A Future We'd Like To See 1.47 - Better Safe Than Sorry AUTHOR'S NOTE - Not the original title. I found one that fit MUCH! better after posting it. Old title == Into the Game, which actually makes no sense at all... By Twoflower (Copyright 1994) Nobody shoots the bartender, you see. Hackers come and go, wares dealers, the zillions of little industries which go on the grey side of the law, but the bartender stays PUT. Shootouts erupt, things get broken, maybe the entire building gets reduced to flaming rubble... but one person lives on JUST so the story can be retold, and that one person is the bartender. Don't get me wrong; my skills haven't gone down the crapper just because I'm polishing glasses instead of cutting ice. I've still got that nasty side effect of working the cutting circuit, Street Smarts. Street Smarts are a pain sometimes... diving for cover when someone drops a book... the suspicion you cast on everyone and everything... the tendency to look for alternative exits upon entering a room. Street Smarts keep you alive when you're young, but when you're old, they're a pain in the ass. The one plus side is that they let you measure up people. That's a trait that's handy no matter how old you are. The girl that walked into the bar screamed out NEWBIE to every degree. Let's start with the hair. Hackers, even the few female ones, never spend much time on personal appearance. In cyberspace, it's just not important. This chick had the every- hair-in-place look you can only get by spending considerable amounts of time in front of a mirror with a comb. I couldn't tell if the red was a dye job or not, however. Then there's the clothing. Oooh, scary scary, she's got a form-fitting black bulletproof vest on. Nobody uses bullets anymore, sweetie, unless they wanna be especially mean. Combat boots and camo pants bottom off the ensemble, as well as a camo jacket. Lastly, the facial expression. Clearly, copied from any 'tough guy' film you could find. The sneer, the shifty eyes, the furrowed brow. So, in conclusion : newbie. Possibly a rich daddy's little girl trying to rebel. She'd be fine. See, punks don't cut you for how little you know... they'd rather steer clear of newbies, on the whole, either because they're annoying or that the mere presence of one could screw up your carefully laid out plans. There was a shifting of seats... very calm, very subtle, opening up ONE barstool as far from the real goons as you could get. People spread out just to avoid having this girl sit near them, leaving that one stool nice and open. Bait. She took it, of course, not knowing. There is one bartending function which I've gotten quite good with, and that's dealing with said newbies. It was the closest thing to dealing in illegal computer biz I had left... mostly convincing them that a career change would be a good idea. There is the rare time when I can sense actual talent lurking behind the sugar coating... THAT'S when things get dangerous, because fresh talent is such a rarity that everybody wants it. "What'll you have?" I asked her. "Scotch, double rocks, water back," she grunted. No doubt got that out of a book. She barely looked drinking age. Okay, if that's what she wants... I pulled her a scotch, just as she requested, and placed it on the bar. Five credits (no tip) were exchanged, and she slugged down the entire glass in one motion, trying to look cool. I stifled a laugh as her face rapidly shifted colors, and she eventually spit out the drink all over the back mirror. I had seen it coming a minute ago and had my washcloth handy, though. "Let me guess," I laughed. "First drink?" "What? No, hell no, I've had dozens, HUNDREDS of drinks. Just, well, wasn't expecting, no, just wasn't..." "Yeah," I agreed. "Okay, I'll size up the situation for you so we don't need to go about the movie-star smalltalk and hard as nails facade. You've tinkered with computers, and want to make a little cash. Maybe a relative needs a limb replacement, maybe you want prom tickets, maybe you're just a greedy person. So you figure, I'll try to break into illegal computer dealings. You get all prepped up, studying from 'legitimate sources', spot a bar which looks shady, wander in and hope for the best. Stop me anytime if I'm wrong." She didn't stop me, gaping. Typical. "So you show up in a bar," I said, motioning to the various bar-furnitures. "Order a strong drink to look tough. Maybe try to slide on over to the various booths and get yourself, what's the word they use in the holos? 