Thirty Days of Night.

[Serious Paul]

Frommers Guide to Alaska, 2002

The Interior and Arctic parts of the state are less susceptible to earthquakes and, since they receive little precipitation, they don't have glaciers, either. But there's still a sense of living on a land that's not quite sure of itself, since most of northern Alaska is solid only by virtue of being frozen. When it thaws, it turns to mush. The phenomenon is caused by permafrost, a layer of earth a little below the surface that never thaws--or at least, you'd better hope it doesn't. Buildings erected on permafrost without some mechanism for dispersing their own heat--pilings, a gravel pad, or even refrigerator coils--thaw the ground below and sink into a self-made quicksand. You occasionally run across such structures. There's one in Dawson City, Yukon Territory, still left from the gold rush, that leans at an alarming angle with thresholds and lower tiers of siding disappearing into the ground.

Building sewer and water systems in such conditions is a challenge still unmet in much of Alaska's Bush, where village toilets are often "honey buckets" and the septic systems are sewage lagoons on the edge of town where the buckets are dumped. Disease caused by the unsanitary conditions sweeps the villages as if rural Alaska were a Third World country. Large state and federal appropriations are resolving the problem one village at a time, but still many years of work are left.

Permafrost makes the land do other strange things. On a steep slope, the thawed earth on top of the ice can begin to slowly slide downhill like a blanket over a pile of pillows, setting the trees at crazy angles. These groves of black spruce--the only conifer that grows on this kind of ground--are called drunken forests, and you can see them in Denali National Park and elsewhere in the Interior. Permafrost also can create weird ground with shaky tussocks the size of basketballs that sit a foot or two apart on a wet, muddy flat. From a distance it looks smooth, but walking on real basketballs would be easier.

The Arctic and much of the Interior are a swampy desert. Annual precipitation in Barrow is the same as in Las Vegas. Most of the time, the tundra is frozen in white; snow blows around, but not much falls. It melts in the summer, but it can't sink into the ground, which remains frozen. Liquid water on top of the permafrost layer creates huge, shallow ponds. Alaska is a land of 10 million lakes, with three million larger than 20 acres. Birds arrive to feed and paddle around those circles and polygons of deep green and sky blue. Flying over the Arctic in a small plane is disorienting, for no pattern maintains in the flat green tundra, and irregularly shaped patches of water stretch as far as the eye can see. Pilots find their way by following landmarks like tractor tracks etched into the tundra. Although few and far between, the tracks remain clearly delineated for decades after they're made, appearing as narrow, parallel ponds reaching from one horizon to the other.

The permafrost also preserves much older things. The meat of prehistoric mastodons, still intact, has been unearthed from the frozen ground. On the Arctic Coast, the sea eroded ground near Barrow that contained ancient ancestors of the Eskimos who still inhabit the same neighborhood. In 1982, they found a family that apparently was crushed by sea ice up to 500 years ago. Two of the bodies were well preserved, sitting in the home they had occupied and wearing the clothes they had worn the day of the disaster, perhaps around the time Columbus was sailing to America.

Sea ice is the frozen ocean that extends from northern Alaska to the other side of the world. For a few months of summer it pulls away from the shore. Then, in September, when the ocean water falls below 29°F, ice forms along the beach and expands from the North Pole's permanent ice pack until the two sides meet. The clash of huge ice floes creates towering pressure ridges, small mountains of steep ice that are difficult to cross.

At its extreme, in March, the ice extends solidly all the way south to the Pribilof Islands, when it becomes possible to drive a dog team across the Bering Sea to Siberia. The National Weather Service keeps track of the ice pack and issues maps and predictions you can find on the Internet (www.alaska.net/~nwsar). Crab boats like to tempt its south-moving edge in the fall and shippers look for the right moment in the summer to venture north with barges of fuel and other supplies for the coast of the Arctic Ocean--they barely have time to get there and back before the ice closes in again in the fall.

The Arctic and Interior are relatively barren biologically compared with the southern coastal areas of the state. Polar bears wander the Arctic ice pack, but they, like the Eskimos, feed more on marine mammals than on anything found on the shore. A 1,200-pound adult polar bear can make a meal of a walrus, and they're expert at hunting seal. In the summer, herds of caribou counted in the tens of thousands come north to their Arctic calving grounds, but they migrate south when the cold, dark winter falls unremittingly on the region.

In Barrow, the sun doesn't rise for more than 65 days in the winter. In February, the average daily high temperature is -12°F, and the average low is -24°F. The Inupiat people learned to survive in this climate for millennia, but life was short and terribly hard. Today they've made some sensible allowances while holding onto many cultural traditions. For example, the school in Barrow has wide, light hallways and a large indoor playground.

[Serious Paul]

Frommers Guide to Alaska, 2002

Rain forest covers only a small fraction of Alaska. In fact, only a third of Alaska is forested at all, and most of this is the boreal forest that covers the central part of the state, behind the rain-shadow of coastal mountains that intercept moist clouds off the oceans. Ranging from the Kenai Peninsula, south of Anchorage, to the Brooks Range, where the Arctic begins, this is a taiga--a moist, subarctic forest of smaller, slower-growing, hardier trees that leave plenty of open sky between their branches. In well-drained areas, on hillsides and southern land less susceptible to permafrost, the boreal forest is a lovely, broadly spaced combination of straight, proud white spruce and pale, spectral paper birch. Along the rivers, cottonwoods grow, with deep-grained bark and branches that spread in an oaklike matrix--if they could speak, it would be as wise old men. Where it's wet and swampy, over more and more land as you go north, all that will grow are low, brushy willow and the glum black spruce, which struggles to become a gnarled stick a mere 3 inches thick in 100 years, if it doesn't burn first. As the elevation grows, the spruce shrink, turning into weirdly bent, ancient shrubs just before the tree line and the open alpine tundra.

Forest fires tear through as much as a million acres of Alaska's boreal forest each summer. In most cases, forest managers do no more than note the occurrence on a map. There's little commercially valuable timber in these thin stands, and, anyway, it isn't possible to halt the process of nature's self-immolation over the broad expanse of Alaska. The boreal forest regenerates through fire--it was made to burn. The wildlife that lives in and eats it needs new growth from the burns as well as the shelter of older trees. When the forest is healthiest and most productive, the dark green of the spruce is broken by streaks and patches of light-green brush in an ever-changing succession.

This is the land of the moose. They're as big as large horses, with long, bulbous noses and huge eyes that seem to know, somehow, just how ugly they are. Their flanks look like a worn-out shag carpet draped over a sawhorse. But moose are survivors. They thrive in land that no one else wants. In the summer, they wade out into the swampy tundra ponds to eat green muck. In the winter, they like nothing better than an old burn, where summer lightning has peeled back the forest and allowed a tangle of willows to grow--a moose's all-time favorite food. Eaten by wolves, hunted and run over by man, stranded in the snows of a hard winter, the moose always come back. In the summer, the moose disperse and are not easily seen in thick vegetation. In the winter, they gather where walking is easy, along roads and in lowlands where people also like to live. Encounters happen often in the city, until, as a resident, you begin to take the moose for granted. Then, skiing on a Nordic trail one day, you round a corner and come face to face with an animal that stands 2 feet over you. You can smell the beast's foul scent and see his stress, the ears pulled back on the head and the whites of the eyes showing, and you know that this wild creature, fighting to live until summer, can easily kill you.

[Serious Paul]

Frommers Guide to Alaska, 2002

In 1986, Hubbard Glacier, north of Yakutat, suddenly decided to surge forward, cutting off Russell Fjord from the rest of the Pacific Ocean. A group of warm-hearted but ill-advised wildlife lovers set out to save the marine mammals that had been trapped behind the glacier. Catching a dolphin from an inflatable boat isn't that easy--they didn't accomplish much, but they provided a lot of entertainment for the locals. Then the water burst through the dam of ice and the lake became a fjord again, releasing the animals anyway.

Bering Glacier can't decide which way to go. Surging and retreating on a 20-year cycle, it recently reversed course after bulldozing a wetland migratory bird stopover, and speedily contracted back up toward the mountains. Yanert Glacier surged 100 yards a day in 2000 after moving 100 yards a year since 1942. In 1937, surging Black Rapids glacier almost ate the Richardson Highway. Mount McKinley's glaciers take off regularly. In Prince William Sound, Meares Glacier has plowed through old-growth forest. On the other hand, some glaciers are so stable they gather a layer of dirt where trees and brush grow to maturity. When Malspina Glacier retreated, the trees on its back toppled. And on a larger scale, all the land of Glacier Bay--mountains, forests, sea floor--is rising 1 1/2 inches a year as it rebounds from the weight of melted glaciers that 100 years ago were a mile thick and 65 miles longer.

Yet these new and erased lands are just small corrections around the margins compared to all the earth has done in setting down, wiping out, and rewriting the natural history of Alaska. In the last Ice Age, 15,000 years ago, much of what is Alaska today was one huge glacier. Looking up at the tops of granite mountains in Southeast Alaska, especially in the Lynn Canal, you can see a sort of high-water mark--the highest point the glaciers came in the Ice Age. Even looking from the deck of a boat, thousands of feet below, you can see where mountain shoulders, rounded by the passage of ice, are much smoother than the sharp, craggy peaks just above, which stuck out of that incredible sheet of ice.

