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\title{When Computers Dream}
\author{\copyright1991 Josh Finney}
\date{}
\maketitle
\setcounter{page}{69}

{\it
{\noindent \Large J}osh originally worked up this story as a plot for his cyberpunk
campaign. Since many of the events are based on PC-interaction,
his cast and crew deserve acknowledgement.\\}

\begin{center}
\begin{tabular}{cc}
\multicolumn{2}{c}{\Large Cast}\\
	{\em Characters} & {\em Players}\\
\hline
	Bloodlust        & Josh Burman\\
	Silver           & Tim Riley\\
	Whizzard         & Kevin Wilson\\
	Overdrive        & Matt Zeilenga\\
\end{tabular}
\end{center}

{\noindent \Large A}rther sat alone in the dark bedroom of his apartment. The slow,
smooth, tranquil, but depressing sound of gothrock flowed from the speakers
of his stereo.  He sat staring out the window through the miniblinds,
staring at the headlights of the aerocars as they passed by the window
of his dwelling on the 84th floor.  There was a slight drizzle of rain
and small drops of water streaked down the window.  The room had white
walls, but appeared to be gray with the restricted amount of light coming
through the opening in the door.  He sat in a swivel chair in front of a
computer which was bolted to a gray metal desk.  Next to the computer were
three laser disc drives and a hard disk.  On the right was a large window
that stretched from one wall to another.  The room itself was about the
size of a normal master bedroom.  Arther had black hair that was uncombed
and the bangs hung in his face.  He was wearing a plain white shirt with
some sweat pants.

	The visiphone rang.  ``Voice mode on," he said and the visiphone
automatically answered itself.  Arther turned the stereo's volume down
with the remote control.  He turned the swivel chair left and directed
his attention towards the phone in the wall.

	``Hello," he said faintly.  On a thirty centimeter screen
a man's face appeared.  He had tanned skin and bright blond hair cut
into somewhat of a flat top.  His eyes were blue, and from what could
be seen of his upper torso he was wearing a white business suit.

	``Hello Neuro, this is Silver," the man said.  He was calling
Arther by his street name.

	``Hi Silver\ldots what's up?" he asked.  Arther's voice had a dead
tone, it matched the sound of the gothrock music.  Silver's voice was
purely business-like.

	``I've got a run, it seems pretty big.  I want you and our usual
associates to accompany me on the run.  Tell them if they're interested
to meet me at Cardoza's Gourmet tomorrow night at eight o' clock.  I'll talk
about terms of payment if they want to come along. Make sure
they know that a large sum of money will be involved. I'll mail you the
address right now. I'll give everyone further details on what it's all
about at the restaurant."

	``No problem, see you there."  The screen clicked off.
Below the screen, an LCD screen which was displaying
the call-time cleared itself. Then the words: {\em mail being received}
appeared.

     ``Okay, bring the mail to visual."  The address of the restaurant
appeared on the large screen that just previously was displaying Silver.
``Print current mail in memory three times."  Then a printer below the screen
printed out the address three times on separate pieces of fan-fold paper.  He
left the printouts hanging from the printer.  Arther set the house computer
to wake him up at 10:00 pm and then went to sleep. It would give him two
hours of rest before hitting the night clubs to hang out and get the latest
info about the illegal operations of the megacorporations.  This was important
to Arther, for he was a runner.  When a megacorporation wanted something illegal
done, such as data theft and sabotage, but didn't want to risk anything getting
traced back to them, they hired runners.  With the shadowy wars of the corporate
states always raging, runners were in high demand.  Arther's occupation as a
runner was a decker.  He would interface his mind directly into computer systems
through a device called a cyberdeck.  

	A cyberdeck looked like a normal computer keyboard, except that it was
slightly larger.  The deck had hook-ups for two thin fiber optic cords.  One
cord was a normal phone cord which connected with a phone jack for the deck's
internal modem.  The second cord was for connecting to a neural interface jack
implanted into the skull of a decker, in this instance Arther.  A neural
interface input jack was exposed on the left or right temple.  Arther's
jack was on his right temple.  The input jack connected to several thin
(about the a micron thin) fiber optic wires spliced into the sight, hearing,
touch, and motor centers of the brain.  When a decker would plug into the
deck and enter the WC Net (World Communications Network), it would simulate
the net as an actual place.  It allowed the decker to interact with computers
as if the computers were individual realms.  The deck would essentially lie to
the senses of the brain, telling it false information. The decker would percept
it all as if it were real.  The connections to the motor centers let the decker
control the deck by pure thought.  One could move place to place in the net by
just walking there.  This let all interactions with the net and computer become
physical.  It was dubbed cyberspace.

