City Street Slime, In Time [In Full] ~ with Guest Star's02:32 Jul 02 2012
Times Read: 888
Slimon Simon was the soubriquet given to Simon Coyle by the Corporation Ordinance Protectorate.
He had been observed on numerous times committing acts of subversion. What he’d done had not been labelled criminal though, as that would entail admitting the first criminal act, since the privatization of the cities security.
Yet, once more Coyle had been spotted committing yet another act, again labelled as subversive. Now, he was on the run…
Sweat ran down Coyle’s back and forehead and his breathing laboured, as he pushed his way through the street-level horde, both arms outstretched, eyes wide with fear.
Out on the city streets Slimon Simon did not stand out: but he’d found that the warehousing district sector was a different matter entirely: here his adopted mode of stress stood out, as did he.
He wore a black fifties style biker jacket, shades and tight blue-jeans, an image based loosely on the Soft Rock God’s of the latter part of the twentieth century and, it complimented his physical appearance.
Pale, to the extent that he looked dead, Simon had gaunt features, a hawklike nose and, long, fine blonde hair, which reached halfway down his back, whilst receding at the forehead backwards.
He had been spotted on camera, acquiring life-extension from a service-point, when a synth had warned him with menace in her voice, “This is an infringement of City Ordinance four, niner, zero, eight, desist.”
And, that’d had been when he’d run, with a hover-cam in pursuit, which had been quickly remedied with an e.m pulse from a blackmarket device Slimon ‘just so happened’ to find in his left-hand jacket pocket.
He zigged and zagged down filthy alley-ways, constantly looking behind with anxiety filling his gut, until Simon found himself in the midst of a vast section of land that held containers, from the many lands that supplied the city.
With the way they were laid out, they formed a series of interconnecting runs, that eventually met at a main thoroughfare, at the end of which sat the site office.
Simon ran faster, glancing over his shoulder and upwards looking for the next hover-droid, feeling fearful of what would happen if he were caught, this time.
He knew that it would be his third time and the third time meant an isolation cube, for at least ten years, while he aged realtime. Or, he would stand the chance of an immediate sentence, with a blast from the droid’s weaponry.
‘Either way,’ he thought, ‘I’d be screwed.’
Simon stopped in tracks. Before him stood two twelve foot high exo-skeletons barred his way to the main gate. Which Simon had circumvented by using a hand-laser, to cut through the fence.
They were driven by their Chinese operatives, borne as genetic clones; to be the very best functionaries they could be.
‘If and it’s a big if, a ‘droid finds me… it’ll access their C.P.U.’s… and, I’ll have them to contend with as well,’ he mused, quickly appraising his situation.
The operatives were the best and, he knew that. And, while they had control, Simon felt he had a chance.
“Ni HaO…” he greeted, half-hoping for a response. But, there was none.
The man and woman in their orange jump suits were both hard-wired into blue and yellow constructs that each stood within.
“I guess there’s no point in asking ‘are you having a nice day?’” he mumbled looking to his left and right, then snatching a glance behind himself.
He had to act and quickly. Simon shrugged and, then replied to his own greeting.
“Ni haO Ma…” And, he smiled a moment, before using the e.m. device.
Sparks flew from the joints of the two blue and yellow behemoth’s and Simon watched, smiling. Then the two functionaries screamed, as their connection to the suits was torn from them.
Simon watched for movement, already pretty sure there would be none.
He walked ahead and, between the two stilled exo-skeleton’s, confidant that soon he would be out of trouble: all he had to do was keep moving.
Suddenly a thrumming in the air could be heard above the thumping of Simon’s heart. And, he thought to look up, suddenly feeling dismayed, as he suddenly realized his escape through the main gate had been cut off.
His mouth opened slowly and stayed open for long seconds, before he finally spoke, “Oh fu…”
Above him was the expected Cop, the hoverdroid assigned to his case… and… Simon looked quickly, to his left and right, then decided to move.
With no announcement of its presence it was apparent arrest as not an option, so he had to move, quickly; evidently the droid’s parameters set precluded his arrest.
‘And, that’s disturbing…’ he mused, as the Cop neared, it’s cannon now erect, primed and targeted toward him.
Again he glanced to and fro, back ‘n forth, panicking: ‘There’d be a way out…’ he thought, “There’s always a way out…”
Then the small cannon beneath the Cop-droid flashed violet and a tunnelled beam of energy struck ground and, continued to move toward him. And, Simon ran… madly, his arms flailing, as he ran pell mell.
Simon ran between two containers, glancing up and behind, as a beam of energy followed his path. And, for a moment, he threw his back against one, to take stock of his situation. That was the moment his recalled the e.m device.
His only question was, ‘Is there enough charge left?’
Yet, as the beam of energy neared his left foot, he knew he had little option, but to act.