Some 7-year-old children worry about the bogeyman or being caught in a house fire. When I was that age, living with my family in Juneau, I learned how Gastineau Channel was formed and then went to see Mendenhall Glacier. I was told how it was really a river of ice, advancing and retreating, and with this knowledge I developed a deeper fear: ice. I was afraid that while I slept, another Ice Age would come and grind away the city of Juneau.

It's possible that a glacier could get Juneau--the city fronts on the huge Juneau Ice Field--but there would be at least a few centuries' warning before it hit. Glaciers are essentially just snow that doesn't get a chance to melt. It accumulates at higher altitudes until it gets deep enough to compress into ice and starts oozing down the sides of the mountain. When the ice reaches the ocean, or before, the melt and calving of icebergs at the leading edge reaches a point of equilibrium with the snow that's still being added at the top. The glacier stops advancing, becoming a true river of ice, moving a snowflake from the top of the mountain to the bottom in a few hundred years. When conditions change--more snow or colder long-term weather, for example--the glacier gets bigger; that's called advancing, and the opposite is retreating. Sometimes, something strange will happen under the glacier and it will surge. Bering Glacier started to float on a cushion of water, and Yanert Glacier slid on a cushion of mud. But most of the time, the advance or retreat is measured in inches or feet a year.

It took some time to figure out how glaciers work, and the living glaciers of Alaska, like living fossils from the last Ice Age, helped show the way. In the 1830s, scientists in Switzerland found huge rocks (now called glacial erratics) that appeared to have moved miles from where they had once been a part of similar bedrock. They developed the theory that ancient glaciers shaping the Alps must have moved the rocks. John Muir, the famous writer and naturalist, maintained in the 1870s that the granite mountains of Yosemite National Park had been rounded and polished by the passing of glaciers that melted long ago (he was only partly right). He traveled to Alaska to prove it. Here, glaciers were still carving the land--they had never finished melting at the end of the last glacial period--and Muir could see shapes like those at Yosemite in the act of being created. Glacier Bay, which Muir "discovered" when guided there by his Alaska Native friends, was a glacial work in progress, as it still is today.

When you visit, you can see for yourself how the heavy blue ice and white snow are streaked with black rock and dust that were obviously gouged from mountains and left in hills at the face and along the flanks of the glaciers, in debris piles called moraines. At Exit Glacier in Kenai Fjords National Park, you can stand on a moraine that wraps the leading edge of the glacier like a scarf and feel the cold streaming off spires of clicking ice--like standing in front of a freezer with the door open. Find another hill like that, no matter where it is, and you can be pretty sure a glacier once came that way. Likewise, you can see today's glaciers scooping out valleys in the mountains. Fjords and valleys all over Alaska surely were made by the glaciers of the 50 ice ages that have covered North America in the last 2.5 million years.

We still don't know exactly why these glacial periods come and go. The best theory to date holds that the wobbles and imperfections in the earth's spin and orbit around the sun alter energy flow into the climate enough to bring on the ice. Indeed, ancient ice samples suggest that the last 10,000 years, in which mankind developed agriculture and civilization, have been an extremely rare period of benign and stable climatic conditions. That stability could be ending. The earth is warming, probably aided by human release of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, and the effects are being felt more strongly in the Arctic than anywhere else on earth. Forests are moving north, wetlands are drying, sea ice is withdrawing, and permanently frozen ground is warming. But no one knows how glaciers will change. If global warming brings more precipitation, they may grow.

Today, Alaska's 100,000 glaciers cover about 5% of its landmass, mostly on the southern coast. There are no glaciers in the Arctic--the climate is too dry to produce enough snow. The northernmost large glaciers are in the Alaska Range, such as those carving great chasms in the side of Mount McKinley. The mountain's height creates its own weather, wringing moisture out of the atmosphere and feeding its glaciers. The Kahiltna Glacier flows 45 miles from the mountain, losing 15,000 feet downhill over its course. The Ruth Glacier has dug a canyon twice as deep as the Grand Canyon, half filled with mile-deep ice.

[Serious Paul]

Ningeogapik stood silently, waiting. The visions had shown her this place. She lived in a hard land. Its desolate landscape was formidable in its own right, and the extreme cold made it more so, but what the white man had never gotten used to was the never ending daylight of the summers, and worse the unending darkness that was winter.

Her own people had come here ages ago, learning to respect not only the land, and its bounty. They learned to love the unyeilding light and fear the darkness that settled across their land for months on end.The Medicine men told them stories of creatures that dwelled in the dark recesses of the icy wasteland, waiting; watching. Her people had come to fear the night, and as time passed they forgot their courage and honor, turning the white mans posions to divert their minds. And for decades they cast down the old ways for the new. For the white devils.

She was twelve when the great spirits had howled in their righteous fury, toppling the great mountains, She had watched in awe as the great spirits of the land had destroyed the white mans towers, rent their machines and slay their soldiers. She had huddled inside their tent, listening to the radio describe Danile Howling Coyote and his freedom fighters. Wild tales of magic and war had enthralled her. She had noticed the change in her own people, and they had cast off the white mans posions and reclaimed their heritage.

Ningeogapik spoke with the great Moose spirits, and in her village this had meant a place of privilege. Ningeogapik helped her people listen to the will of the land and the spirits. Ningeogapik was a Shaman. One of two in her village, and one of the most powerful in a three hundred miles. Ningeogapik often received visitors from other tribes, seeking her wisdom and guidance.

The visions had started a year ago.

At first Ningeogapik didn't even remember them, even in passing. But as the year had dragged on the dreams haunted her, unsettling nightmares of red snow and darkness had dragged her from her comfortable bed, and into the wastelands of the tundra that she called home. The Dark season was only a few weeks away, and her sleep had become increasingly troubled.

The cold seeped through her layered clothing, she still chose to wear traditional furs and leathers over the neoprene and gortex the youngsters wore. Her dark leathers and furs were all hand made, in the old ways. They contained none of the white mans taint. Her feet were starting to ache from remaining motionless for so long. Her legs were numbed by the cold, and she knew if she didn't start moving soon that the cold might overcome her. She wasn't as young as she once had been. Her beauty, which had never been a phenominal thing on good days, was a fleeting memory, her face and hands were harsh reminders of the ravages of age.

She shifted her left leg forward, and started to make her way down stiffly. She was old, and her visions were not as powerful as the had once been. Her connection to the spirit world was clouded. Ningeogapik needed sleep. She'd brew some tea when she got back, maybe mixing some herbs she had with it.

Red Snow.

Red Snow.

[Serious Paul]

Samuel Smith reveiwed his personel jacket carefully. According to company policy what he was doing was at the minimum punishable by reprimand, at worse by discharge. He of course knew that at his level discharge usually meant face down, ass up with a bullet wound or two to the head.

Technically his postion was a Research Data Management Cordinator. Officially he cordinated various research projects for Universal Omnitech and Aztechnology. Unofficially he protected a wide variety of data from corporate competitors. He was empowered to take drastic measures, including deadly force to protect his companies pay data from those who would subvert it for their own uses.

At his command were the finest tools. His utilities and programs had been made in the finest corporate research labs. His training had been provided at the finest technical schools, and tested under the most stressful conditions. He was a corporate warrior. His suit and tie disguised a mind that had torn opposing deckers to pieces on so many occasions. He had killed hundreds of times, even if he had never seen a body except on true crime Sims or in matrix SIGs. He was a console cowboy, whose sixgun was circuitry.

His file had been encrypted with varios protective algorithms, meant to keep corporate competitors at bay, not employees. His honor, his loyalty was to be the corporations security.

Of course he had sold his loyalty to the highest bidder. His honor forsaken for a higher calling.

Love.

He finished viewing the file, noting that little had changed. It seemed that his plans were safe for now. He unjacked, leaning back into his chair.His suit jacket was hung to his left, his shoes were set neatly to his right. His cubicle was large, as far as that sort of thing went, and close to the elevator. A small perk in this building. He hated Seattle. He hated the Aztechnology Pyramid. Ninety floors of chrome furniture, mirrored trim and corporate hell on earth.

His thoughts turned to the island he had picked out. The South Pacific was full of tiny islands that were terraformed for luxury. He had picked one with a spanish style villa, and a pool. He could picture the sun, and the palm trees. The thoughts brought a smile to his face. Soon he thought, soon.

He slipped his shoes on, then his jacket, standing slowly he surveyed the room. The cubes seemed to be endless, and although the fans and ventilation systems masked most of the noise with a quiet hum, he could still hear voices and machines. Like a dull droning it crashed in on him. Soon.

Soon.

[Serious Paul]

Emiko Noguchi was perfect in nearly every way possible. Her features were a combination of Japanese and German, the one tempering the other. Her beauty was all natural, unmarred by cybernetic or biogenic enhancements. In this day and age that was rare, and becoming rarer.

Her Father had been a sariman all of his life, a corporate lawyer. His every moment had been dedicated to his company, and his families position in life. He had died a rich man. His wife, who had died with him had been a trophy, a perk for his position. Statue-esque, her beauty had been scuplted by the best artists in Chiba. She simply served to meet his needs.

He had wanted sons, some one who could carry on in his place, continue his work. That she had only borne him a single daughter was a matter of great shame. His death when Emiko was three had precluded that situation from ever changing.

Emiko shrugged these thoughts aside and concentrated on the task at hand. The encryption program was difficult for Samuel at times, and he was a decker. She on the other hand, had to rely on an old fashioned interface- a trode rig that rested on her head, with gloves and and a pair of goggles. She had nearly finished decrypting their latest message from their mutual employeer. She hoped they'd finally be able to leave this god forsaken city.