	Cyberdecks originally were created to increase the productivity of
computers to their maximum potential.  The concept was developed by a group
effort of NASA, IBM, Fujitsu, Toshiba, and Hitachi.  It worked incredibly well,
and then the military decided they wanted to take advantage of it.  They created
``attack programs" which did things such as crash computer systems or release
deadly computer viruses into them.  Though the military developed ``cyberspace
combat", they never actually used it.  Corrupt megacorporations used it\ldots on
each other.  Especially AT\&T and MCI, they were the first.  Once the public
knew of cyberspace combat, it wasn't too long before hackers were creating
their own attack programs.  A new type of hacker was born, the decker.
Within weeks after the public learned of cyberspace combat, deckers were
purposely breaking into corporate data bases looking for attack programs
to copy.  Once hackers knew how attack programs were written, they could
write their own.  Even though home made attack programs weren't too effective,
the stolen corporate ones were.  Attack programs were a very hot item on the
black market.  Then ICE was created.

	ICE is an acronym for Intrusion Countermeasure Electronics.  These
were very complex programs to keep deckers and rival company computer experts
out of corporation computers.  Most ICE programs would dump unwanted users
from the system, or at least deny them access.  But as always, there were
ways to counteract the ICE.  Then the megacorporation NEC created Killer
ICE.  Killer ICE worked similar to normal ICE programs, but instead of just
denying access or dumping a decker from the system, it would start sending
high voltage surges back through the phone line and into the decker's head.
This would often kill deckers by either causing sever brain damage or a
cardiac arrest.

	Arther woke to the digital beeping sound coming from the speakers
on the visiphone.  It wasn't a ring from someone calling him, it was the
wake up alarm he had set.  The house computer worked through the phone so
the phone speakers were used for this.  When he opened his eyes the computer's
digital voice was automatically activated. ``Good evening, the time is exactly
10:00:32 PM," the voice was feminine, the sound was blunt and monotone.
``Today is Wednesday, January 3, 2052.  Reminders: Tomorrow you will be
twenty four years of age and\ldots" it was interrupted.

	``I am well aware of that\ldots Skip it!" he ordered the computer.
Even though Arther knew the computer was not capable of thought and he
was hearing a set recording, he still responded to it as if it could understand him.

	The computer continued, ``You received two phone calls and no mail
while you were asleep.  Your rent is late by four days now," it ended it's
message.  Arther considered reprogramming the `wake-up informant' program
to only go off once a day when he first woke up instead of every time he
woke up.  The basic idea behind it was to inform you of anything you might
of forgotten while sleeping, but it was getting really annoying.

	He got out of bed and turned on the stereo.  Out came the
sounds of more gothrock.  It was time for Arther to
join the night life.  Arther put on some black slacks and a white
button-up shirt.  He then went into the bathroom and put his hair in
its usual style,a `Smith', where the hair
was done in hundreds of little spikes going in several directions.
It got its name from a gothrock musician who was around in the 80's
and 90's who created the hair style.  After
Arther finished with his hair, he put on his black trench coat, loaded
his pistol, grabbed his cyberdeck, and headed for the door.  He tore the
three printouts from the phone, folded them up and placed them in his
pocket.  Then he rode the elevator to the 100th story of the building,
where the aerocar parking area was located.  The building he lived in
had a roof car park for aero cars and underground parking for ground
cars.  He had to drive the car up three levels of the parking area
until it came to the roof.  Then the aerocar slowly lifted itself
up.  The hover engines emitted a faint roar similar to a 747 leaving
the runway, just not as loud.  It rose about twenty meters up and then the
rear minijets kicked in.  The car sped quickly around the looming buildings.
They were huge dark masses with the conflicting color of white and yellow
light leaking from the windows.  Small clouds streamed past as the vehicle
moved though them.  The sky lacked stars or a moon, it was cloaked by large,
dark, gray, rain clouds.  It had been raining on and off since December.

