existed to study twins. What use would he be to them now? What reason would they have to continue his training?
Now today was the day of the funeral. He couldn’t stand any more sympathy. It made him sick the way everyone tried to comfort him. He knew they meant well. Some he thought might even love him, the other twins. They had lived together for years now. They had become friends. Icarus, Thadeus, or Rus and Thad, had been their roommates. They split the pairs for some reason he couldn’t remember. Kari and Kali, the spicy Latin duo that were the trouble magnets of the bunch. Mira and Mia, the silver-tongued Japanese vixens that all the teachers loved. And Julie and Josie, the sweet and spunky but very temperamental redheads that he and his brother had been in love with for so long. And finally, Thane and Xane.
Why is it that parents give twins similar, even rhyming, names? Thane wondered. He thought it strange that all of them had been named like that but it seemed to fit somehow. An odd coincidence.
What a group they had made. But everything had changed. It could never be the same now. There had been ten, now only nine. Five matched pairs. But he was not a pair anymore. Four and a half.
And that is what he felt like, half.
He quietly packed his backpack. He had few possessions. Most of their things belonged to Gemini. He grabbed his music, his laptop, some clothes, a few pictures. As he left his room he turned. By the dim light he saw the names on the door across the hall. “Icarus / Xanatos.” Rus and Xane’s room. For a moment he almost went in. Was there anything in there that he might want? No. Nothing in there was of any use, and whatever he took would only remind him of pain. There was only one place left here that had any item of value. The armory.
The armory itself had no locks. The weapons were kept in individual lockers. Thane had free access to his weapons since he was over twenty-one, as did all the other twins that were of age. All the other weapons had to be released by the armorer. Thane went to his locker, put his thumb up to the lock and opened it. Inside lay his pistols. A match-grade Hammerli .22LR, and a stainless steel Heckler & Koch .45cal U.S.P. He put the Hammerli in his pack and tucked the H&K in his belt.
Then he drew the real treasure they had given him. A katana. A true Katana. Not an ancient sword, nor one of those cheap replicas that you see in catalogs. It, and it’s sister piece, were made specifically for him and his brother by a Japanese master swordsmith. What was his name? He couldn’t remember. But they were identical. Identical swords, identical pistols, identical twins.
He heard the door open. Footsteps. He sheathed the blade. It was Rick, the armorer. Was it six o’clock already?
“Thane! You okay?”
“I am fine, Rick. I couldn’t sleep. Think I need to blow off some steam. I was thinking of running the gauntlet.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll set up the program for you.”
“Thanks, Rick. Oh, and could you open Xane’s locker for me? I want to use his pistol.”
“Uh, sure Thane I don’t see why not. Gimme a second.”
“Thanks, Rick.”
Rick went into the control room and a few moments later Xane’s locker opened.
Rick’s voice came over the intercom. “I am powering up the gauntlet now, Thane. What level would you like me to set?”
“Gimme a steady progression from seven to ten. Full velocity projectiles.”
“Ouch, you sure?”
“I am sure. Gimme a few minutes to warm up before I get out there.”
“No problem. The system is cold. I won’t have all the drones on line for about 20 minutes.”
“I’ll take my time, then.”
Thane took his brother’s weapons, packed them away and left. But Thane did not go to the gauntlet. Most days he would enjoy blasting holes in drones with high caliber pistols while dodging paint balls. Today he had other plans. He went to the garage. He walked past all the vehicles. The cars, the bikes, both street and racing models. Here at the Gemini project they were schooled in many disciplines: art, music, science, sports, driving, racing, piloting, fencing, shooting, martial arts, language, literature, mechanics. Anything that might have some practical use so that they could study the affects of genetics versus training.
Thane often wondered where they got their funding. There was a hell of a lot of money floating around. Was it government, military, corporate? Did it matter? All that had mattered when they came to Thane’s parents a decade ago was the schooling. “Give us your kids and we will give them the best schooling and training in every area that you could ever hope for.” Or something like that.
It wasn’t a bad deal. The education was top notch. And what scholarship school would send you to racing school? Or teach you to shoot? They still got to see their parents plenty. Those that had parents. A few of them were orphans. A couple more were orphaned along the way. Thane and Xane were among them.
Thane wondered. His name, was it a curse? For him and his brother to be given the name for death. Thanatos Greye Sinclair. And his brother Xanatos Greye Sinclair. First his parents killed. Then his twin brother dies without explanation.
He wondered. Would he be next? Or maybe his big brother Gabriel? No. That was nonsense. Thane didn’t buy into that. He didn’t believe it. In fact he didn’t believe in much of anything anymore.