Samuel Smith was like many of the various men she'd had the pleasure of utilizing over the years. He was smart, and good looking. He was physically fit, but like all her men he was easily manipulated.

She had been lucky to find him. His postion with both Universal Omnitech and Aztechnology had been a boon for her plans. It hadn't taken long for her to figure out what she needed to do, and convince Samuel it was the righ tthing to do for them, for her.

Soon they'd be leaving Seattle for a small island in the South Pacific. Her dreams were nearing fruition. Emiko grinned as she finished the final code was completed. The file opened and she read silently...

"Barrow?"

[Serious Paul]

Samuel sighed as he pulled his vechile into the allotted space. His rank in the corporation allowed him an apartment with his own space. In reality he shared a block of spaces with several other midlevel sarimen, on the seventh sublevel of the parking garage. As he he steppd out of his Ford Americar, he was careful not to slam his door into the vechile next to his, the spaces were supposed to have been ten feet in width. They were in fact eight. He carefully locked his vechile after inspecting its general condition. Once his vechile had been defaced, and because he hadn't noticed it, he failed to make a timely report, and his claim was denied by his corporate insurance.

It was the first time he had ever misallocated Corporate assetts. He had diverted a small amount of money, just enough to fix his car from a small subsidiary. It hadn't taken much. Smith simply iverted the money and made the data trail disapperar. He had nearly called in sick the next day. he'd spent the whole night waiting. Waiting for them to find out what he had done. To come for him. As he had walked int hat day it seemed as if all eyes were on him. As if everyone had really known,and were participating in an elaborate game of charades. When that day had ended he knew the truth.

They wouldn't be coming.

Samuel was soon making a decent living by trading his comapnies secrets. Nothing terribly important. Nothing to draw attention to himself. just little bits here, little bits there. He diverted funds, he bank rolled his savings with his profits. Never much,not wanting to draw too much attention to himself. He knew his earnings were audited, and too much discrepancy would be a quick way of being caught. He soon found someone who could launder his earnings and carefully hide them from prying eyes.

Samuel hadn't saved much by the time he'd met Emiko.She had changed everything. Emiko had invested his money. Emiko was clever and her keen sense of business and timing had doubled his money in the last year. But she had always pushed for him to do more.

At first Samuel had resisted the idea. He was a mouse nibbling at a mountain of cheese potected by hungry and suspsicous Hyenas. He simply had to nibble here and there and stay out of site. But Emiko wasn't satisfied with scraps. Emiko wanted her own block of cheese. Emiko had started to suggest ideas, and pretty soon he found himself in a crowded corner of the matrix discussing his retirement.

All he had to do was walk in, get the stuff and walk out.

Simple.

Samuel Smith pressed the elevators call button, and stood silently thinking. He had the codes. He had the clearence. All he had to do was buy the brief cases.

As the elvator door opened he smiled and stepped in. Soon he'd be with Emiko, and he'd find out when he could get on with this.

[Serious Paul]

Emiko stoodjust inside the door, her back to him. She was preparing tea, the smell of cinnamon and ginger made Samuel relax slightly. Emiko turned slightly,smiling at him.

"Samuel you're home!" He took a step to Emiko and wrapped his hands around her tiny waist. She was delicate and beautiful, like a wild flower. Emikos hair always smelled like Jasmine and flowers to him. Emiko leaned back into him, resting her head on his shoulder slightly, her smile widening." Welcome home."

Samuel kissed her lightly on the lips. "Did we get any news today?" He smiled.

"Yes, yes we did." Emiko slowly laid all the details out for Samuel to digest. And when she was finished all he could say was:

"Barrow?"

[Serious Paul]

The Moskva river was nearly frozen over completely. Deep beneath the ice water still flowed. Emil despised running water, had for hundreds of years, ever since Prague. Emil was glad they had decided to try and hide in the Park. It was near the Moskva river, but they were moving away from the river.


He could smell their fear, like a sugary nectar that made his blood rage and burn. He'd feed tonight, and well. He moved silently skirting the lights in the park, keeping his prey in sight.They were running hard, and had been for some time now. They could sense him, after a fashion. They hadn't seen him in a half an hour, yet a gut wrenching terror told them he was near. A stomach twisting spine tingling fear he hoped. Emil had been toying with them, letting their fear steep into a climatic moment,that'd make the feeding all the sweeter.


The park was clean, and covered in snow. Flakes fell slowly, almost lazily from the cloudy sky. The park lights were dimmed, power shortages had affected the whole city of late. On any other night it might have made for a romantic walk in the park. For these four, it simply added to their terror. They couldn't see him.


Emil chuckled, a raspy sound like a wind on metal, and leapt from his perch in the twisted tree. He soared briefly through the air, landing fifty feet from where he started with barely a sound. His movements were liquid in their smoothness, and he left no foot prints as he walked. He chanted the arcane words just loud enough for the wind to carry his hissing voice through the park, to his quarry. He watched as they tried to scan the trees in a futile effort to spot him. A thick fog rolled up from the ground, swirling it moved an unatural life of its own. It surronded the three men, and single women like a thick blanket.


He stepped from the tree line and slowly walked towards them whistling an old tune. He was literally with in feet of them, and they didn't know it.


Suddenly there was a flash of red lights, and he jerked his head to the right. He swore silently as his eyes, much keener than any of their own picked out the silhouette of a Supreme Soviet Police vechile. Damn those Communists he thought. He faded slowly into the shadows, giving his prey a moment of brief hope.As they flagged the vechile down, he crawled into a nearby tree, hanging upside down from a thick branch.
Two of the Secret Policemen stepped from the truck like vechile. Each were armed, and wrapped in thick coats. To his eyes ,which saw on all spectrums, they were bright blobs of heat.


The policemen talked briefly with his game, and then set out on foot towards him, their weapons, Kalishnikov assault rifles, drawn. Emil grinned. This would be so easy.


As the first officer walked beneath him he simply reached down and broke the mans neck. Emil flipped from the tree, and landed behind the other who had heard his partners body crumple to the ground. Emil made just enough noise to make the man turn. He sneered at the man whose eyes had just enough time to register that Emil had ripped his heart out. As he fell, stone dead, his fingers locked on the weapons trigger firing through a dozen rounds before Emil kicked the weapon aside.


His victims had heard the weapons retort and scrambled into the vechile.


Emil watched as they climbed into the Moskva Police vechile. It was armored, that he could tell, and fast. But he was faster. He leapt from his perch in the trees, racing to the vechile as it sped away. Sinking his claws into the vechile, he planted his feet firmly, and for a second there was a wrenching sound as the vechiles transmission tore itself away from the vechiles frame, and then a ripping sound as he peeled the armored door back. His grin was feral as he heard the bolts that held the door in place snap one by one. He saw the four of them inside the vechile, their screams were like music. One of them jammed something dark at him, it smelled of powder.


His unnaturally fast reflexes saved his life most likely, as he saw the barrel shoved at his face, he simply moved his head. The shotgun blast would have killed him. As it was it nearly deafened him.


Emil clutched the offending piece of steel and yanked the weapon loose from the man who was weilding it. He twisted the metal in half, snapping it. He flung the pieces aside. The mans face wore a mask of shock.He saw another fumbling with something;with a growl Emil grabbed the nearest man.

He'd feast tonight.

[Serious Paul]

Samuel Smith checked his tie one last time. Samuel wore a loose fitting three-piece suit that disguised the bulge of his heavy pistol, a Remington MaxPower that was equipped with a laser sight. He had a single extra clip; both his spare clip and weapon were loaded with hollow point rounds. He hoped not to use it, but he came prepared. He carried a thin black leather briefcase, which held all the tools he would need.

An electronics tool kit, several Mag-lock passkeys that would allow him access to each of the sensitive areas he would need to pass through in order to accomplish what he needed to do, and a pair of gloves. Samuel already arranged for two stainless steel cases to be placed in the room he needed to eventually end up in. He had also had several weapons stashed, and some body armor in case things got ugly. He doubted it would come to that, but again he was prepared.

Samuel had made all the arrangements to ensure he disappeared completely after he finished this job. The man known as Samuel Smith would cease to be. His credit record would vanish, his personnel record would erase itself, and his apartment would be cleaned out totally. He would make his own life disappear. He would be SINless, a ghost in the machine. Moreover, more importantly soon he would be in a tropical paradise.

Samuel walked through the glass door into the main entryway. The Pyramid was designed to impress and impose Aztechnology’s might and sheer mind boggling size on those who entered. The rows of glass doors were built to accommodate an army of giants, and lead into a five-story plaza. Gardens, pools, and shops were crowded with visitors and employees. Holograms displayed a variety of advertisements and logos, some simply were aesthetically pleasing-fish and birds, in some cases people spoke with learning holograms, and still others were entertained by holographic performances. All of it was a carefully planned display, one that was calculated to impress the average citizen with Aztechnology’s power.

Samuel passed through the first doors, already knowing that he had been scanned at a distance of about twenty feet from the Pyramid. His weapon had already been identified, and the transponders signal it emitted would ensure security would not bother him. Samuel knew that the doors hid advanced scanners and sensors that could locate a variety of weapons, explosives and wetware. Samuel also knew that men were positioned through out these floors, undercover security officers who were trained to spot people who did not belong.

Samuel did belong. He walked confidently through the crowd, holding his head high. He reached the first bank of elevators and slid a specially made keycard into the slot. As the doors opened, he allowed himself a quick smile.