	After ten minutes of driving, the aerocar reached it's destination,
descending into Hollywood.  Arther landed the car by the side of the road
in a residential area that was two blocks away from Melrose Avenue.  He hid
his cyberdeck under the seat of the car.  After setting
the electronic lock, he headed up the street.   When he reached Melrose
Avenue, the amount of light around him increased greatly.  All the shops and
clothing stores on the street had bright lights emitting from the display
windows.  Large amounts of people were walking up and down the street, a
large crowd was gathered around the out door seating of a contempo pop-music
restaurant.  This was a place where many people just came to
hang out.  The entire street was composed of pop-culture shops, clothing
stores, night clubs, and restaurants.  As for the people on Melrose Avenue,
many were wearing clothes of the latest style or fashion trend, and others
were making a new fashion statement of their own.  The only way to actually
stand out on Melrose was to dress ordinary.

	Arther was here to go to a night club, it was next to a 
Revlon Five-Hour Cosmetic Surgery Clinic.
They were small clinics that promised ``beauty in only five hours"
through means of modern medical technology.  Arther never really saw
the point in having a surgeon screw with your face just because you wanted
to look like something you weren't, though he did have cosmetic surgery
done to remove scars from surgery involving the implantation of his neural
interface jack. But Arther knew that the Revlon clinic here made lots money
by selling and implanting illegal cyberwear, things such as retractable claws
and thought-activated pistols inside the arm and hand.  A few of the surgeons
at the clinic had some underworld contacts and did the operations behind the
management's back.  He never bought illegal cyberwear; he didn't want it.  Most
of it was used for killing, and that was not his occupation.  Further, it had to
be implanted by surgeons who would do it illegally, and that meant taking
a risk.  The street slang for a surgeon who installed cyberwear illegally was
{\em butcher}, and most were.  Many worked out of private, body-enhancement
clinics and other small private medical clinics usually located in the bad parts
of town.  But the Revlon clinic on Melrows was well know for safe implantation of
illegal cyberwear. After all, it was bad business to maim one's customers.

	Arther entered the night club, which was called {\em Post Modern}.  It was
a new wave club and a lot of new wave types were hanging out there.  Most of
the people had hair styles that were mildly spiked and some were even dyed
in abnormally bright or unnatural colors.  Almost everybody's clothing was
bright and they all seemed in a festive mood.  New wave music boomed inside
the club and the dance floor was crowded. 

	Arther walked to a table where a young man with bright, spiked,
orange/blond hair and a blonde woman were sitting.  They seem
to be enjoying themselves.  The young man looked somewhat muscular and was
wearing a white shirt that said:

\begin{center}{\large \em
ExPlodInG HeDz\\

my fist, your face}\\
\end{center}

It was the name of a current punk band.  He also had black jeans on.  Next
to him sat a young woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes.  She wore a
black miniskirt and an open, fluorescent-green, button-up shirt. Underneath
the button-up was a black, low-cut shirt that was tucked in.  Neuro sat at
the table.

	``Hello Overdrive, hello Diane," he said.

	``Heya Neuro, what's up?" Overdrive said contentedly, taking a sip
of beer.

	``Hi Neuro," Diane said greeting him.

	``Not much," he replied, ``I spent most of the day working on this
cyberspace chess program that has some really hi-res graphics. That's about all."

	``Yeah, well I went to Music+Plus the other day and got up the new
ROM cartridge of the {\em Ultra Violets}, it's pretty good," Overdrive said.

	``Did you hear that they're having a concert at the  Palladium?" asked Arther.

	Diane broke in,``Actually, John already bought tickets for us
already, should be a pretty good show."  Diane was a big fan of techno-pop.

	``Yeah, I got the tickets last week," Overdrive said.  Overdrive's
real name was John, but Arther was so used to calling him Overdrive he
never called him by his actual name. ``So Neuro, are you just hanging
out tonight?" Overdrive said leaning back in his chair.

	``Well sorta, I'm also here for other reasons."

	``Like what?"

	``Business."

	``Business as in running, right? Verdad?" Overdrive had used the
Spanish word verdad even though he was in no way Latin.  The word verdad
had become a very popular word used in street slang.

	``Yeah, verdad."

	``Well what's the news?"

	``Well I've got some good news and some bad news," Neuro told them.
His voice was no longer a dead tone, it was more of a going with-the-flow
type attitude he held right now.

	``Okay," Overdrive said. Diane nodded to acknowledge her noticing. 

	``The good news is that I found out about a run we can do, it could
mean a large monetary gain for all of us." He continued, ``The bad news is
Silver is the one who wants to hire us.  He needs some runners to assist him."