'Connected'? Yeah, pretty sure. And after that, who knows? I do. Odds are some other newbie will employ you as a 'point man'... excuse me, woman... you go out on a few capers and end up brain-dead in a morgue before your second week. End of career. Fun, wasn't it?" She didn't reply. Hey, who WOULD? "Okay, now that you've gotten a glimpse of your destiny, still want to go through with it? Or am I totally wrong and you just got dressed up and prepared so you could have a single drink and leave?" "You've... you've got it all wrong, pal. I'm the hottest hot dogger this side of the colony. You don't know who you're messing with." "Yes I do, miss Ronni W. Podraza," I said, tapping the gold label on her credit chip. "And based on the quality of the chip, I'd guess your parents are multimillionaire types?" "They aren't THAT rich!" she protested, before realizing she just confirmed my theory. "Thought so. Look. I'll be frank. Go home. Be a debutante or something and forget all about this. I don't think you really wanna be burned out by age thirty, do you?" "Forget this, I'll find another bar," she said, pushing her glass away. I grabbed her arm. (Any normal punk would have swiftly pulled some implement of death and removed the offending arm, but as mentioned, this was a newbie, so she was just Surprised.) "Hold up," I hissed. "I never said I WOULDN'T let you try this silly fancy. If you're hell-bent on being a hacker and dying young, might as well take the quiz." "A quiz?" she asked. "I've found it makes my side job as talent scout a hell of a lot easier," I said, putting down the washcloth and reaching under the bar. "Here you go. Just circle the right answer. No cheating, please." "This is nuts." "No, this is a test," I said. I grabbed a dish off the bar. "THESE are nuts. Do you see the difference?" She grumbled. I figured she'd call me insane and stomp off, likely go down the death-path they all went on, but instead she went right ahead and filled out the test. Circle, circle, circle, circle, circle, circle, circle, circle, circle, circle, done. She handed it back less than thirty seconds after I had given it to her. "Happy?" she asked. I examined the test and compared it to the answer key. Check, check, check, check, check... etc. All right, straight down the board. Even the challenge questions half the veterans in here couldn't get. EVEN the history of hacking questions I threw in for fun. The volume in the bar went down several decibels. Remember the bit about 'fresh talent'? Well, it was feeding frenzy time. As clueless as the lady was, she knew a LOT. However, it didn't stop there. Already I could see several of the UberNet bigwigs circling around her, smelling the blood. Compared to some of the trainees I had seen, this was going to be far worse. Maybe the bar would get trashed again. Almost a cliche, fighting for a lady's honor. "Attention, PLEASE!" I yelled over the rapidly quieting din. I rapped a glass against the bar to add to the effect. "All drinks for the next hour are ON THE HOUSE. Pull what you want, I've got some business to attend to." There were a series of cheers and hoots. (Well, so the owner of the place would get a bit angry at me. He's done it before and nothing's happened.) I took off my apron, grabbed Ronni by the wrist and dragged her through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, locking it behind me. * Ronni pulled her hand out of my grasp once we were through. She started into some action hero nonsense, various threats, some insults, etc. etc. I shut the door and clamped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry, had to," I summarized with, not having the time for a full apology. I removed my hand. "Alright. Putting the act aside, I want to know NOW how you managed to answer all those questions correctly and quickly." "A woman has to have her secrets," she said, putting on yet another fake voice. Ooo, convincing. Keep pestering; eventually she'll cave in and tell me, just so she can feel proud of herself. No secret is so important that a little flattery won't get it out. "Please?" "No." "Come on, it was just AMAZING what you did. I'd love to hear about it." "Well..." "I promise I won't tell anyone," I lied. "Okay, okay. See, alright, so my parents are KIND of rich. I took my credit chip, found a black market biotech clinic and had some installations done." Joy. Here we have a know-nothing daddy's little rich girl out in the urban jungle with an expensive bio implant in her head. Actually, I had better NOT tell anyone; something like that would make men want to split