Thane walked the rows of cars and bikes. He came to the stall with his and Xane’s bikes. Twin V-twins. A pair of 2000 Ducati 996's, one red, one yellow. He and Xane used to trade. Neither really owned either bike and they enjoyed the confusion it caused when people tried to guess which of them was on each bike. Which one should he take? Which one should he leave behind? Neither.
He went into the shop where they learned mechanics. There in the corner where they had spent countless hours was their project. A Harley-Davidson clone built from scratch, straight from the pages of the S&S catalog. It was low in the tail, had long wide forks, drag bars, tons of deep chrome, and was bathed in a gorgeous dark chameleon blue that changed color with the lighting and looked like you could reach right into it.
They hadn’t even finished it yet. Thane had just airbrushed the tank with the twin skulls that had become their mark. The grim reapers that had been their namesakes. Xane had put the last of the clear coat on it the day of the seizure. The paint was still wet when he died. They had never even started it.
Thane threw his leg over and caught the kick pedal. He paused and realized that his brother would never know if it ran. Would never know what sound that ram air butterfly carburetor, and straight pipes would make when they came alive for the first time. He kicked the pedal. Nothing. Again, a pop. Again. A sputter. A twist of the choke and a little gas and he had it. It roared to life with a visceral vibration. Thane was both excited and sad. This was now his alone. There would never be a fight over who would ride it.
But now twenty minutes had passed. The gauntlet was online by now. He was expected at the range, and the noise of the unmuffled bike would attract attention. It was time to go. He threw on his backpack and cinched the straps tight. Took a firm grip on the bars, squeezed the clutch, dropped it into first, and twisted the throttle wide open. When the deafening roar of the big twin peaked he let the clutch lever snap forward. The back tire spun instantly, squealing loudly and leaving a thick black line. Thane fishtailed around the corner out of the shop.
He was about to shift to second when he saw a slender figure silhouetted in a window. It was Julie. Or Josie. He couldn’t tell from this distance. It didn’t matter. He loved them both. But this was the front of the building, which meant it had to be Josie’s room. Julie’s roomed faced the courtyard.
He let the bike glide to a halt in front of the gates. He lifted his sunglasses to look at her as the sun broke over the trees. The sun hit Josie’s face and for an instant lit up her eyes. Then she squinted and held up her hand to shield them. Thane stared at her for a long moment. There were so many thoughts he would like to tell her, but he hadn’t the words nor the strength right now. Even from this distance he could feel the warmth of her gaze. Her eyes seemed to plead with him not to leave but understood at the same time. With her other hand she made a sort of impotent gesture, putting her hand to the glass as if either to plead him to stay or to wave him goodbye.
Thane reached out his hand to her. He mouthed the words goodbye. He saw a tear roll down Josie’s face and he could see her lips move. He wasn’t sure but he thought she said, “I love you.” He tried to pretend she had only said goodbye. He had to leave and it only made it harder to think that there was such a powerful reason to stay. He had avoided them both the past few days. He didn’t know how to act around them now. And he didn’t think they knew what to do either.
He and Xane had dated them both. And both pairs had swapped for fun to she if they could tell the difference. Most times they couldn’t. At least not until afterwards when they slipped up. He really couldn’t have chosen between them. Neither could Xane. They had even talked once about whether they could date both together without jealousy. Now more than ever Thane didn’t know what to do. Among the most painful feelings was the thought that now Xane could not get in the way if he were to pursue them both. He hated himself for thinking that. Hated himself for having the Harley to himself. Hated himself for thinking that he could have them both for himself.
Thane tilted his head and they had a short moment of understanding. Then he pushed his shades back down over his eyes, squeezed the clutch, and gave her one last glance. He put his foot on the shifter and felt the tranny drop heavily into gear. He decided that was the last step. He would not look back. He let the bike idle for short but endless moment while he gathered his strength. Then he snapped the throttle and eased out the clutch. As he sped away his vision blurred and he could feel the salt of his tears drying in the wind as they trailed back to his ears.
"Just the cold morning wind," he told himself. "I need to get better sunglasses."
Thane came to an intersection. North or South? He would head south he thought. To Miami perhaps. But first he needed money and he was hungry. So he drove north into town. The banks would not be open for a while yet so he pulled into Denny’s. He sat down ordered a colorfully named platter of saturated fat, and tried to think what to do. He didn’t know what he would do but he had plenty of marketable skills and even at 21 his education was equivalent to a master's degree. He would simply ride until he felt like stopping and see where the road took him.
On second thought, Miami might not be such a good idea. He wanted to disappear for a while and the city might be good for that. But he thought it better to avoid the cities for a while. He also thought about his name. He wasn’t a criminal. They had no right to follow him. But he knew that someone would come looking for him. Either the staff or one of the twins. Investigation was also among the skills they had learned.