	``Shit, why Silver?  Well how much are we being paid for the run?"
questioned Overdrive.  Neither Overdrive or Diane seemed too happy to hear
the name `Silver'.

	``Dunno\ldots Silver didn't tell me."

	Diane broke into the conversation, ``Figures.  Well who exactly is
coming on this operation?"

	``So far it's Silver, hopefully you and Overdrive, and me.  I'm going
down to {\em The Razor's Edge} to look for Bloodlust later tonight.  He'll definitely
want to come."

	``And he gave no details at all on what we'll be doing?" Diane's voice
was very business like.  She was the one who would usually work out
payment and financial details with whomever was hiring them.  She knew the
ways of the corporations well, as her former job was as a secretary in the
marketing and sales division at Hitachi.  Diane was very good at dealing
with pushy businessmen.  She took up `running' after she got laid off and
could not get another job.  It was all because of some virus that had entered
several corporate mainframes and caused them to crash.  Many people in lower
level positions had to be let go.  This had happened about two years ago, but
Diane decided to stay in her current occupation instead of looking for another
secretarial job.

	``We are to meet him at a restaurant called Cardoza's Gourmet tomorrow
night at 7:00." Neuro pulled one of the printouts of the mail out of his pocket,
``Here's the address."

	Diane took the printout, ``I'll be there.  We gotta get some things straight
with Silver if he wants our assistance on this run."

	``The guy's a stiff.  He thinks he can run everything," complained Overdrive.

	``Okay\ldots well I'm going to {\em The Razor's Edge}, see if I can
find Bloodlust. We'll more than likely need the walking arsenal to come with us.
So like see you later."

	``We'll see you tomorrow night, Neuro."

	``Yeah, see ya Neuro," said Overdrive as he drank the last of his beer.
As Arther left, Overdrive directed his attention towards Diane saying, ``So are
you ready for a fourth round of drinks?"

	The Razor's Edge was a heavy metal bar located in the far
north-eastern sector of Los Angeles; it was in one of the newer slums which came
into existence around 2013.  The area had been built as a new
residential area during the reconstruction of Los Angeles after the 7.9
earthquake of 2011.  It was composed of new buildings, unlike East LA,
but it was still a crude, run-down mesh of the normal high-tech
and cheaply built housing, stores, etc.  To the west and south-west the
ultra-rise buildings of central LA could be seen clearly though the thin
layers of smog.

	Arther set his car to ground mode after landing it and drove it
into a parking lot behind the bar.  After parking the car he opened the
glove compartment pulling out a gleaming silverish auto-pistol, a Colt
Asp .40 clip pistol to be more precise.
He carefully slipped it into his right, trench coat pocket.  It was for
protection when in the bad parts of the city.  Actually, he had never
fired it at a living being and didn't plan to do so.  Personally Arther
felt he could never really use it; he couldn't kill.  He even refused to
carry programs which did lethal damage to other users in cyberspace.

	Arther entered the Razor's Edge just as it started to rain.  Inside
the bar, loud heavy metal music was pumping from the speakers at an unbelievable
volume.  Most of the people looked like a cross between marines and heavy
metalers.  Most had long hair, black shirts (usually displaying
their favorite band's name), camouflage pants, and a leather or camouflage
jacket.  It was a style formed from the music called Militaristic Metal (also
called War Metal and Battle Rock).  War Metal had a sound that was quite unique.
It was very intense heavy metal music mixed with lyrics about war, in the
background, sounds of gun fire and explosions were played as sort of a tempo.  The
walls were covered with spray paint, and there were at least a dozen bullet holes
on each one.  Arther put his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, his right
hand clenching the pistol.  He didn't feel safe here, mainly `cause people
around here didn't take well to people who didn't fit in.  Arther didn't fit in.

	He noticed there was a small brawl in the back of the bar.  It was his
friend Bloodlust duking it out with three other men.  They seemed to be fighting
over a slight disagreement about who was going to pick-up the tab for their
drinks.  Bloodlust seemed to be enjoying himself.  Arther just sat at one of
the dilapidated wood tables in the bar.  Bloodlust had long black hair that
was all combed straight back.  Just by looking at him you could tell he
worked out; he purposely wore muscle shirts to show it off.  At the moment
he was wearing a muscle shirt, camouflaged pants, and
black combat boots.  On his right arm he had the tattoo of a snake coiled
around a broad sword.