He stood in the center of the elevator car; after all, he belonged here. As the car descended he slid his gloves into place, and stuck a keycard in each pocket of his suit. As the doors opened, he stepped past a carefully hidden camera to his right, and a pressure sensor that was linked to a tracked weapon in the ceiling of the hallway. Samuel had carefully read the security schematics days before, planning each step.

Samuel walked three hundred paces forward, and stopped at the door. He jacked in to the door, and allowed the security devices to scan his body and mind. As the door opened, he stepped into the room and turned right, stepping out of the ‘single cameras’ view of the room; he shucked his suit jacket and donned a tan coat with red markings that designated technicians. He stuffed his jacket into the briefcase and then stepped back into the hallway. He took forty more steps and then faced left; he switched Keycards, and strolled a leisurely five hundred paces to the next door.

He slowly counted off steps and passed through a variety of secure check points, all automated at this level. Finally, a brief ten minutes later, he arrived at the door he had set out to open. It was not marked in any special way, just a four digit alphanumeric code. He stood before it for a brief second, then slid his keycard in to the door. In seconds he’d know whether he was as good as Emiko said he was.

[Serious Paul]

Samuel stepped into the air-conditioned room silently, his eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness of the rooms. There were three rooms, each was sealed with thick glass doors and protected by a wide array of security devices.

Each of the doors, although they looked like glass were actually construction grade plastic. Each was reinforced with a ballistic webbing, that was conductive. Anyone trying to break the doors open would need to use a heavy weapon, in the order of a rocket launcher or a laser weapon. The chances that any one would be able to lug that down the stairs was slim to none.

Next to each door was a high veracity examiner. They checked the accessors DNA, retinals and more. Lucky for him he had the security bypass codes.

What he needed was in the far room, some thirty feet from where he stood.

The previous night he had spent an hour sliding his program into place. It had been tricky, even with inside access. He had started in his work terminal; quickly trading his corporate approved utilities for specially coded chips that would allow him to move like a wraith through the system he knew so well. He had slid through the electronic data streams making the necessary adjustments. The whole system would not shut down, that would draw excessive attention to what he was doing. The audio and visual would simply loop for a brief period. He would have more than enough time.

Samuel stepped over to the first door and looked into the next room. He was standing in the locker area; jump suits and supplies were stored here, as well as several cleaning stations, allowing staff to disinfect themselves and their equipment. He selected a jumpsuit that was close to his build and shucked his suit and tie. He checked the suit seals and donned a facemask; finally gloves. Samuel entered the code into the keypad, opening the door.

The room was small, comparatively, most of the labs on this level were. On one wall was a desk with a terminal, and some clutter, on another was a large table filled various beakers and tubes that looked to be filled with a variety of fluids. On the last wall were a door and a freezer. Next to the freezer were two large stainless steel containment cases. He carefully cleared space on the table and set the cases up on it. Opening them took a key and a combination. He opened both cases and quietly set about emptying its contents; junk he used to fill space so he could get the cases here.

After cleaning out each case, he inspected each one making sure its cooling equipment functioned and there were no breaches in the cases. Then he turned back towards the door, checking his watch. So far he worked five full minutes in silence, and as far as he could tell not one mistake. Maybe he was cut out for this sort of work.

He entered another essential code and used the appropriate card to gain entry into the cold storage room. There were five lockers; each containing some one hundred test tubes, each labeled in perfect Aztlaner Spanish. He opened the first two and carefully began to read the labels of each tube, taking care to touch as few of them as possible. Finally after several minutes he selected thirteen of the tubes, and one by one began to unload them, placing them into each of the brief cases. He took care to not jostle the vials.

Once he had loaded all thirteen of them, he removed the panel from the side of the freezer unit. He pulled the wires from the panel slowly, using a small knife to pair them back; he began to twist several of the wires together. He knew this would cause the freezers electrical system to short out in short order.

Finished he shoved the wires back into their housing and turned the freezer timer on. In ten minutes, everything in this freezer would be useless. He smiled and stepped back into the main room with the brief cases. Samuel set the cases down and stripped the biocontamination suit off. He washed his hands silently, making sure to wipe the handles down as well.

He dressed swiftly, but ensuring his’ appearance was immaculate. He slid a pair of black leather gloves on, designed to be puncture proof and water resistant, it made them thicker than normal gloves, but they also provided a great deal of protection. He was wearing form-fitting armor that had been treated to resist chemicals of all sorts; it covered about seventy-five percent of his body, leaving his face, hands and neck uncovered, as well as his feet. After checking his appearance one last time in the mirror Samuel Smith picked up both suitcases and stepped back into the hallway.

The hall was clear, not many people were even in the office at this time of morning, and it was just after zero seven hundred hours now he made his way back to the elevators. He rode the elevator quietly up, knowing that this was it. If they were not waiting for him, he was free and clear.

As the doors opened, he saw four men, all wearing the tan uniforms of Aztechnology, and for a second he almost panicked. Then he saw that they were all wearing computer support decals on their left shoulders, and he forced a smile. He nodded firmly to them and stepped out of their way.

Samuel Smith whistled as he walked to the main doors. He knew that security was more concerned about what was coming in, not what was going out.

[Serious Paul]

Emiko danced about the closet. It was a walk in, Samuels one concession to her tastes and appettites. She had spent the morning packing her warddrobe in her new matching black leather luggage. She had seven large suitcases, and five smaller ones, as well as a travel case that resembled a tackle box with a mirror. The tags on the luggage read Schlesinger, it was the most exspensive set she could find in the Arcology Malls many stores.

Their large bed was covered in outfits, that she had purchased as well. Emiko humed along with the radio, today was the day it all began. Her new life. She heard the living room door squeak shut, a sound she hated, and she quickly shuffle stepped over to the door in time to see Samuel set the brief cases down. Emiko giggled, let out a squal and ran to Samuel with her arms out. He turned just in time to catch her and lift her up into the air.

"Hey Baby!"

Emiko laughed and kissed Samuel, "How was your day at work dear?"

"Better than you could imagine!"

Samuel set Emiko down and pulled her tight, his hand dropped to her curvacious ass, and cupped her. She feigned idignation and wrapped her own arms around his shoulders. "I started packing for you Samuel..."

[Serious Paul]

Stazione Termini-The main train station was as seedy as most of Rome got. Dusty, filled with gas fumes, and crowded. Cabs, Buses, and motor vechiles of all sorts clogged the streets. The terminal itself was a loud, noisy hub of activity. Most the Papal Free States visitors started here, and tourists fell all over themsleves to see the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore and the Baths of Diocletian, two of the areas many attractions that were within walking distance of the terminal.


Street Vendors-hawking everything from cheap synthleather jackets with designer labels to pleasures of all sorts-lined the streets. People shoved their way through the crowds, some on their way to clubs, others jobs-most of the working middle class relied on the trains for transportation into the Papal city. Papal Polizi patrolled on foot in this district, travelling in teams of three or fours, their red uniforms with white crosses, and stiff collars denoting their loyalties, their submachineguns and heavy machine pistols denoted their seriousness. Shills, thieves,packs of gypsy children, cutthroats, con artists and thugs of all sorts did a thriving business in the Terminal, showing those unwary few a darker side of the Holy city.


Silvio Berlusconi was a powerfully built man. His six feet plus frame was gaunt, but broad. He wore an Armante suit, a casual black and tan affair that had cost a mere twenty thousand Lira. Silvio enjoyed his nightly stroll through the Terminal District, the sights and sounds always amazed him, even after a thousand years.


He marveled that a thousand years ago the Papal City had fallen to the Turkish Muslims and the Crusades had been started. He remembered the night they had arrived at the city, and the destruction that had followed. He shook the fog of memory loose, and turned back to the moment.


Silvio refrained from hunting this District, partly out of the agreement his kind had made with Pope Gregory II; partly out of respect for the memories-not all of them bad-this place evoked. He liked to walk the streets at night, at least once a month when he could. Of late he had been out every night-he would be leaving for Barrow soon.


A forsaken land of snow and ice, nearly unihabited-the thought made him shiver and growl, a noise that made those closest to him step away warily. Realizing that he had nearly revealed himself, Silvio inwardly scolded himself for being foolish and hurriedly began to return to the Viale Dei Cavalli Marini. He had to meet with some old friends before he left.

Silvio started to turn but stopped. He had been so lost in his reminiscing, that he had almost failed to notice the five youths trailing him. Three were behind him, attempting to rotate the distance they each kept from him, one was to his left side probably in hopes of blocking his access to the road, and the last was in front of him-a look out. Silvio smiled-they had no idea of what they were about to get into. They thought him one of the many idle, foolish rich tourists that walked the streets of the terminal district.


He stopped at a vendor, and haggled for a second on a particularly exspensive watch, in the end settling on a price that was outrageous- something all the youths noticed. He paid in Cash, ensuring he flashed several large denomination bills. Silvio was sure he had their full attention now, and decided it was time to have some fun, and maybe even a quick snack-the thought of the extended trip had made him cranky.


Silvio pretended to absent mindly stare at the watch, as if considering what sort of deal he had made, and wandered into a small alley. He saw the youths smile to themselves, and flash a quick hand signal back and forth. Once he cleared the mouth of the alley, Silvio quickly stepped forward, and scaled the nearest alley wall with spider-like grace. Perching himself upside down from a balcony, he waited for the youths to enter the alley.