her head open and do a little pickpocketing. Something didn't click, though. "The clinic gave you computer cracking skills?" I asked. "I didn't know any of the Dirty Dozen could do that. It's too specific." "I was lucky," she smiled, proud of herself. (See?) "One of them had a really old image file... imprint of some dead hacker's brain. He was pretty good. So, he transferred the knowledge over to me. Pretty slick, huh? Now I'm BETTER than the best!" "Whose imprint was it?" I asked, dropping to more serious tones. "Huh? Just some guy." "Miss, I've got a BAD hunch as to who's pilfered thoughts you've got crammed in your head, and I wanna make sure I'm dead wrong. Now WHO?" "I dunno, some guy. Named after a basic term. Goto, or something like that." "That BASTARD!" I yelled. "Umm... excuse me?" "Why? WHY can't he stay dead? Just ONCE I'd like to see the guy stay six feet under. He's dead, I'm alive, that SHOULD be a fact..." "Wait, I don't understand--" "Listen," I said, grabbing her by the arm again. "Go back to that clinic. Get that bloody twit out of your head, and forget you ever tried this." "Now HANG on a minute," she said, pulling away. "I spent a lot of money and time on this venture, and I'm determined to be a hacker one way or another." "Why do you want to be one?" She started to talk, then paused. And started, and paused. "Alright, I'll fill in the blanks. Parental rebellion, teenage angst, you alone in a world gone mad, or maybe a computer killed your mom. Any number of newbie reasons. Typical." "What's a newbie?" "Exactly." "Huh?" "Okay, I can handle you being a hacker," I said. "I promise I'll show you anything you want to know in return for you and me doing off and getting the black box out of your head. Deal?" "Hey, I thought you were just a bartender!" "'Just'. Never use the word just. That's your first lesson. Nobody is 'just' anything. Examples." I turned on the security monitors surrounding my desk, and pointed to various people I knew. "Dennis there isn't 'just' a nerdy fat guy, he's the top salesman of illegal games and entertainment programs. He's also a serious pervert, stay away from him. Jill over here isn't 'just' some hacker's ditzy girlfriend, she's actually an undercover Net.Cop for VOSNet and will probably turn in her 'boyfriend' for computer crime in a day or two. Snake over there isn't 'just' a hacker, he's actually just as clueless as you, and only pretends to have skill." I flipped off the monitors. "Alright, repeat the lesson back to me." "What?" "Come on, get your act together, Ronni. Stop being confused and try to comprehend things. If you want to learn, start learning and stop waiting for others to do your work for you. What did I just teach you?" "That appearances are deceiving?" she guessed. "Good. Lesson one down. Workbook. The biotech implant in your head is not 'JUST' a memory module. What else could it be?" "But... the doctor assured me it was perfectly safe..." "Which doctor?" "Frank, I think." "Frank. Alright, Frank isn't 'just' a doctor, he's a liar. AKA Dr. Frankenstein. His specialty is taking advantage of his patients, adding in little extras they never asked for, just for kicks. Now we can assume that whatever he put in your head is also a timebomb. What's my name?" "Zipcode." "Exactly. Now, HOW did you know that if I had never told you?" She paused. She was learning, slowly, but surely. "Okay... let's see here. You seem to know the person whose memory I bought. Frank likes to install more than people want. Therefore, what I have isn't 'JUST' loaded with computer knowledge, but... everything the person knew?" "Much better!" I applauded. "You are now graduated from newbie and are just clueless. Consider that a compliment. So do you see why you need that device out of your skull, and the sooner the better?" "Not really," she said. "I mean, so what if I've got his memories too? Just a side effect, that's all." "Okay, picture this. Every day is a struggle to figure out who you are, either a young wanna-be named Ronni or an New School hacking master named Gosub. All social ties are munged because you can't figure out if you're a skilled male or an unskilled female. Eventually you take a dive off a roof in frustration, or get confused about yourself at a crucial moment in a fight." "Errr." "Now you see. Lesson two, assume worst case scenarios. If they turn out to be worst cases, you're prepared. If not, you're pleasantly surprised. Anyway, that's why you had better get the implant OUT." "If you know so much, why're you a bartender?" "Don't