	Arther felt a hand grab the back of his head and slam his face into
the table in front of him.  The hand then yanked his head back up from the
hair and let go.  Arther quickly turned around in the chair.  A person he
had never seen before in his life was standing behind him.  He was wearing
a dull-green, military field jacket and ripped-up, black jeans.  He had long,
blond hair and needed a shave.

	``What the hell are you doing in here, damn wire-head! You know we
don't want freaks like you coming around here!"

	Arther looked at him for a few seconds saying nothing, he considered
pulling the pistol, but decided not to; he would have to shoot him.  In a
place like this you couldn't threaten with a gun\ldots you either used it or
got blown away before you said a word.  Not only that, but this guy was
probably carrying a weapon that could rip right through the light kevlar
lining inside his trench coat.  Finally, he just yelled in a staggered
voice, ``What's hell's your problem!?!"

	``I'm tired of seeing you faggot deckers in the business, and I
don't want you around here!  That's what the problem is!"

	``Just leave me alone, okay?" Arther noticed that his shades had been
cracked during their recent contact with the table.

	``No!  You're gonna leave now!  But first you're gonna pull out your
credstick and empty all the creds into my stick!  Comprendo?"  The man screamed
and grabbed Neuro by the front of his shirt.

	Arther fished around in his trench coat pocket, trying to decide
whether to pull his credstick out or the pistol.  He had 45 creds on the
stick.  But, at the moment, 45 creds to avoid potentially fatal gunplay
seemed worth the money.  But before Arther could pull anything out,
a huge fist smashed into his assailant's face.  The man
hit the floor and laid there face-down without moving.  Arther quickly looked
up to see who had punched the man.  Bloodlust stood there rubbing
the knuckles on his right hand

	``Fucker's got a damn hard face,"  he said. 

	Finally, the man groaned and slowly pushed up onto his hands
and knees.  Blood was pouring from a huge gash in his mouth.  He made
a disgusting gurgling sound and then spit out a broken tooth.  Bloodlust
then kicked the man, planting one of his durasteel-toed combat boot
into the man's ribs.

	``Listen, asshole, you leave my friend here alone or you're really
gonna piss me off!"  Bloodlust thrust his right fist inches from the man's
face.  Suddenly three, five-inch, razor-sharp, steel-alloy claws sprung out
from the back of his hand.  The claw above his index finger grazed the
bridge of the man's nose, eliciting a slight red trickle.  ``Now get out
of here before I rip your face off!"  Bloodlust smiled and then turned
toward Arther, ``So what are you do'n down here?"

	``Let's sit down and I'll tell you," Arther said in a
frustrated voice as he took off his broken sunglasses
and set them on the table.  A chip fell off one of the plexiglass lenses.

	``Do you want a drink?  This place serves real beer."
Bloodlust retracted his claws back inside his arm.

	``Nahh," he took a deep breath and let it out slowly,
``I'll just take a Coke."

	``This place doesn't serve Coke."

	``Oh."

	``Well, why'd you come here?"

	``Silver's got a run for us, and he'll probably need a grunt for the mission."

	``Silver!" Bloodlust shouted in discontent.

	``Did I say something wrong?"

	``The guy's a pussy!" He yelled loudly.  A few people in the bar
started looking at Bloodlust.

	``He said there would be a lot of money involved."

	``Well why didn't you say so!  Silver\ldots I can put with Silver," Bloodlust
said in a happy tone.  Bloodlust was a true mercenary, money was his top priority,
or as he would say: `No fee is too big, no matter what the job!'  Bloodlust's
next question was: ``Well how much money?"

	``He didn't say.  Said it was a lot though.  We're supposed to meet him
at some fancy restaurant, and he'll give us further details."

	``I'll get Stelletto to come along."

	Neuro handed Bloodlust one of the printouts of the mail. ``Here is the
address of the restaurant."

	``I can be there.  No problem.  You wanna go get a Big Mac?"

	``I'll pass, chemically flavored tofu doesn't sound so great right now."

\vspace{1in}
\begin{quote}
``Just when you thought it was safe to admit you're a human being\ldots"\\

\begin{tabbing}
\ \ \ --- \=Adam Smith\\
\>{\em asmith@questor.wimsey.bc.ca}\\
\>Questor\\
\>Vancouver, BC Canada\\
\end{tabbing}
\end{quote}

\end{document}