He turned away, to stand legs apart, the device in his extended right hand. He pressed a small switch and, saw a light appear, turn green, then red and then…. The energy fizzled out and there was a distinct ‘fut’ in the air above, moments before the hover droid began it’s descent earthward.
As the Cop exploded, Simon tossed the small device in the air, caught it and grinned, “Never leave home without one!”
A Further Slime in Time
Simon made his way to Thatcher Walk, the mobile pavement named for the great social reformer.
Looking as though a lexicon of the illiterate had tagged it in a cornucopia of colour and, bloodied from a thousand street battles, the walkway started from just off Main Street and ran through to Blair Square, where his apartment block stood: “It’s perfect for a getaway,” he mused aloud, with a grin.
Once he stepped on, he travelled on the walkway and Simon looked to the Museheads and thumb-twiddling mobi-users, many of them suits. The Deadheads wee mobi-users and still spoke, although rarely to one another. And, not all Museheads lived to a music soundtrack, provided by their implant; some had mobi-acces via their chip; those individuals were often lower managers, in charge of a small group of Functionaries, many of whom were of Chinese origin, or descent.
It was as the approached Blair Square that Simon began to get real para began to get real para. Having got rid of one Cop he was concerned that now he was on the Cops radar, as it were; and, soon he would find that he’d be running again.
“Damn cops,” he muttered tersely, stepping off the walkway.
Simon made his way through the throng of people who used the Square, an intersection for the walkways that carried the pedestrians through the underbelly of the vast metropolis.
Edging past an old woman, laden with bags, Simon glanced down and noticed her ident-card, lain on top of one of them.
‘Silly woman,’ he thought with a smirk, “Now, that’s mine.’
The woman was quite tall for an Earther, so it passed through his mind she was an off-worlder, either way, the ident would be his.
A quick jostle amongst the throng of people and, he had pocketed what he sought. Then with a light-smile on his face Simon made his way toward Blair Tower, a building that been ostentatious in its time; but grew to look as it did now, amazingly quickly.
It was essential he got off the square and it’s multitude of surveillance cameras. And, having a fervent belief that his world would be better off without them, he entered the building, using yet another purloined ident-card; this one made him James Turner.
And, just for a second, Simon paused before using the card, recalling the day his friend had died. He wouldn’t have said the Musehead who had owned the card had been a friend, as he had few of those, but he was an acquaintance that he’d spend time with, more often than not: He’d been alright company.
Shaking his head a little, Simon ran the card through the reader and, then entered the building. He passed the fellow slumped forward on reception, his head in his hands.
Leaf was often in that state.
Again he shook his head, making his way toward the four lifts a the end of the main foyer; two on the right and two on the left.
He noted that one of the lifts on the left was not working, having had it’s ‘out of order’ notice placed on it, again.
There was wry amusement on his face, as he boarded his own lift: ‘man travels to other worlds, but can he get a lift to work? No. That one is out of order more often than not.’
The door slid together and the lift moved rapidly, taking Simon to floor a hundred and one and apartment thirteen. More than a few would balk at the coincidence of the numbers involved, while Simon considered it a kind of fortuosity, as few bothered him, in his home.
At the door he used the ident-card again: “G’day Mistah Turner” the lock greeted him, with a broad Australian female accent and Simon grinned.
He appreciated his homes many eccentricities.
The door opened and he kicked off his boots ‘n socks, letting his jacket fall to the floor, immediately appreciating the feel luxuriant carpeting beneath his feet.
It was apparent that James Turner liked the finer things in life and, amongst the many things that illustrated that were the carpeting and the media centre, both od which had cost someone a small fortune: But, not James. Like Simon, James Turner had been a survivor; that was until one day he had slipped into the shower.
When Turner had fallen he had landed badly and, having torn the chip from his neck, the fellow had made his way in the rain, to the small shop, run by the Richard Trainer, the chips Father.
Even he had not been able help Turner: the shock of being severed from the chip had been too much for the man and, he’d died, before Trainer’s eyes.
And, as Simon had been on the couch that day, he found that he’d scored a home.
“Sabbath!” He called out and, the apartment heard his demand, for the rock band, from an era few knew much of, as so many records had been lost, thanks to people like Simon.
‘Make a score, get out and, wipe the tape’ was the maxim Simon went by, as did several others in the sprawling mega-city: but, use of e.m. devices had now affected do much of the cities infrastructure that people like Simon had become a source of annoyance to the cities protectorate.
They were to be eliminated, given the chance and, Simon didn’t want to give them the chance. He wanted to live out his thrice-extended life fairly peaceably, except that the protectorate didn’t seem to treat his infractions of their rules as lightly as they used to and, Life was getting harder, for him.
Classic twentieth century rock filled the room, as he sat on the easi-sofa, then lay back, sipping at the whiskey ‘n soda that the sofa had provided for him, upon hearing his demand, “Whiskey!”