The first three moved in swiftly, two had drawn blades, the third had picked up a pipe from somewhere. They quickly searched for their target and were confused when they couldn't find him. He heard them discuss the situation for a second when the other two stepped into his view. As they puzzled their luck, Silvio descended the wall silently.


Sticking to the alleys shadows he crept to with in a few feet of them, then summoning his inner will he projected his inner strength upon them. Their eyes widened with fear as his will clutched at their auras, and tugged at their hearts and souls. He used his powers to draw their attention, and stepping from the shadows he allowed his eyes to glow- Silvio bet he looked like the devil himself stepping from the shadows-ten feet tall ( A trick of light an old master had shown him centuries ago) with glowing eyes and sharp fangs. he raised his arms in a classic movie pose and hissed.


At first several of the men simply wet themselves-he nearly burst out laughing at that. Then two dropped their knives and ran-they did not even have the energy or presence of mind to scream, they simply ran till they fell over. Two simply stood there, frozen with fright-the last, obviously the leader stabbed at Sivio with his knife. Silvio sidestepped the clumsy mans blow, and chopped at the mans arm with his fist. The man groaned as Silvio shattered his forearm, then as the man clutched his broken limb Silvio clutched him by the throat and pulled his face to with in inches of his own.


"If I ever see any of you again, anywhere in this city I will drain the blood from your mothers while you watch!" Silvio dropped the man and disappeared into the shadows...

[Serious Paul]

[align=center]The Aztlan Ice Polar Monsters of Metal Madness and Mayhem Extraveganza![/align]


Tired of seeing the same damn concert over and over again? Sick of paying for exspensive ass stadium seats next to some creepy bum who snuck in? Man have we got the ticket for you!


The Coldest show on Earth! Live from the Artic Circle see the Monsters of Rock!


Mettallica with last surviving original band member Lars Ulrich!


Featuring: Death Maiden, KILL, Mega Rat! UrgeOverRide, and THOR!


We'll fly you and five hundred of your close personal friends to the coldest damn place on the planet! Barrow, TP-A! You'll fly first class with all the cool cold Aztlan Ice you can drink! Be there live as the concert that will chill you to the bone is broadcast live across the world!

Then we'll take you back stage to party with the bands!


All you need to do is watch MTVXXX for chance to win! When you see Lars get out of the Leonization Tank be caller 666 and you could be registered to win a trip to the COLDEST SHOW ON EARTH!



Void where prohibited,or ineligible. Not open to citizens of Renaraku or Mitsuhama. All entries are subject to approval, winners must clim their prize with in thirty days. For further contest rules send a MASE to AztechnologyIceGodsofROck@Azzie.net

[Serious Paul]

Guo Anming

Guo Anming stood motionless, his body unmoving, his nose nearly pressing into the plate glass window. The window was ten feet high, stretching the length of the room, some thirty feet. With a single gesture Guo Anming could polarize the glass so that the Suns harmful rays did not touch him, but he could still look upon the day lit world. He had under taken this same ritual every morning for the last five hundred years; he could remember the painful, nearly disastrous first attempt.


He had been ancient even then, and in a fit of rage he had flung the windows open and stood in the sun. His skin had been seared and scorched, the pain had been nearly unbearable. He had almost died.


Now he considered it a matter of pride and honor to withstand the Suns harmful rays. After five hundred years, he could almost with stand a full two minutes of sunlight. Most of his kind would have burst into flames the second they were exposed to the sun.


Tsim Sha Tsui was the center of Hong Kong’s tourist and business district. His apartment was atop the highest building in the district that was privately owned. Only the Corporate SkyRakers had a better view than his own.


As stood waiting, knowing soon that his skin would be burned his thoughts turned towards his upcoming trip.


Barrow.


He had been there once, centuries ago. A more desolate wasteland he could not imagine. Even in his life, he had grown up in the crowded throng that was Hong Kong. To him the idea of large tracts of arctic tundra was as alien as it got. The fact that there was a place his kind could live with out fear of the Suns harmful rays was made pure irony by the locale.


As the suns orange red glow started to clear the edge of the bay, he cleared these thoughts from his mind. He needed to be strong.

[Serious Paul]

"Yes sir."


"I understand sir. We'll take every precaution sir."


"I understand the delicate nature of the situation sir."


"No sir, I reccomend we utilize people outside the usual order of events sir."


"No sir, I think using our own people in this is risky sir."


"As a matter of fact sir, I do have some people in mind."


"Yes sir, I will contact them immediately sir."


"Of course sir. We have protocols in line for this sort of situation, sir. Its standard procedure to keep a team of our own people online and ready to go sir. Believe me sir, we have thought of everything."


"I think it is best if you don't ask those questions sir."


"Sir, the less you know the less you can be asked about. If you don't know sir, you can really say that you do not know. You never know when that will pay off, sir."


"Yes sir."


"Yes sir."


"Immediately sir."

[Bethyaga]

The weather's been odd, and that always plays havoc with the roads. 72 hours ago, Simon's old Dodge Mudrunner was living up to its name as freakish warm winter days turned the dirt tracks out this way into mud. Now it was 5 below, and the 'Runner was slippin and grippin on the slick mud-ice and packed snow--even here on the tribal highway. Even with the heater rattling, Simon Blackfoot could feel the bite of cold through his lined work gloves. Snow flew at him as sparse white pinpricks of condensation--not enough to stick or even be much of a bother--just a dusting.

Simon slows as the turnoff to his land approaches, And then he sees them. A half-dozen maybe. Bundled against the cold, but not well. Hiding casually among the trees; but not well. Amateurs--kids probably. Simon knows this is a rite of passage for every Cascade Ork boy, but why the hell do they have to do it by his house?

Sure enough, as he gets closer, he sees the scattering of beer bottles on the ground around them, and he can see the makeshift weapons nearby, bats and knives and chains. Would-be highwaymen, most likely. Simon stops his truck right by the stand of trees where the young orks are huddled. As he gets out, one of them--the largest--calls out, "Don't worry about us, man. We ain't botherin' the locals." The kid actually has a thick black braid of hair hanging out from under his toque, much like Simon's own, and has even gone so far as to hang feathers in it--a style that always makes Simon want to laugh, but apparently is back in fashion among today's hoods.

Simon doesn't want to start a fight, "But this here is my driveway," he gestures to the winding ruts that disappear over the next rise, "and I can't let you stay." Simon is tall for an ork, well over two meters, but not particularly bulky or impressive. But he's Cascade, and it gives the kids pause. Anyone else, they'd have to challenge him on principle or lose face... but for a Cascadian--for a true ork--they pause. And Simon takes that hesitation for his own advantage, moving on with a subtly established dominance, "I don't care what you guys want to do, just move on down the road, so you're not on my property doing it. The Agri-Exchange always does the most business on Saturday, so you'll catch more traffic on Old Highway 6 anyway."

And there was the motivation they needed--the "out" that let them save their very fragile pride. One pipes up with, "No wonder we ain't doing any business here. Everybody's out east." They chatter amongst themselves, and with a quick good-bye, Simon gets back in the truck without so much as a backward glance. Before he disappears over the rise, he can see in his mirrors that the teens are already moving on. Good.

Simon pulls up to his front door, and heads inside, thinking, I should have made 'em clean up after themselves. I'm going to have to go pick up all those bottles first thing in the morning.

[Serious Paul]

Eric Johnson had done business in hundreds of hole in the wall establishments, seedy bars, back alleys and warehouses. He had learned a few tricks of the trade quickly, and had stuck with the basics ever since:

Wear comfortable shoes, you never know where business will take you.

Always bring sunglasses (Mirror shades let you look around if it gets too boring, and prevents people from seeing you sleep.), breath mints (He had almost been bowled over once by one Trolls breath. His offer of mints to everyone had nearly started a fight) and enough cash to cover drinks.(Shadowrunners were notoriously cheap.)

And finally he had learned, after a terrifying night of mayhem, to carry a roll of quarters.

As he took his seat in the ferry lounge, he wondered what sort of "Businessman" did business aboard a ferry. He ordered a coke and a soyburger basket, and waited. As he ate he gazed around the room. There were three executive protection specialists in the room. Their job was to protect him, and he knew-again from experience-they were under orders "to eliminate him as a viable assett" if the need arose. He wasn't upset at that, it was simply business. One man was seated in the corner, armed with a heavy pistol, and probably a knife. The other two were seated together, pretending to be husband and wife. Both were armed with heavy pistols, likely equipped with silencers, and at least one of them was magically active. It was unlikely he would need any of them, but he had learned to take precautions over the years.

As he finished his soy-krill chips a man entered the lounge. He knew immediately this was his contact.

He was just shy of six feet tall, wide shouldered with trimmed black hair. His eyes were hidden by chrome mirror shades-which made Mr. Johnson smile slightly. He wore a dark suit, maybe some sort of Armante knock off? It was trimmed in silver and chrome. The man walked with a slight limp in his right leg. He didn't appear to be armed, and his security team didn't pass along any hand signals that would have alerted him to a variety of problems.

As the man sat down, he set a pocket secratray on the table. When he spoke his voice was clear, and with out accent.

"Care if I join you?"

"No please do. would you like anything to drink, or should we just get down to brass tacks."

"A coke please, but lets get to it as well."

Mr. Johnson smiled. It was time for him to earn his pay." I represent certain parties that are intrested in retrieval of Proprietary data, and some research specimens. We are of course prepared to enumerate you for your services generously."