change the topic." "Do you really think that my implant has his... personality too? His soul?" "Knowing Frank, I would not doubt it," I said. "He's just funny that way, I guess. Not a bad guy unless you're his client. He likes s'mores and poker on Thursdays." "Come on, I can't be going insane! I feel fine! Perfectly healthy. And I know everything there is to know about hacking." "What's the safest way into black ice, a probe loaded with cutters or a human running on instinct?" "A probe, obviously. New School style." "What's Macroware's defense rating?" "9.98." "Why should you avoid the Nor'lly Electronic Agriculture Facility?" "The sheer number of polygonal plants and grass blades will slow down cheap decks or crash them." "And which groups pioneered Nor'lly seeds into the Earth Day Virus?" "Sinister Dogs and the Fecal Matters, in a joint venture." "What day of the week was it when you officially went into business for yourself." "Monday. No, Thursday." "Decide," I said, folding my arms. "Well, today's Thursday, so I figure I'm going into business myself now, but I officially stopped my training when you and I got into this huge argument on a Monday and I moved out of... the..." "Apartment," I continued, leaning in closer, "And 'you' went off and founded what you later called New School--" "Which was the art of being there without being there without being there," Ronni finished, although she couldn't tell how. "A phrase Gosub and Gosub alone used," I concluded. "Errrr," she repeated from earlier in the conversation. "What were the names of your NEW partners, after you ditched me?" "Stop it!" "Harden and Max. When did you first die!" "I'm not dead!" "You died trying to take out Hate, a thinker. When did you die the second time?" She screamed. Okay, maybe I was going overboard. It worked though; you had to give it that. "Do you get the point?" I yelled. "Do you want that implant out or what? Odds are more leaks are forming right now. We might not be able to separate you from him in a few days." "STOP IT!" she yelled. "I AM DOING PERFECTLY WELL, and know more than you ever did, you no talent hack, always calling me 'kid' and pissing me off and--" "Bzzt! Wrong person! Ronni doesn't know me. GOSUB does." Maybe I *had* gone to far. By now she was hunched over, sweating, generally in Agony. "Alright, sorry. I shouldn't have layed into you or him like that. Ease down. Your name is Ronni, you have extremely rich parents, and you want to be a... ugh... CYBERPUNK. Right?" "R...right," she said. "Tell me more about yourself, it'll help." "Well... my old boyfriend was a hacker, and daddy said he was just street grease... when he died I really wanted to experience what it was that made him so rich and so important so fast... dad just didn't understand WHY I wanted to, and--" "Okay, stop," I said, waving the rest off. "No need to tell me your life history. You're fine for now. Just concentrate on who you are and I'll go make a call to one of my friends, okay?" She nodded shakily. I started to dial the hideously complex phone number. Yeek, so she had been shacking up with Bobby the Liar? Poor girl. Not poor Bobby; you just don't piss people off like he did and expect to get away with it. Stupid, stupid boy, just like the lot of them, dying young. I was sure it was Bobby she had described, since he had only been around for three months and managed to accumulate a lifetime's worth of enemies. "Why'd you stop being a hacker?" she asked, as I continued to redial (messed up the first time, and had to start over, ugh.) "You already know," I snapped, and went into my third dial attempt. "I do? Oh yeah. But... I'd rather not check there, if you don't mind." "It got boring," I lied. "Oh." * "Who did the act?" the dark image on my phone's screen asked. "Take a wild guess," I said. "Who's bluffs can we always read on Thursdays?" "Frank," the image said, adding the sort of growl you'd normally only find on your average predatory animal. "The liar. I shall have to entertain him sometime in my playroom..." "Later, Count. Right now we've got more pressing matters. I want my ex-partner out of this girl's head, pronto. My credit still good there?" "Of course," Count nodded. "When shall you be bringing the delicate petal to my estate?" Ronni blinked. I gave the 'don't worry, he's always like that' wave to her and continues. "I'm figuring we've got to get off-planet first... and you know my shuttle isn't that good. Any chance you can send Igor around?" "Possibly," the Count smiled. "It will cost you." "Fine. Sooner