He would not go so far as to create a new identity. That would likely cause more problems than it would solve. But he would not make it easy on them. He needed time alone, and if he was to make contact with them ever again he would be the one to initiate it. So, he thought, he would not use his first name. He wasn’t comfortable with it anymore, neither for its mythological significance nor for its similarity to his lost brother's.
As he thought about it he glanced down at the table. He saw his reflection in the lenses of his sunglasses. His face was distorted in the lenses. He hadn’t shaved this morning and his beard had formed a dark shadow. He was only twenty-one but he had been going gray since he was seventeen. It showed the most in his beard.
That was it. Simple, legal, and easy to remember. He would just use his middle name. Greye. It seemed appropriate. Both he and Xane had had the same middle name. Now that there was one the one of him it seemed to make sense. He decided that would be his name from now on. Greye Sinclair. He felt a little better now. He hated to be just one but if that was his fate he needed to have a singular identity. Greye Sinclair would be it. Satisfied, he finished his breakfast, left a fair tip and was on his way.
The Bank was open now. He parked the bike in front, walked in. He went to the teller and pulled out Xane’s drivers license. With proper ID and the right face he had no difficulty accessing Xane’s bank accounts. What startled him were the amounts. Xane had over $5000 in his checking account alone and his various other assets totaled nearly $100,000. Where the hell did Xane get that kind of money? And why hadn’t he known about it? What had Xane been into? There was no way he could have gotten ahold of that kind of money living the life they did. It just didn’t make sense.
Greye considered the worst. Had Xane acquired it through criminal means? Even if that were true, when would he have had the time? It was a mystery but one that would have to wait. Greye transferred the funds into new accounts at a new bank. He cleaned out the checking account and pocketed the cash. Then he went to his bank and transferred his assets to the new account. His pockets and his belly were full. There was nothing left to do.
He took two coins from his pocket. A dime and a quarter. He dropped the dime on the sidewalk stood behind it and flipped the quarter. He was facing east. The quarter came to rest left of the dime so he decided he would go north. Daytona, maybe. Bike week was coming. Xane had hoped that they would have the bike ready in time. Seemed like a good place to start.
He picked up the coins and climbed aboard his bike. His bike! It would be a while before he got used to that thought. He kicked the starter and headed for the highway.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Leif's Cyberpunk Novel - Part 1 of 4
When Leif posted the beginning of his Cyberpunk novel on the ZAON forum in December 2002, about a year and a half after he wrote it, he prefaced it with this:
The "one person" who gave him the advice to write it as a novel was me.
-----------------------------------
Chapter One Intro.....
Ramac awoke slowly. The room had a the familiar glow of dim blue light on stainless steel. The smell antiseptic. Ramac had seen these rooms many times. It was an O.R. And the smell that crept beneath the sterile facade was his own blood. He remembered why he was here.
How long had he been out? What had gone wrong? Was the job a total loss? And where was Logan?
No time for that. He had to get on the net. He had work to do. The wound seemed to be healing nicely. Logan was the best flesh mechanic on the continent, and those nanites were earning the 55000 Euro they had cost him to implant. The pain chip was working perfectly. Not so much as an uncomfortable itch.
He pulled the IV from his arm and swung himself out of bed. As usual the pain chip perfectly edited the unpleasant sensation of smashing his head into the steel cabinet. However the shock of falling rather clumsily to the floor took him off his guard.
Why couldn’t he stand? Why couldn’t he feel his legs.
Logan came quickly when he heard the noise. He lifted his patient back into bed and assessed the damage.
“What, you didn’t think I had enough work? Had to break your nose for good measure?”
“It’s a good thing you lost your licence, Logan. With your bedside manner you would make a lousy pediatrician.”
“Well, you don’t pay me for my sunny disposition,” Logan said, as he set Ramac’s nose.
“So, how bad is it?”
“Well, you never were all that pretty. I don’t think this will make much difference.”
“No, how bad is the rest of me?”
“You took 3 ten mils to the back, man. If I hadn’t been right around the corner you’d be dead. As it is, one of 'em cut your spinal cord and you are paralyzed from the waist down.”
“That your idea of breaking it to me gently?”
“Bedside manner, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re still a f----- prick, Logan.”
“Maybe so, but I figured you probably got a clue when you tried to stand up and put your face through my medicine cabinet.”
“Is it permanent?”
“I am afraid so.”
“What about nanosurgery?”