"Locale?"

"Seattle."

"Busy town......"

[Serious Paul]

As Simon's old Dodge cleared the last curve in the twisting path that was his driveway he saw two things that immediately caught his attention. The first was a the Cadillac parked outside his cabin, the second was the smoke slowly rising out of the chimney. Some one had made themselves at home. Maybe he was slowoing down with age, but more likely he hadn't noticed the vechiles tracks because of the kids.


Simon stopped his vechile, glad he had killed the headlights back at the begining of his three mile driveway.

[Bethyaga]

Dammit. Getting careless Those kids had made him feel a little cocky. He sensed a mental swagger that could only be bad news. Fortunately, this was a wake up call. Simon was not overly concerned--clearly, this was someone who wished to be seen. Someone wanting to kill him wouldn't flash neon signs at him first.

But that's what got the adrenaline pumping, wasn't it? If they had wanted to take him out, they could have done it and he wouldn't have seen it coming.

Ah... best not to over-analyze it. He pulls the Remington Roomsweeper from behind the driver's seat and keeps it loosely at his hip as he opens the front door of his home. He waits to step inside until he sees what awaits him.

Dammit, I need to get me a good dog.

[Eliahad]

Dead.

It wasn’t the word he’d expected to hear. It shouldn’t have been the word, but somehow, in the fading twilight of the Renton sunsets, it became Derrick’s entire world. He dropped the phone back on the hook and cradled his head in his hands. Tears wouldn’t come, they had been burned out long ago, two years before when Gaelic and their beloved Kivrin had gone missing.

He had searched, every inch of the Metroplex, upside-down, backwards, front-wards, from the top to the very tip of the Arc itself. No one he knew, or could get a hold of had a fraggin’ clue, not even his father. In a last desperation he had called his father, said two words, and heard the click-buzz of the dial-tone.

Dead.

“GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!” the small one bedroom apartment couldn’t contain his fury. He threw the phone across the living room shattering it against the far wall. He threw himself at the coffee table, flipping it over and breaking the glass. Papers went flying everywhere, every single note, every lead he had scattered in a heap on the floor. The bookshelf in the corner was relieved of its contents, save one picture.

They stood together, his arm around her waist. He was twenty-two, she twenty-four, at six foot four he stood a good five inches above her. Her fiery red hair, flowing down to her waist, his walnut brown, cut close with a slight flip in the front. He was strong, but she could’ve thrown him a good fifteen meters, if she could catch him that is. He was the eyes, and the ears, she was the strength and the charm. He had the knack of remembering, she had the force to get things done. Together they turned their own private Shadows upside down.

The picture was taken two weeks before she disappeared, and with her his daughter.

Dead.

The sheer brutality subsided, at least for the moment, the only sound Derrick’s lungs sucking for oxygen. When he moved again – he couldn’t tell how long he’d been standing there – it was to the kitchen, and the sixth bottle of bourbon in the neat little line. The only one unopened in the last two weeks.

[Serious Paul]

As Simon stepped into his home he could hear his old transistor radio kicking out an old Charlie Daniels Band tune. He could smell the tea that was brewing, and for a second he hoped who ever this dumb sonuvabitch was didn't burn his damn cabin down-a lot of people had no idea of how to cook in a real stone hearth.

Seated in the largest chair in the room was a slim woman in a suit. The suit was on of those new electric suits that hummed and changed colors.At the moment it was a deep blue with chrome pin stripes. Her hair was conservatively displayed with chrome colored barettes holding it frimly in place.Her nails were long and also accentuated with chrome paint and glitter. Simon could smell her perfume from well across the room. She was most likely asian of some sort, maybe mixed with something else-maybe biosculpted. These days you never could tell. She smiled warmly at Simon, keeping her hands, palm open at her sides on the arms of the chair.

"Mr Blackfoot?" Her voice was like honey, so sweet and perfectly pitched. "My name is Ms. Johnson. I am here on business."

[Serious Paul]

Excerpts from

[align=center]Spirits of Kentucky:
Small-Batch and Single-Barrel Bourbons Revive the Good Old Days of Whiskey
by Mark Vaughan[/align]


French-appellation wines, there are strict laws governing just what a Bourbon must be to be labeled as such. For example, at least 51 percent of the grain used in making the whiskey must be corn (most distillers use 65 to 75 percent corn). Bourbon must be aged for a minimum of two years in new, white oak barrels that have been charred. Nothing can be added at bottling to enhance flavor, add sweetness or alter color. Though technically Bourbon can be made anywhere, Kentucky is the only state allowed to put its name on the bottle. And as Kentucky distillers are quick to point out, Bourbon is not Bourbon unless the label says so.

The apartment reeked of Whiskey. He had taken several precautions while picking the locking system, but as he swung the door open he wondered why?

'This guy might be dead.' He thought silently to himself. He hoped not. Then he wouldn't get the rest of his fee.


"Mr. Arthur?",He called out cautiously. "Mr Arthur I'm a courier. I have a message for you."


"Mr. Arthur?" Please don't let this guy be dead, he thought. I so need this money.

[Bethyaga]

"Mr Blackfoot?" Her voice was like honey, so sweet and perfectly pitched. "My name is Ms. Johnson. I am here on business."

"Of course you are," Simon replied ironically as he carefully leaned his gun by the door and brushed snow from his coat. He hung up the coat after stuffing his gloves in the pocket. He pulled off his knit cap, several flyaway black strands of hair pulling loose from his braid to float in static over his head. "I'm glad you made yourself comfortable until I got back. My tea smells wonderful. Can I get you anything while I get myself a cup?"

Simon doesn't actually move yet, he eyes flick cautiously around the room for any sign of her muscle. A frail little thing like this isn't going to come popping in on the big bad ork injun without a little backup.

[Serious Paul]

Ms. Johnson smiles flashing her perfectly white teeth," Yes, please. I would enjoy some tea, maybe with a dollop of honey in it. If you would."

As Simon crossed the room to his kitchen MS. Johnson continues to speak, but doesn't move from her chair," This is quite the place you have here Mr. Blackfoot. I don't often get the chance to travel outside Seattle. Its really nice. Serene."

"When I was a girl we had a place in the Antilles, nothing like this of course, but it was nice.", She paused for a moment," I couldn't help but peruse your bookshelfs while I was waiting Mr. Blackfoot. Quite the ecclectic collection, you are a very well read man."

[Eliahad]

Derrick Arthur was in the bedroom, sheets strewn around him, an empty bottle in his outstretched hand. He was dressed in a simple grey t-shirt and black slacks, both of which looked like they hadn't been changed in a week. Maybe it had been a week from the smell of it. His beard certainly looked the worse for it, scraggily all over, and beginning to gain that slight curl.

The room looked like a bomb hit it. Except for one thing. The pictures. Every last picture remained untouched in the massive debris strewn about the apartment.

He was breathing at least, though coherent...that waited to be seen.

[Inuk]

He was almost there.

[Bethyaga]

Simon poured two cups of tea and shook his head with a smile. Either they researched him very well, or this was just his lucky day. "Ms. Johnson" was a stunner, and exactly his type--skinny, human, and white. Mmm. It only served to remind him of exactly how much time he spent alone up here.

Searching for honey, he replied, "Thank you, miss. A man gets a lot of free time out here, and today's trid just doesn't do it for me like it once did. Call me old-fashioned."

Handing her a cup, Simon then settled into his second favorite chair to sip his own tea. "Much to my chagrin, you made it clear at the outset that this is not a social call, so perhaps we should discuss your business."

Still in his dirty jeans and sweater with snow slowly dripping from his boots, Simon knew how contradictory he appeared exchanging pleasantries and sipping tea. He let his tusks show a little in a quizzical grin.

[Serious Paul]

Ms. Johnson paused for a momnet, sizing Simon Blackfoot up. He wasn't unattractive, as far as Orks went, and he was smooth. Something about his demeanor put her at ease. Unlike a lot of people in the business he had dealt with he was not-well, scary. A lot of the people in the biz were unstable at best, most were worse. Simon, she found herself using his first name, seemed more like an old friend than a Shadowrunner.

She realized that she was just sitting there and sipped from her mug of tea to cover the silence.

"Mr. Blackfoot I represent certain intrests that are hoping to retain your services. I don't have any of the details, but what we would like is for you to accompany me to Seattle, where we are assembling a team, and sit down with us to talk over the relevant details."

She reached, slowly, into her attache case, and placed a certified cred stick on the table next to her. "This is your retainer, one thousand nuyen. Its yours to keep whether you take the job or not."

She stopped, and waited. She wondered inwardly whether this would be a waste of her time or not.

[Bethyaga]

Simon let the cred stick lay where it wasfor just a moment, but he was impressed--a grand just to talk. He suspected that this was larger than anything he had tried before, but the challenge excited him, and he felt himself smiling like a kid at his first PowWow.

"The cred is completely unneccesary Ms... Johnson." He leaned in towards her to pick it up, "But I thank you for it." He gave her a warm smile, a genuine one that reflected in his dark brown eyes. He stood up and asked, "Are we in a hurry, or can I take a moment to slip into something a little more appropriate for meeting a prospective business partner?"

[Serious Paul]

Ms. Johnson smiles warmly, and softly says, "No, theres no hurry at all. We're not expected for another three days." She stands,a move that is betraying slightly-her entire body moves with a liquid grace. She steps forward to just within one arms distance of Simons chair. "I am afraid I didn't arrange for any sort of lodging." Her dark eyes flare, "Maybe you could put me up for the night?"