the better," I said, and disconnected. "Gods, I hate talking to him. He always gives me the creeps." "Who is he?" Ronni asked. "Black biotech, like Frank, only nicer. Well, not nicer, just a bit more honest," I replied, leaning back in my chair. "Don't worry, he's just into all sorts of weird gothic stuff. I'll make sure he doesn't give you fangs or anything silly like that." "You know," she said, sitting on a crate of Really Bad Whisky, "I had never figured hacking would be like this. I mean, there's a lot of technical information behind it from what I can tell, but it seems to be a lot of theory and ritual too." "That sums it up, yeah," I said. "A lot of people talk big, a lot of deals are made, but very little hacking actually goes on. The people who actually can do stuff are the real workers, although none of them are bigwigs. Middlemen tend to hold the top slots--" "And get the actual experts to do the dirty work," she continued. "It's very fascinating... all this knowledge your... partner? had. He was quite an interesting person." "Stay with me here," I said. "I don't want you floating off and leaving me with an angry Gosub to deal with." "What's your problem with him? He seems an okay guy from what I know." "Yeah, a god among weaklings. Respected by men, admired by women, looked up to. Works in ways no mortal ever can. Pure New School, stuff nobody had heard of. God, if there was ever a living legend, it was him. Bastard. Kept forgetting his roots. Oh, that's lesson three, by the way; don't forget where you were. You may be bigtime some day, but remember who got you there. Gosub never did." "I ought to write these lessons down somewhere," she said, looking around for a pen. "Count's ship oughtta be by in a few hours. Hey, now that you're getting the ticker out of your cranium, you still wanna be a hacker? Frankly, you look more like a tourist. You said you only wanted in the game to see what it was like, after the game ate your punk boyfriend and spat out the bones." "When did I say that?" "While back? When I was trying to get you back to a rational state of mind?" "I never said such a thing," she grumped. "Alright, have it your way," I shrugged. "Makes no difference to me." * "Why don't we just go outside?" Ronni asked. "Huhmhm?" I mumbled, looking up from my book. "Oh, simple. See those guys on the monitors here? Notice how they're staying relatively close to the door?" "Yeah?" "Well, a lot of them would just LOVE to party with you," I grinned. She looked vaguely worried, so I quickly added : "But they won't come in here. They respect me enough to leave me alone. Maybe they think I'm doing it with you or something. Doesn't matter, as long as none of them come in." "Why would they want me?" "They got a good look at your test scores," I laughed. "It's like that with all the newbies. Any that flunk out are just ignored, but those who pass could be of some use, and useful people are rare. I'm guessing you have at least seven offers to join various groups right now, and maybe a few social requests. They'll be surprised once the Count does his number on you and you get stupid again." "Hey!" "Well, it is true, isn't it?" "NO... well... yeah. Argh. I had no idea it'd be this complex." "Good thing you found out now, and not later on when you're jacked in and being eaten alive by some defense program," I said, returning to my book. "Is that why you stopped hacking?" she asked. "What?" I replied, gripping the book tighter. "Because you were afraid of dying--" "I WAS NOT A COWARD!" I yelled. "Dammit, I had a future to worry about, and just because some KID who thought he was hotter than me called me one doesn't make me some yellow who runs at the hint of getting killed! If he would have stayed dead, maybe nobody'd care!" She blinked. "Umm. Look, sorry. Just that my partner's return, albeit in a rather strange way has shaken me up a little. You understand, right?" She didn't say much. Drat, I had gone and scared her. "I'll explain. See, I figured I was getting a bit too into the hacking thing. I had pulled down some great scores, but now I had people gunning for me, so maybe it was best to just cut and run. Then GOSUB comes along as starts trying to tell me how to run my life. He was a twit, even back then. Had all these crackpot theories to prove, and was always trying to assert himself... he called me a coward for not wanting to stick to the industry and promptly left--" "--and went off to form New School," Ronni recited. "Gosub found his partners, the lawyer and the cyborg child, and