communicate that concept without saying it outright, however. Any other gangers in the area might wonder why I’m even bothering, except that I’ve carefully built up a rep for hanging in suit bars and restaurants just for the pleasure of slotting people off.
I jander in, give the slag behind the big espresso machine the old stare-down, and sashay toward the back of the place. I see my contact at once. She’s at the bar, sitting on one of those retro-nuevo chairs that must have been designed by a frustrated proctologist. She used to be a chummer (and more than that for one weekend at the Mayflower Plaza Hotel that I’d like never to forget, thank you) when we were both back in Milwaukee, going through the local Lone Star Academy together, and then again while I was learning the streets and how to work them. Ever since we both got transferred out west, I know she’s carved out a niche for herself in the data management side of the Organized Crime division of the Star. Her name’s Catherine Ashburton, likes to be called Cat, and she’s drop-dead gorgeous, always was, always will be. Petite’s the word, I guess: stands not much more than a meter and a half, weighs about fifty and most of that’s in her rockets. Straight, short, copper-colored hair, the kind of color that makes you think she’d look hot in emerald green. But instead she always wears cranberry or certain shades of pink, and looks like she just stepped out of a fashion-trid title sequence. Today her eyes are a deep violet.
Cat’s dressed exactly like a member of one of the schools of brightly colored secretaries that flit around the skyrakers at lunch and after work, trying to avoid-attract the barracuda managers. An ice-maiden, unapproachable, unless your monthly pay’s eight-K nuyen or up. Then she’ll be all titters and smiles and unspoken invitations. Me, on the other hand, the only way I could get eight-K nuyen in a month would be to sell my folks into slavery, then hit big in the lottery. She sees me strolling her way and freezes up.
So I of course swing myself onto the stool right next to her and give her the once-over, copper top to stiletto heels. “Double espresso,” I snap to the counterman without taking my eyes off the sweetmeat next to me. Cat plays it perfectly. Everything about her shows her internal turmoil—terrified of the street monster beside her, yet equally scared that moving or reacting at all might provoke me. For an instant I catch her violet eyes, and I see the flash of cool amusement. She’s enjoying this, getting out of the office and into the field. And, who knows? Maybe deep down she doesn’t mind seeing me again.
My espresso arrives. The barista running the machine is working at top speed, getting my order out fast so I’ll leave. I knock back the little cup of bitter coffee and push the empty toward the counterman. “Another,” I tell him.
I give Cat another top-to-tail scan and a feral street grin while I’m getting ready for the exchange. These meets have two purposes. First, I hand over my report of what’s gone down with the Cutters since the last one, and second, I pick up new instructions from my superior officers. Instructions? Actually, they’re usually limited to something like, “Keep your head down and keep reporting.” Maybe it’s surprising in this age of high tech and high expectations that a physical meet’s the way to go, but it makes sense if you think about it.
First off, as I said. I’m a nullhead, a non-decker. (If I had the tech, training, and inclination to punch deck, everything would be different.) That limits what I can do in the Matrix. Just because some of the Cutters soldiers think I’m a techno-wonk, that doesn’t mean I’m actually any good at it. It’s just that I look fragging brilliant next to their computer-illiteracy. About all I’m good for is logging onto UOL and posting argumentative messages, however. The Cutters do have their own deckers, of course—a
I jander in, give the slag behind the big espresso machine the old stare-down, and sashay toward the back of the place. I see my contact at once. She’s at the bar, sitting on one of those retro-nuevo chairs that must have been designed by a frustrated proctologist. She used to be a chummer (and more than that for one weekend at the Mayflower Plaza Hotel that I’d like never to forget, thank you) when we were both back in Milwaukee, going through the local Lone Star Academy together, and then again while I was learning the streets and how to work them. Ever since we both got transferred out west, I know she’s carved out a niche for herself in the data management side of the Organized Crime division of the Star. Her name’s Catherine Ashburton, likes to be called Cat, and she’s drop-dead gorgeous, always was, always will be. Petite’s the word, I guess: stands not much more than a meter and a half, weighs about fifty and most of that’s in her rockets. Straight, short, copper-colored hair, the kind of color that makes you think she’d look hot in emerald green. But instead she always wears cranberry or certain shades of pink, and looks like she just stepped out of a fashion-trid title sequence. Today her eyes are a deep violet.
Cat’s dressed exactly like a member of one of the schools of brightly colored secretaries that flit around the skyrakers at lunch and after work, trying to avoid-attract the barracuda managers. An ice-maiden, unapproachable, unless your monthly pay’s eight-K nuyen or up. Then she’ll be all titters and smiles and unspoken invitations. Me, on the other hand, the only way I could get eight-K nuyen in a month would be to sell my folks into slavery, then hit big in the lottery. She sees me strolling her way and freezes up.
So I of course swing myself onto the stool right next to her and give her the once-over, copper top to stiletto heels. “Double espresso,” I snap to the counterman without taking my eyes off the sweetmeat next to me. Cat plays it perfectly. Everything about her shows her internal turmoil—terrified of the street monster beside her, yet equally scared that moving or reacting at all might provoke me. For an instant I catch her violet eyes, and I see the flash of cool amusement. She’s enjoying this, getting out of the office and into the field. And, who knows? Maybe deep down she doesn’t mind seeing me again.
My espresso arrives. The barista running the machine is working at top speed, getting my order out fast so I’ll leave. I knock back the little cup of bitter coffee and push the empty toward the counterman. “Another,” I tell him.
I give Cat another top-to-tail scan and a feral street grin while I’m getting ready for the exchange. These meets have two purposes. First, I hand over my report of what’s gone down with the Cutters since the last one, and second, I pick up new instructions from my superior officers. Instructions? Actually, they’re usually limited to something like, “Keep your head down and keep reporting.” Maybe it’s surprising in this age of high tech and high expectations that a physical meet’s the way to go, but it makes sense if you think about it.
First off, as I said. I’m a nullhead, a non-decker. (If I had the tech, training, and inclination to punch deck, everything would be different.) That limits what I can do in the Matrix. Just because some of the Cutters soldiers think I’m a techno-wonk, that doesn’t mean I’m actually any good at it. It’s just that I look fragging brilliant next to their computer-illiteracy. About all I’m good for is logging onto UOL and posting argumentative messages, however. The Cutters do have their own deckers, of course—a