[Bethyaga]

"Oh." Simon's eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. Many pretty ladies were willing to flirt with the charming backwoods ork, but few ever had the nerve to follow up on it.

"I would be honored to have you here for as long as you wish." He stood then face to face with her and took her slender, sculpted hands into his large, calloused ones. He searched her eyes for any clues, but of course, their dark chromed depths reveal little.

With a completely unverified credstick in his pocket, and only her word to go on, it didn't even cross Simon's mind that this might be a setup.

[Bly]

At some point, you've got to ask where you're going. It's not just men who can't ask for directions, it's women, too. At some point, you've just got to stop moving, and wonder what your destination is. I wonder if nomads always know where they're headed, or if sometimes, they just follow the moon and their hearts.

Well, nomads die. They end up in a desert they can't get out of, with food they can't eat and water they don't have. That's not who I am. I've been in Seattle for two years now and my food's going bad. It's time to move on.

[Serious Paul]

"Mr. Arthur?" the courier hoped that the man wasn't dead. Judging from the smell, this was a distinct possibility. He stepped gingerly through the wreckage that was the living room and kitchenette.


Bottles were strewn about haphazardly, chairs overturned, and several portions of the wall were either marked up with a combination of pen and marker or fist sized holes. A hal empty bottle of bourbon lay on the floor. Suddenly the boy spotted the bedroom door, half open with a light flickering on and off.


He opened the door slowly, "Mr. Arthur?"

[Eliahad]

There was a snort, or rather, a snort with a half-groan thrown into the middle for good measure, "Fuck you, room, I didn't order the god damn lazy suzan." Derrick found his feet, somehow, and staggered through what was once his bedroom, doing his best to make it to the bathroom.

He must have succeeded because the courier could hear the sound of running water, expletives, more running water and what sounded like a childproof bottle being cussed at and broken on the counter.

"That's better...at least these fast acting things are good. Probably have to take another one in half an hour though. Cheap shit."

What stumbled out to the kitchen was once a man, or rather still was, just layered underneathe a week of misery. Derrick's hair, walnut brown, was greasy, and plastered down in the most unsightly manner. The stubble on his chin had grown into something that resembled an unkempt shrubbery and the lightness of his skin was masked by a layer of smuged grime. It was shambling to the fridge whatever it was, with a nonchalant, 'hey' as it passed the courier.

It rummaged in the icebox for a moment and pulled out a brown bottle, "America's Finest, Budcrapper. Want one?" Derrick held out a bottle to the courier.

[Serious Paul]

The courier looked at Arthur with a quizzical look, and Derrick realized he was dressed only in his boxers. The courier shook his head and said, "Thank you sir, but I don't drink before eight AM usually."

The courier stepped to with in one arms reach and extended his hand, which held a playback chip, the kind that were encoded to only play once and then erase themselves.


"I was instructed to make sure that you received this sir." The courier set the chip, and a player down on the counter.


"Just slot the chip chummer, and it will play."


The courier didn't wait for a reply, turning quickly and leaving.

[Eliahad]

"Yeah, sure, have a nice day," he cleared off the pieces of wood and errant papers that were cluttering the couch and sat down. He fished for a moment between the cushions and somehow managed to find the trid remote among the crumbs and loose change. It was then that Derrick remembered he had put his fist through the reciever, last night? A week ago? He couldn't recall exactly.

He sighed and took a swig from the bottle. Glancing over at the player on the counter he wondered who had the balls to make a delivery at 8 in the morning, and whether he should lodge a complaint with someone, hell, anyone, it didn't really matter.

"After a shower, and a real breakfast. Then I'll see what the hell this is all about." So he did. He showered for a good halfan hour, five minutes of which was spent scrubbing the brown ring and yellow build-up off the side of the tub. He wish he could remember where the hell it came from, he couldn't remember taking a shower. Breakfast was a problem, however, most of the stuff in the fridge that wasn't 'soy crapstract' was a lovely shade of green or perhaps even blue fuzz. He wasn't sure, he didn't care. He grabbed a preservative filled generic pop-tart and sat down to slot the chip and see what madness had brought him on its lunch break.

[Serious Paul]

As Derrick slotted the chip into the cheap trid player, he could see it was part holoprojector, part audio playback unit. A small red lcd light lit up as he slotted the chip and the machine made a slight whirring sound as the player picked up speed. A static light flickered and the image of zepplin was projected.


The Zepplin was large and in the blurry background Derrick could see it was Seattle. A voice overlay than began to speak in a gritty tone that suggested some sort of voice modulator.


"Mr Arthur my name is Mr. Johnson, and I am intrested in retaining your services. This chip will only play once, as it is a self erasing utility, so please pay careful attention to whats said."

"I am assembling a team of like minded individuals to perform a variety of tasks. In three days we will assemble to discuss the situation at the Sky Point Restraraunt, which is the Zepplin depicted in this picture. I have arrangeed for yourself and the others to be allowed aboard with reservations for dinner."


"I am Quite sure you will find the enumeration offered to be well worth your while, and I hope to see you there."


The chip continues to state the exact date and time of the meet: November 4th, 2063 at 2100.

[Inuk]

He was almost there. He could feel it, as he could not feel his feet, bleeding beneath their sealskin bags. He'd lost feeling in his feet a very long time ago. It didn't matter, any more than the wound in his side the piasma had given him did. He had at least bound that, and poulticed it against infection. His feet, toughened from years of walking barefoot over ice, he'd not even bothered to clean.

As he walked, he chewed on a bit of snow moose meat from the bag on his back. He'd killed it three weeks ago, drying the meat over the fire on one of the rare occassions he'd paused for sleep in the last two months. It had been a good barehanded kill, enjoyable for both the stag and himself. It's spirit would rest easy, having fought so well for its death.

It would be soon now. He could feel it. His dreams were more urgent; the time was close.

He could see, in the distance, a fenceline, and beyond it, signs of life, of the city. He did not yet know its name, but he had called it Skyspike, for the thin spire reaching from the center of the city into the sky.

[Bly]

It had been a sunny day, which is unusual in Autumn and rare in Seattle. Bly had spent it in Discovery Park, working off the unpleasant energy that had been building inside her all day. Chasing imaginary foes along the 3-mile track, she felt incredible, powerful. Some people feel good when they're using their heads, Bly felt good when she was using her body. Having been out of work for almost three weeks now, these daily runs were keeping her sane.

After her moment of clarity a few days ago, she had decided to move on, get out of Seattle and see what's behind the horizon. Having just paid a week's rent in advance, it gave her some time to tie up loose ends, say goodbye to acquaintances she'd made in the past two years. Tomorrow, she had lunch planned with some friends, where she would break the news of her leaving. Well, news..? They were aware of her wandering spirit and wouldn't be surprised. But that was all for tomorrow. Today, it was just her, the track and the sun.

Worn out and energized at the same time, she made her way home. A small apartment with only the necessary items, Bly tried to keep it clean, believing that even the details of your surroundings have a direct impact on you and your life. But they were always just that: apartments, never home.

Tomorrow, she'd get moving.

[Serious Paul]

As Bly cleared the parks gates, she noticed the men. Thats what she did. It was how she stayed alive. They kept pace with her, maintaining a short distance behind her. As Bly jogged, a wind down from her run, she used the reflections from passign vechiles and store windows to check them out.

Both were obviously in good shape, muscular with square jaws, they ran with practiced ease. She almost sighed. Exmilitary. Definitely. They both were human, and sported close cropped dark hair. They wore matching dark blue jump suits, that were tight enough on theor muscular frames to indicate they weren't packing. Both wore exspensive shoes, and mirror shades.

niether showed any signs of aggressive behavior but they were definitely following her.

[Bly]

The story of my life. Two young, muscular men with tight clothes and great stamina follow me home - and they're interested in my ass in all the wrong ways.

She thought about her odds, should she come up against them. Two pretty strong guys, one pretty strong girl? She was fast, but so were they. Then again, if they were planning to do something nasty to her, they would've brought the equipment to do so. Unless said equipment couldn't be spotted with the bare eye.
Shit. Better safe than sorry.

She slowly increased her pace, having deviated from her usual route home three blocks back. Outrunning them wasn't going to happen anytime soon, not with their speed and endurance. But she could definitely get ahead of them just a little - enough to turn a fast corner into the alley behind the South St. strip mall and jump between some cars or Dumpsters parked there. Bly saw the corner come up ahead and sped up, fast and hard. Only an hour ago, she had been chasing invisible enemies on a dirt path. Now it was her and two ex-G.I. Joes on the concrete. Her feet and heart were beating the same rhythm, her eyes and mind were focused on one single thing: the upcoming alley.

As she got to the corner, Bly knewthere was enough space between her and them to convincingly hide herself in the alley. Making a turn around the corner so tight it chafed her right forearm, she pushed everything out for the finale. A rush of endorphins put her on top of the world - and right between two rusty Americars.

[Bethyaga]

Simon glances over the the rise in the blankets where Honey is sleeping--Honey being the name he finally gave to her, cuz he couldn't handle the whole Ms. Johnson thing during such an encounter. He laid a large hand on her hip, and the dim light was more than enough for his orkish eyes to make out the shallow rise and fall of her breath and that gorgeous dark hair spread out across his flannel pillowcase.