“That would be a possibility if you had just broken it, but with a gunshot there is too much trauma. There wasn’t enough tissue left to repair the gap before the nerve endings died. Cyber replacement isn’t an option either because the nerves are severed to high.”
“What about full Cyber conversion?”
“Sorry same problem. Besides, I don’t really think you have the temperament that would go well with a titanium body.”
Ramac was silent.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Yeah, a cyberterminal. And a bottle of Scotch.”
“I thought alcohol dulled your reflexes.”
“No, it just makes me walk funny.”
“Ah point taken. I’ll go get some then.”
As he turned to go Logan felt a stab of irony. He would never have to worry about such an injury. For the blood that flowed through his veins was Genor. He could regenerate, and had he still carried the virus that had saved him from a similar fate years ago, he could cure Ramac as well. Now the virus was all but dead. Only a few of the Genor still carried it. It could only be created though direct and creative cloning of new Genor. And the formula had long since been lost. Ramac wasn’t going anywhere. His career was over.
But Ramac wasn’t so easily discouraged. He had been on top of the game for almost 30 years. He was smart and he was patient. And most of all he was determined. He would walk again and if the Genor virus was the only way, then he would find a way to get it.
It started as a concept for a Cyberpunk game that I thought was really cool. Unfortunately I did not have any players, or at least any worthwhile players, to run the game with, so I took the advice of one person and I started writing it as a novel.
The people that have read it said it was pretty good but I thought I would post it here to see what others thought.
It follows two groups of characters though a complicated maze of perception and reality as they try to unfold the truth about their 2 worlds in a setting that takes inspiration from "The Matrix" and "The 13th Floor."
The "one person" who gave him the advice to write it as a novel was me.
-----------------------------------
Chapter One Intro.....
Ramac awoke slowly. The room had a the familiar glow of dim blue light on stainless steel. The smell antiseptic. Ramac had seen these rooms many times. It was an O.R. And the smell that crept beneath the sterile facade was his own blood. He remembered why he was here.
How long had he been out? What had gone wrong? Was the job a total loss? And where was Logan?
No time for that. He had to get on the net. He had work to do. The wound seemed to be healing nicely. Logan was the best flesh mechanic on the continent, and those nanites were earning the 55000 Euro they had cost him to implant. The pain chip was working perfectly. Not so much as an uncomfortable itch.
He pulled the IV from his arm and swung himself out of bed. As usual the pain chip perfectly edited the unpleasant sensation of smashing his head into the steel cabinet. However the shock of falling rather clumsily to the floor took him off his guard.
Why couldn’t he stand? Why couldn’t he feel his legs.
Logan came quickly when he heard the noise. He lifted his patient back into bed and assessed the damage.
“What, you didn’t think I had enough work? Had to break your nose for good measure?”
“It’s a good thing you lost your licence, Logan. With your bedside manner you would make a lousy pediatrician.”
“Well, you don’t pay me for my sunny disposition,” Logan said, as he set Ramac’s nose.
“So, how bad is it?”
“Well, you never were all that pretty. I don’t think this will make much difference.”
“No, how bad is the rest of me?”
“You took 3 ten mils to the back, man. If I hadn’t been right around the corner you’d be dead. As it is, one of 'em cut your spinal cord and you are paralyzed from the waist down.”
“That your idea of breaking it to me gently?”
“Bedside manner, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re still a f----- prick, Logan.”
“Maybe so, but I figured you probably got a clue when you tried to stand up and put your face through my medicine cabinet.”
“Is it permanent?”
“I am afraid so.”
“What about nanosurgery?”
“That would be a possibility if you had just broken it, but with a gunshot there is too much trauma. There wasn’t enough tissue left to repair the gap before the nerve endings died. Cyber replacement isn’t an option either because the nerves are severed to high.”
“What about full Cyber conversion?”
“Sorry same problem. Besides, I don’t really think you have the temperament that would go well with a titanium body.”
Ramac was silent.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Yeah, a cyberterminal. And a bottle of Scotch.”
“I thought alcohol dulled your reflexes.”
“No, it just makes me walk funny.”
“Ah point taken. I’ll go get some then.”
As he turned to go Logan felt a stab of irony. He would never have to worry about such an injury. For the blood that flowed through his veins was Genor. He could regenerate, and had he still carried the virus that had saved him from a similar fate years ago, he could cure Ramac as well. Now the virus was all but dead. Only a few of the Genor still carried it. It could only be created though direct and creative cloning of new Genor. And the formula had long since been lost. Ramac wasn’t going anywhere. His career was over.
