stuffed it cruelly between his lips. Ate it.
“Good.”
Gone. Cy was alone. The toothputer accessed the RAMchip. Light and sound rode the starving night. He jumped aside, the vengeful robocab missed. Was swallowed by the strobeshot darkness. No pedestrian was safe in the Spunkk. In the dark alley Cy sought safety behind the overfilled garbage can that compressed under the fatigue of days, discard printout and workweary compchips, derelict discards of onrushing technology, obscenely melding.
Cy ran the RAMchip again.
This was it. Longhidden formula dug screaming from secure RAMbanks. His.
She lay prone on the fukfome bed when he entered. Locked and sealed the door behind him. Stared at her corpsewhite flesh.
“You should get out in the sun more.”
No response. Polkadot paint circled her eyes. Blackleather bra and panties, richly adorned with nylon lace, revealed more than concealed her figure. Not good. Too flatchested. No ass.
“Is this room secure?”
“I unplugged the phone.”
“Here.” He spat the RAMchip into his palm.
“I don't want your lousy secondhand peanut.”
Anger flamed an unseen torch behind his eyes. “Dummy. It's the formula.”
The computer switched on when he kicked it. An ancient IBM PC, gutted and restuffed with macro Z-80's. Now it had more compergs than a Cray. The RAMchip plugged into the specially peanut-shaped orifice. The screen burst to repulsive life, indecipherable symbols hurtled across it.
“That's it.”
“It's indecipherable.”
“Not if you have been trained. That is a three, that a seven.”
She eyebulged at his arcane knowledge. Turned away, rejected. Popped a pentagon-shaped pill. A Tibetan copy of an illegal Icelandic aspirin. It hit as obscene symbols raced across the screen. The laser printer hummed grotesquely as it regurgitated a printout.
“Here.”
“I can't.”
“You will. Get everything on the list.” He laughed insanely at the smell of aspirin on her breath.
“Drugs. Illegal. Banned.” Her fingers trembled with vibratory despair as she read. “Alcohol, distilled water, glycerin...”
“Go. Or you're dead.” The muzzle of the .50 caliber machine gun poked its obscene muzzle from his coatcuff. She went.
Cy BerPunk was twenty-one when he marketed the formula. Long lost, forgotten, moldering in the rateaten files of the Amsterdam News. Now reborn, remarketed, aimed unerringly at the crapkicker market. The newest. The coolest.
Pubic Hair Straightener to go with the latest all-nude craze. Once seen, must be had. And Cy controlled the supply. The bukniks piled up and he watched the zeroes multiply. Until one day...
“Enough!” he exulted unpleasantly.
Now they would let him in. Had to. Their bankaccount reader checked his balance even as he approached the front entrance of Power House. Many times had he beat feeble knuckles against the chromesteel entrance concealed behind the hologram of a chromesteel entrance. If they read his balance right — he was in. If not — he risked breaking his nose. No danger was too great. His pace never changed.
He stepped through into the lobby. The receptionist wore a holomask that concealed her face. A pig's head stared back at him. A gold ring in her nose, lips redlipsticked.
“Yes,” she grunted.
“AppleCore needs me.”
Her smile was cold as liquid helium. “AppleCore needs your money. Voodooman training is not cheap.”
“I can pay.”
“See Chandu. Room one thousand and nine. Last lift on left.”
The door closed and the floor smashed up against his feet. Then against his face as the acceleration flattened him. A thousand stories is a long way to go. When the door slid open sinuously he crawled out. Climbed wearily to his feet. Sucked on a octagonular jellybean filled with caffeine. It tasted repulsive. But he could go on now.
Crashed open the door. Saw the encrusted gleam of chrome machinery, the small man who was their master.
“Shut door. Draft,” Chandu ordered as imperiously
“Good.”
Gone. Cy was alone. The toothputer accessed the RAMchip. Light and sound rode the starving night. He jumped aside, the vengeful robocab missed. Was swallowed by the strobeshot darkness. No pedestrian was safe in the Spunkk. In the dark alley Cy sought safety behind the overfilled garbage can that compressed under the fatigue of days, discard printout and workweary compchips, derelict discards of onrushing technology, obscenely melding.
Cy ran the RAMchip again.
This was it. Longhidden formula dug screaming from secure RAMbanks. His.
She lay prone on the fukfome bed when he entered. Locked and sealed the door behind him. Stared at her corpsewhite flesh.
“You should get out in the sun more.”
No response. Polkadot paint circled her eyes. Blackleather bra and panties, richly adorned with nylon lace, revealed more than concealed her figure. Not good. Too flatchested. No ass.
“Is this room secure?”
“I unplugged the phone.”
“Here.” He spat the RAMchip into his palm.
“I don't want your lousy secondhand peanut.”
Anger flamed an unseen torch behind his eyes. “Dummy. It's the formula.”
The computer switched on when he kicked it. An ancient IBM PC, gutted and restuffed with macro Z-80's. Now it had more compergs than a Cray. The RAMchip plugged into the specially peanut-shaped orifice. The screen burst to repulsive life, indecipherable symbols hurtled across it.
“That's it.”
“It's indecipherable.”
“Not if you have been trained. That is a three, that a seven.”
She eyebulged at his arcane knowledge. Turned away, rejected. Popped a pentagon-shaped pill. A Tibetan copy of an illegal Icelandic aspirin. It hit as obscene symbols raced across the screen. The laser printer hummed grotesquely as it regurgitated a printout.
“Here.”
“I can't.”
“You will. Get everything on the list.” He laughed insanely at the smell of aspirin on her breath.
“Drugs. Illegal. Banned.” Her fingers trembled with vibratory despair as she read. “Alcohol, distilled water, glycerin...”
“Go. Or you're dead.” The muzzle of the .50 caliber machine gun poked its obscene muzzle from his coatcuff. She went.
Cy BerPunk was twenty-one when he marketed the formula. Long lost, forgotten, moldering in the rateaten files of the Amsterdam News. Now reborn, remarketed, aimed unerringly at the crapkicker market. The newest. The coolest.
Pubic Hair Straightener to go with the latest all-nude craze. Once seen, must be had. And Cy controlled the supply. The bukniks piled up and he watched the zeroes multiply. Until one day...
“Enough!” he exulted unpleasantly.
Now they would let him in. Had to. Their bankaccount reader checked his balance even as he approached the front entrance of Power House. Many times had he beat feeble knuckles against the chromesteel entrance concealed behind the hologram of a chromesteel entrance. If they read his balance right — he was in. If not — he risked breaking his nose. No danger was too great. His pace never changed.
He stepped through into the lobby. The receptionist wore a holomask that concealed her face. A pig's head stared back at him. A gold ring in her nose, lips redlipsticked.
“Yes,” she grunted.
“AppleCore needs me.”
Her smile was cold as liquid helium. “AppleCore needs your money. Voodooman training is not cheap.”
“I can pay.”
“See Chandu. Room one thousand and nine. Last lift on left.”
The door closed and the floor smashed up against his feet. Then against his face as the acceleration flattened him. A thousand stories is a long way to go. When the door slid open sinuously he crawled out. Climbed wearily to his feet. Sucked on a octagonular jellybean filled with caffeine. It tasted repulsive. But he could go on now.
Crashed open the door. Saw the encrusted gleam of chrome machinery, the small man who was their master.
“Shut door. Draft,” Chandu ordered as imperiously
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