He can tell that she is not quite asleep, but also not quite awake. Maybe she's communicating with someone else--maybe her body has some sort of alert hibernation mode. Doesn't matter really. They don't have a whole lot to talk about, circumstances being what they are. But the time has certainly passed amiably enough anyway, Simon reflects.

Simon feels himself drifting off again. He knows they'll have to be on their way to Seattle soon. He feels a slight twinge of wistful regret, but it is a small thing compared to his anticipation of this new adventure. This trip is just... right. Simon feels it.

[Serious Paul]

"Shit," Daniel muttered under his breath. He didn't actually need to speak aloud, but old habits died hard. He and his partner, Bill Brahm, were both equipped with transducers in addition tot heir complex communications equipment. They could communicate in all sorts of weather, at great distances almost instantly.

'She's spotted us Bill.'

'Copy.'

They had planned for this. Brahm dropped back and began to circle around, utilizing the orientation system in his cybernetic limb in conjunction with his partners relayed instructions to keep an even distance from Bly.

'Shit, where'd she go?'

'Lose her?'

'Affirmative. Frag. Mr. Johnson is going to be pissed.'


Daniel stopped at the corner There was an alley way to his left, and the streets were crowded in front of him. Choking back a curse, he stepepd into the alley way and hoped he had picked the right direction.

This was shaping up to be a bad day, he hated to lose a contract. In his business time was money; he needed to locate Bly quickly.

[Eliahad]

Derrick shook his head, "Like minded individuals? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is he assembling a kamikaze squad of depressed widowers to go on a suicide run?" He laughed, "I suppose that's a good idea if anyone ever thought of it." Chewing thoughtfully on his breakfast pastry, he picked up the recorder and flipped it into the trash chute.

Meanwhile, in another dimension, the Narrator of this branch of the story wondered where the hell his muse went, and if it would get back from the haitus it seems to be on.

"Sky Point? Elegant place for a meeting, shit, it's more than I could afford, I suppose I'll have to borrow a tux or something. At least something respectable," Derrick glanced around the apartment, "Yeah, I'm the kind of guy who should be going to Sky Point. Right. First step, clean the apartment, second step, call Vinny and see if he knows anyone over at the Point where I can get a look at the appointment bookings. Of course that won't work, but it's a place to start. And I need to start someting. I think I'll start...with the fridge."

[Serious Paul]

Sky Point
Medium Restraraunt Archetype, Location Varies, "Captain" Marko Raimius, Owner and Operator, Subtle Bias towards Obese Patrons, Ltg NA/UCAS-SEA 206-441-0245

Seattles First and premeire Zepplin Diner. Luxurous Accomadations for up to 25 guests in each of its 3 modules allow paasengers to dine in style, witha breath taking view of Seattles Sky line and Harbor. Chef Chen Kenichi is a master gourmet, who uses his magical talents to enhance his already opulaent dishes.

>This place is just freaking cool! Exspensive as all get out, but worth it. They keep the place on a constant roving patrol of Downtown, partly to please the tourists, but also to avoid some fragger lobbin' a SAM at them.<
>Southpaw
Two wrongs don't make a right, but three lefts do!

>Chen Kenichi is a initiate, and a master chef. He may look old and weak but the man can flay the flesh from your bones with a gaze. That said, most of the staff of Sky Point are quite friendly, unless you are a bit on the heavy side. Some sort of fly boy mentality I guess.<
>Two Man Band
Bells and Whistles all the way!

>On a side note, security is very tight. After they had a bomb scare when they initally opened they check passengers and carryons a bit closer. Magical security is tighter than I would have expected until I read TMBs post.Sky Point is an excellent place to do business. Private, on the move and elegant<
>Scalpel
This isn't a forum. Its an operating table, and I'm the surgeon.

[Bethyaga]

And as the suit goes back on, Honey again becomes Ms. Johnson. Simon smiles wistfully to himself as he also finishes suiting up. He had contemplated using his best Sunday-going-to-meeting clothes, complete with bolo tie, but ultimate decided on a more urban casual look--his clubbing clothes, if he were the type to go clubbing.

Simon also packs himself an overnight bag--and a well-armed bag at that. He makes a small show of packing his guns so Ms. Johnson will be sure to see. "I hope it's not inappropriate that I bring along a few things. You never know where you'll spend the night."

"I'm sure it's fine," she replies, "You are welcome to leave it in the car during negotiations." She runs her hands up both of Simon's hard arms and stops at his throat, where she very deliberately fixes his collar. She bites her lip with a wry smile and releases a hard sigh. "We're ready."

Simon clearly recognizes closure when he sees it.

Together they step out to the waiting limo--whether the driver ever left, Simon doesn't know, but he certainly appears refreshed and ready for the day, opening Ms. Johnson's door with a bright corp-white smile and a vigorous, "Good morning, ma'am."

As the vehicle pulls down Simon's muddy drive, Ms. Johnson is already in half a trance, obviously following some internal data stream. Probably starting her correspondence for the day--if Simon knows her type, he'd guess that her little interlude with him actually put her behind on her mail.

Simon settles comfortably into his seat and watches the scenery roll by. It's a long enough trip to Seattle. He probably should have brought a book.

[Serious Paul]

The Ork, she found it hard not to think of him as Simon, ahd been an intresting reprieve from her daily schedule. From the routine. It had given her time to think.

She slowly reviewed what little she knew of the Ork. He had once worked for a Security Corporation, some sort of AA independent that hadn't missed him when he'd left. Despite his lack of real schooling beyond the basic level he was adept with languages, and seemed to be well read. His book lined shelves attested to his intelligence. He had some sort of tribal connections, but nothing that stood out.

Simon Blackfoot had done a particullarly good job of just blending into the shadows. He was perfect for this job. She hoped the others were as good. they'd need to be.

[Serious Paul]

They all smoked. It was what they did, she decided for the millionth time. In all her years in Buenos Aires, and across the South American continent before that, and the old country before that she had never gotten used to the damn smoke. Cigars, cigarettes, cigarellos-so many disgusting combinations. She hated them all, she hated them for their care free relaxed lives. she hated them for their smiles, and their warm beating hearts that pumped that fluid her body,no her soul craved.Most of all she hated her reliance on them.

It was November, and spring was slowly fading away, nature was coming into full bloom. She hated this time of year the most. They were all so happy, so full of....life. She was reminded of her own painful life, and even worse her hated unlife.

The Gran Bar Danzon was popular with tourists at one time.Now the locals preferewd its quiet conforting decorum. Plush sofas, hard wood floors, with wide windows allowing the cities lights to pour in. Two bars served cocktails and smiles. She hated this place. She hated these peoples.

Soon it would be time for something new, a change of pace. Barrow would be the start. She would purge herself of the old, and begin anew. She smiled at the thought. her silent monolouge was broken as man sat down across from her.

She wasn't unattractive, even after centuries of wear and tear-and more than a few wayward encounters with hunters. Her hair was dark, and even death couldn't bleach the clor out of her dark skin, a gift of her heritage. She had been a Spainard once. the wife of a Soldier, a legionaire to be precise. Her lips were dark red, and full, her eyes wide but dark like her hair. She knew men found her attractive, even with out her supernatural abilities she was able to beguile most men.

This man was like so many before. Slick hair, disarming smile, cheap suit, cheaper drink. He thought himself wordly, and didn't bother to think she wouldn't welcome his advances, as he launched into some contrived one liners. She feigned a smile of intrest, and slowly reached under the table to grip the mans thigh.

At first he smiled, thinking his night would be much more successful than he had hoped, or dreamed. As her nails bit into his flesh his eyes turned questioning, and before he could speak, as she broke the bone he half groaned half cried as he passed out. His head bounced off the table as he rolled out of his chair, illiciting some questioning looks from the people milling around and the table next to her.

She didn't bother to speak, or return their gazes. She efficiently licked the blood from her finger tips, stood and began to walk out. Almost as after thought she set the walls on fire.

She hated these creatures almost as much as their smoke.

[Bly]

Bly stayed quietly crouched between the two Americars. The alley lent to the sounds of the bustling streets, but Bly kept her ears concentrated on the sounds of nearby voices and footsteps. Looking briefly down at her arm, Bly noticed the cut she had sustained moments prior, when she scraped the corner running into the alley, was bleeding quite a bit. Nothing serious, she told herself, but she really wished she had some antiseptic around for she had no idea how long she would be away from home.

Home. Who were these guys? If she made out of the alley, and on the slim chance of actually losing them, got back home - would they follow her there? Did they know where she lived? Did they know who she was? Who were these men?

Bly's attention drifted back quickly to the present moment when she heard someone coming. The steps ground into the dirt softly. They were walking with caution. Bly lowered a bit more and tried to catch an image off of the reflection of the second car, but failed. She could wait - see if he didn't notice her and then disappeared, but why would they do that? She did not know these men. Whatever they wanted was unbenounced to her. They could not be friendly though or they would have approached her in such a manner. The curiousity was killing her. She listened closely.

"One set. Only one set of footsteps. But there were two...." she thought to herself. They didn't see her round the corner. They must have split up. One was much more of a possible match for her. She knew that he would pass the car any second and notice her crouched. Bracing herself up into position, Bly prepared herself for an attack. Approaching the car, the man caught notice of her and stopped. He looked at her and spoke "Bill. In the alley."

Bly stood, her arms braced to her chest, ready to bolt when she noticed he wasn't trying to attack her. She matched his stare but did not move any closer, nor away from him. Rather she spoke quickly, with a hint of curiousity and a tone of defensiveness, "What do you want??"