became bigger and more respected than you ever had, and you got bitter and jealous of me like the immature little punk you were. You just didn't get the point, did you, Zipcode? You go all the way or none of the way. Looks like you haven't gotten it still." "Errr?" I managed, being the confused one for a change. "Frankly, I'm not surprised you're working drinks in some two-bit lamer place like this," Ronni said, in a decidedly firm tone. "You could have been right there with me if you had the guts, be up in the ranks of the New School, but no. You had to play it SAFE. Nobody gets into the biz to be SAFE." "And look where it got me! I'm alive, and YOU died. Twice," I corrected, ignoring the fact that this was Ronni. "At least I had fun doing it. You, all you can say is that you've pandered to these cretins for tips. You're not happy here and it's obvious. You want to get in the game so bad that you simply can't out of a silly fear. Get off your high horse and get back in the ring, kid!" I slugged him. Ronni reeled back, genuinely surprised. "What was THAT for?!" she asked, in more feminine tones. "Aw... geez, look, I'm sorry... just for a moment there..." So, she slapped me back. I had it coming. * We spent the trip to Count's castle in separate rooms. Igor, his trollish lab partner, insisted on it to 'keep the meat fresh'. Ronni looked alarmed, but I knew this was just Count's way of saying that he wanted her not to get too agitated; keep him from needing to separate two personalities. I was a good translator of Count-to-English. I didn't complain about the separation. I had some serious thinking to do as well, now that I had finally had it out with my 'partner' once more. He was wrong, of course. So he got big. That's not saying much, really; by now everybody had forgotten him, whereas I was alive and kicking. He died TWICE, even! Same way both times, supposedly trying to kill some mad AI called a Thinker. (Net.myth. They never really existed.) Talk about overkill. So I had won. I was safe and protected in my bar, working tips but still working. All he had was a neural implant in some poor girl who didn't know any better. So what if he had had a good time? So what if he was doing what he wanted? I was alive. He might have had a great life and been a smash hit, but I was alive. He might have had the buzz you get after smashing corporate ice. He probably was still getting off on cutting people's bank accounts from under them. Having fun, being happy where he was. I was alive, though. A minimum wage earner, catering to faces that changed by the month, but I was alive. Every day, in and out with little change, nothing happening. Boredom city. Regrets? I was alive. So no regrets. I derailed that train of thought and reopened my book. Nothing like a good book to take your mind off your life. * I hated the Count's place. The guy is a screwball, pure and simple. All this stonework and fake cobwebs and strange noises being pumped out of hidden speakers... every day was Halloween in The Count's Black Biotech Castle of Doom. I hated dragging Ronni here, too. She seemed too nice for a hellhole like this. Frankly though, I didn't know too many of the Dirty Dozen. Nobody knows them ALL, except for the individual members of that circle. The Count was the only person I could trust with killing my partner once and for all. Of course, he could end up killing her. The Count had a serious blood fetish, and you never know when he might let a patient slide just to satisfy his weird sadistic ideas... but he was honest, and said he'd just get the simple procedure done. I had to trust him. She could make a good hacker, actually, once you get around the panic factor when presented with a new situation. Gosub was like that too, actually, an ex-physics major looking for something that paid more than tracking projectiles in two dimensions. Never did get the point unless you hammered it into him. I was proud of him, though, how fast he learned once it was hammered in. At least I didn't share his fate. That was the other point nagging at me. With all this discussion of hacking and cracking and general computer evil, I had been getting... ugh. NOSTALGIC. Actually longing for that doomed lifestyle. I couldn't go BACK to it, though; I promised myself I wouldn't. "Do yooo want a drink?" Igor asked, pushing a glass of unidentifiable red fluid at me. "No thanks, Ig old pal. Hey, you wonder what's taking so long? It's a simple implant removal, right?" "The Master never cuts corners," Igor replied. He paused to gulp