But Ramac wasn’t so easily discouraged. He had been on top of the game for almost 30 years. He was smart and he was patient. And most of all he was determined. He would walk again and if the Genor virus was the only way, then he would find a way to get it.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Leif Back in Civilian Life - The Cyberpunk Novel - Summer 2001
When Leif came back to Manhattan from Fort Drum, New York, at that time temporarily retired from the army for medical reasons and a 30% disability rating due to his asthma, and also from shin splints that developed from carrying such heavy loads, he was a very depressed man, given to dark moods and apathy. That summer, he lived with us again, in the back bedroom of the old stone house. He didn't have many belongings there, just what he had brought in his car. He couldn't get his household goods delivered until he got his own place and had room for them, and they hadn't arrived in Kansas yet.
He had a fancy black backpack that carried his laptop, important paperwork, and some other things. Mail was coming to our house, mostly bills that he left on the table unopened. He wasn't making any effort to find a job, pay his bills, or anything else but seemed to be in a black hole of depression. I finally asked him whether I could open his mail. I was shocked at the bills that needed to be paid, the same sort of situation we had saved him from before he went into the army. I asked him whether he wanted my help to straighten out his life, and told him that if he did, the condition was that I had to have a power of attorney to make it legal for me to open his mail and help him deal with his affairs, and that he had to cooperate with me in doing what needed to be done, and that he should apply for unemployment, for which he was eligible, but hadn't done. He agreed.
He was surprised that unemployment actually paid him a reasonable amount. While he was staying with us, he could have saved a good bit of that money, but he didn't. Meanwhile, I told him that rather than just paying his bills off as we had before, this time he was going to have to do it himself, using a bill consolidation service. I went with him to Consumer Credit Counseling and had him make up a budget. They helped get his bills consolidated into one payment a month, with reduced interest. Leif was to give me a lump sum each month and I would see to it that the official check was sent in on time. Leif did this faithfully, and he did manage to pay off those bills and repair his credit rating, and keep it reasonably good until the year before he died, even thought he was often scraping the barrel to pay his bills or even eat or put gas in his car because he didn't do well at curbing his spending on electronic "toys," guns, and alcohol.
He was going to go back to school at Kansas State University in August, to finish the degree he had started before going into the army when he couldn't keep working and going to school, and couldn't pay his bills. I told him that we would keep our bargain to pay for his education, but this time, rather than paying for it up front, he would have to get educational loans on his own, and that we would pay them off if and when he graduated, but that if he didn't, he would be stuck with them himself. We thought this would provide him with more incentive to stay with it and graduate.
Meanwhile, I was very worried about his mental and emotional state and it was clear he needed some outlet for his feelings. He didn't want to show his inner feelings to us and there wasn't anyone else for him at that point.
Leif had loved playing Cyberpunk role playing games before he went into the army. I don't know whether he played with people at Fort Drum or not, but I do know that this had absorbed a great deal of his time when he was in college before. He also loved science fiction movies and television shows. He started telling me about some story ideas he had, and it was clear to me that they had some possibilities, not only as Cyberpunk game scenarios, but as a possible novel. Leif had excellent storytelling abilities, but he had never been interested in doing sustained writing. Even so, I suggested that he write a novel.
To my surprise, with a bit of coaxing, Leif decided to try it. He spent a lot of time on it, and he did allow me to read it. The story wasn't polished, more like the first draft, but it definitely had some good possibilities and I wanted him to finish it. I could also tell that a lot of his pain and heartache, as well as things he loved and experienced, were going into the story. I not only insisted he should finish it, but begged him to be sure it was backed up so it wouldn't be lost. I should have insisted that he give me a copy to keep on my computer, but unfortunately, I didn't.
When Leif died and his brother, cousin and a friend and I went over his computers carefully, and I did repeatedly, we never found the Cyberpunk novel. The only conclusion I could come to was that it must have been on the laptop that was stolen in July 2006. That wasn't the one he originally wrote it on, but if he kept it, he may have transferred it to that one. I feared it was completely lost forever.
However, in looking all over the ZAON forums for things Leif had posted, again looking for insights into his life and death, I discovered that in December 2002, he had posted the beginning parts of his novel there. It wasn't all he had written, but at least it was a part. I copied them and corrected things like capitalization and punctuation he had done hastily and not checked, but otherwise, I am going to post what he wrote just as he wrote it the summer of 2001.
I looked for a photo taken at that time and found I had hardly any. I think that was because he wasn't around for photo taking opportunities much that summer, preferring to stay up late into the night, sleep late during the day, and go out as much as possible. The photo posted here was taken August 19, 2001, and was actually part of a family portrait I insisted we have taken. He is actually smiling his "Mona Lisa" smile here, the result of some cajoling. Leif was 26 in this photo.
I will post what he wrote in four parts beginning tomorrow.
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