|
|
|
|
|
|
Amazon.com, 
Amazon.co.uk, 
Amazon.de or 
Amazon.ca
|
 Way of the Warrior  (20 ratings)by Igor Raffaele Page 5 of 10 Things are relatively quiet: all the major narcotics shipments have landed a week ago, and there will be a few days' rest before the market is flooded with another bunch of shortcuts to paradise. The major cash flows will bring upheacal in all the crime syndicate's power structures, as new hopefuls try to grab themselves a slice of power. I can see some of those hopefuls on the streets right now, old children and young men with their thugs around them, little more than bigger and stupider versions of their emplyers. The wannabe crime entrepeneurs swagger along the bars in the main promenade alond the Street, trying to establish that net of contacts any gangster needs to survive. It's like a mating dance where the determination and savagery on their faces is matched stride by stride in the obestentatious lack of concern and deadly cunning on the faces of their more powerful counterparts as the two parties court informers and suppliers. This is a time of preparation, before the anthill is gutted, opportunities arise and old myths fall. The frenzied activity that follows each shipment will kill half these tough guys, as the various gangs try to get hold of as large a chunk of the assorted drugs and stimulants as they can. The surviving gangs will have their moment of glory, living the fast life, lording it over the lower criminal classes. Until their bell tolls and next shipment comes along at any rate. I let them have their little wars. As long as drug dealers kill each other, they only make my life easier. There are game rules I set, however, and I can say with a some professional pride that even the meanest hitman will think twice or perhaps even three three times before breaking them. No bystanders are to be harmed, no transversal revenges on anyone's innocent family, and children are just not allowed to take any part in the festivities. Even now Red Ronnie's face darkens as I walk by the table he's sitting on. He has his whole gang around him, but still he tries to hide his bulky cybernetic leg. It replaces the flesh and blood one I blew off with one well aimed disruptor blast when he bombed a whole housing complex to get to one of his main rival's sons. One hundred and fifty-six people died, twenty children amongst them. I could have killed him, and someone with no memory for the past would have replaced him, only to made a very similar mistake later on. A week in my interrogation room, and that little plasteel memento attached to his hip, made sure he'd never do it again, instead. Sure, he sends hitmen after me every month regular, but I do not mind. They keep me on my toes, and provide me with much needed entertainment, while for all his murdering attempts and attitude, Red has not made one more superfluous victim in his rise to power in the underground crime sindycates. This world might be nothing more than a big merciless sea, where bigger fish can do much as they please with the smaller ones. Nothing might matter in the universe but the brute strength of your arguments. I might be nothing but a shade of some long dead ideals, but I rather doubt that Red and all the other kingpins that violated my rules would be able to easily take that view of life again, and I must admit that the thought cheers me up somewhat. The day draws to its close, but not after I've had to break up a dozen gang fights, catch a robber or two and walk the street up and down three times. By the time I finally get back home, the huge overhead floodlights have gone into power saving mode, and their sooty orange low consumption light wreak havock with all the colours in the archology. The distinctive neon tatoos on the various' cyberpunk tribes' faces light up, and everything look like some unreal painting depicting what passes as night in this cage we call home. The security door recognizes my voice commands, quickly scans my retina, and cheerfully informs me that no one tried to break in during my absence. I walk in, and quickly deactivate the fusion bombs behind the door; if someone had tried and succedeed in getting in while I was away, they'd have had 30 seconds to defuse the four high powered explosive charges. I set them to explode regardless of wether the door opens for lawful entry or not, just because some of the better hackers around the archology can enter anything. Punching the code in has by now become a reflex action, much like giving at all the surveillance monitors a quick look as I walk by on my way to the bedroom. Each monitor show the status of one or more of my electronic alarm bells, and their job is to keep an eye on things I would not have time nor skill to even find in cyberspace. There are six monitors arranged in a row on my left side, and another five on the right side, each corresponding to a major corporation or criminal's virtual data flows. In each black screen, I can see dancing figures sketched in an unstable fluorescent green colour, each figure a code giving me information on the physical or virtual coordinates and nature of the recorded transaction. Looking at the numbers flowing while they light the room like some spooky green underground cave, I can tell for example that the Iono-Sedai corporation has bought 5 billion tonnes of first class plasteel from the Yokosuki family, paint coated it with grade 6 laser proof polymers, and then sold it to the Yarblek clan through one of its anonimous subsidiaries, making a neat 300% profit. The Gucci family are still trying to expand in this archology by selling many products at ridiculously cut costs, covering the calculated losses with profits from their markets in other archologies. Seeing how the Yakuza syndicates are going to handle that intrusion on their markets is going to be interesting, or perhaps it's just going to involve more bloodbaths and innocent victim. I'll make them clean the streets afterwards with their silk suits, and I'll stand over their necks until all the red is on their faces, and off my sidewalks. Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2001 Igor Raffaele, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author. The author has submitted the work in accordance with and in agreement with the following Submission Guidelines. |
Copyright © 1999 - 2004 sffworld.com