down the fluid in a single swig. "He is a perfectionist, and will settle for nothing less than a perfect job." "Alright, as long as he's not sucking blood out of her neck or something." Igor laughed. "Master is not as crude as that." "What WAS that slop you were drinking?" I asked. "LOOKED like blood." "Yooo are a bartender, no? Don't yooo knooow?" "Not really. Looked vaguely like a Bloody Mary." Igor laughed again, his little giggle that could cut glass. "Maybe yoooo should change carreerrs. Not a good bartenderr." He loped off, presumably to do something involving manual labor. I considered his statement for a few moments when the ironwork door opened. The Count had two labs, his Clinic and his Playroom. The Playroom was your basic mad scientist's lair, with strange and bizarre devices that do strange and bizarre things to the human body. He didn't use that on clients, though; that's what the Clinic was for, which was always sterile and clean and polished to an ivory gleam. He's a doctor as a job, a freak for fun. He was whistling some dark tune, wheeling out the stretcher. "The procedure was a success," he grinned, flashing too many teeth. "And the implant?" I asked. The Count produced it from his scrub shirt / cloak with a flourish. "You may have the demon box with my blessing. I have no need of it." I took the tiny chip from his hands. This? This is what my partner was reduced to, in the end? Now I was positively glad I didn't follow in his footsteps. Although, technically, he was alive on that chip. Alive and kicking, and still doing what he did best. "You're not gonna outlive me," I whispered to the chip, and crushed it in my hand. He was finally dead. Although I could still remember him. The irony of it all was that he was still perfectly happy and well inside my own brain, WITHOUT an implant. He was still around, because he was remembered. As a myth, or an old friend, or a mental image in a chip, he would always be around. Me, I'd just be some nice bartender in a middle-rated d00d hangout. I could change that. If I wanted to, which I didn't. So hacking's risky. It's DAMN fun. Fun, but risky. Risky, but what I always wanted to do... "Go with risk," the Count said. "What?" "Now, now. Zipcode. I can read you like an open scroll. You face tells the ultimate truth. I know of you and your past, and I know that you do not like what you have become. It was not your chosen path." "Count, get off my back. Just because we're somewhat old friends doesn't give you the right to--" "I had a chance to be a real doctor," Count interrupted, having a seat on one of the stone chairs. "Would have meant less officials to bribe, and a better social life. I didn't bother, even though it meant being more comfortable. This is my world now. I have no regrets about it, even if it means that I can only inspect the nightlife, and cannot serve as a 'normal' MD. You should stay on your path as well. Straying from it has brought you nothing but misery." "What, you think I ought to go back to hacking?" "You have the knowledge and skill," Count nodded. "Plus, you have an apprentice again, right?" "What, her? Think she'll still want to be one?" "Sir, any being that goes through the effort of trying to join your little club of hooligans ought to be given a fair shake. It was all YOU could hope for when you were starting, yes?" "True, but--" "I can see no other destiny," the Count stated. "Either you continue in a life you hate or return to your true path. If you decide to stay in your current profession... Igor is sufficient for ordinary entertaining of the guests, but I could always use another lowly BAR-TENDER." I opened my mouth to object, but realized it was true. Bartending was safe, nice, low paying and highly boring. Lowly and risk-free. "Well, I'll try it," I decided. "Maybe the scene still has enough elbow room for an old-timer like me. What about her, though? I had an apprentice once, but it didn't work out." "Did it fail because he grew resentful of your failure to commit, or because you grew resentful of your failure to commit?" "Ummm..." "I thought so. Go in peace, hacker. Keep my patient out of trouble; the Dirty Dozen do not normally handle regulars." "You sure it'll work?" "No," the Count replied. Honest as usual. "But it will be amusing to see." A man of my age working on the dark side of computing again. It was... stupid. I should be building up, whaddya call it, a retirement fund style of thing and settling down. Anybody else would have. But who said I *liked* to settle down, in the long run?