It was as he was closing his eyes that the screen before him flashed, “You have a call” the Australian told him again, “Will you take it, Sir?”
“Yeah, I’ll take it,” Simon responded and, the screen lit up fully, to show him the old woman, he’d passed in the street.
“You have something of mine… Simon Coyle and, I want it back,” she told him.
“Wha?” He expressed in surprise, sitting up and spilling the remains of his drink in his lap: “Frags sake woman” How’d you know me? How’d you find me?”
And, he watched a smile form on the old woman’s face as she spoke, “Too many questions and really only one answer: I am who I am and, know what I do… punk.”
‘How old is she?’ he mused, ‘forty, fifty?’ He couldn’t understand people like her, who’d live out their lives then, just die. It didn’t make sense to him, not when there were so many ways of prolonging human-life now.
“Look, I don’t know how you found me, but I don’t know what you’re on about. Now frag off and leave me alone,” he snapped.
“Now, that isn’t going to happen, now is it?” The woman told him and, it was the way she smirked at that point, but Simon lost it, completely. He threw his glass to the floor and stood.
“Glass!” he snapped and a small droid left it’s hole-in-the-wall, to hoover up his mess.
“Lady, there’s noway you can find me, or get to me, or…” He was annoyed, very annoyed now. It had been a bad day, which had just got worse, in own home at that. He glowered, speechless.
All the while, the old woman on the screen smiled.
And, it was at this point that the woman was joined onscreen by an older man, who stood behind his young protégé: “Tabbi,” he whispered, “don’t make too much of a mess, this time…”
“Yes granddad…” the woman told the fellow behind her, the fellow in the strange-frock coat, who sported two-tone hair; one half black, the other white. And, as she turned away from grinning at the craggy faced man the screen went off.
“What the…?” He puzzled, scratching away at his wispy long blonde hair.
“What the…?” He shouted, as his front door blew inward.
And his mouth opened wide and stayed open, as he watched the girl in leathers step onto the door, then into his hallway, followed by a much older man, in clothes that belonged to another time, literally.
The woman had a sonic-cannon in her two arms and, having destroyed his front door, the dangerous end was now pointed at Simon.
“Sylvester here says I shouldn’t make a mess. Sorry ‘bout the door…” the woman told him, with a grin.
“S’alright…” Simon retorted. He was finally able to find his voice it seemed.
“Now, normally I wouldn’t get quite so stroppy about the loss of a key… but the time machine’s in our apartment and…” She stopped, having been given a light whack to the back of the head by the fellow behind her.
“Sylvester!” She shouted.
“Do you have to tell this tealeaf all our business?” The fellow enquired of his young friend. She was tiring and, he was irked by her impetuous behaviour; ‘After all,’ he mused, ‘that’s what got us stuck here in the first place…’
“Sorry…” She muttered, lowering the barrel towards the floor, which was when Simon decided to make his move.
He lunged toward the side of the sofa, as Deep Purple reached the last chorus of ‘Smoke On The Water,’ but Tabbi was quicker. She pulled the trigger on the sonic-cannon and immediately her adversary was no more, just bloodied pulp on the floor.
Tabbi turned to look at Sylvester, a crooked smile on her lips, “Oopsie, finger slipped...” She told him with a grin, “my bad”
She stepped over the growing pool of ooze that had been Simon Coyle and then turned to crouch at its side and, began to root hrough his clothing.
“Gottit old man!” She called out with a grin, standing up, with the ident-card in her right hand.
Tabbi shock her right hand, to rid the card and her hand of the viscous liquid, that had once been Coyle, then her grin widened.
“You know what old man?” He opined.
“Go on Tabbi, what?” He companion responded from the doorway.
“The moral of this story is never piss-off a time-traveler with a big gun!”
Sylvester groaned at her pronouncement.
“Wasn’t that bad, was it?” Tabbi enquired, the grin now a laugh, that filled the air, as Jon Lord’s played the distinct blue’s- scale of the final solo riff to ‘Smoke On The Water’ on a C3 Hammond organ, through a distorted Marshall amplifier creating the sound of an electric guitar through it’s final solo-riff…
“Tempus Fugit Tabbi. And, so should we… there’ll be someone here soon, wondering why half a wall got blown away with it’s occupant…” He reminded.
Tabbi looked over her should, at the large round whole in the wall and, the transmit building opposite, “Yes point made, let’s go…my favorite Deep Purple tracks ended anyway…”
Again she stepped over the ooze, then slung the sonic-weapon over her shoulder on its strap… She took Sylvester’s right hand in her left and, they walked toward the lift.
“You know Tabbi,” Sylvester began, “I hope you’ve enough bits in your bags to get the machine fixed, I so want to go home, the synth drinks here taste horrible…”
“Don’t worry old friend,” she assured, “you’ll be home for tea…”
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