Cyberpunk Written As If It Were Around, Say, 1974

The bottle of whiskey in the lower-left drawer had been starting to look pretty good in my mind; but I had programmed the damn thing not to respond when my speech was slurred, and wouldn’t ya know, goddammit, that was the only thing in this gleaming chrome squeezebox that works?

So instead of taking this as a prophetic vision, I went to my local alcohol dispensary. It didn’t particularly lift me up. I was semi-casually thinking of a V-joint when some remnant of the sixth sense a private eye is supposed to have told me to turn around. I was impressed; I thought I’d drowned those senses in assorted chemicals.

But to get down to ‘running the code’, as a Codist might say, it wasn’t a pleasant sight.

They were good-looking enough, if you like big Asians with, I was fairly certain, more than a few Yak tattoos. Neither of the two who came through the door of the bar looked like they had alcohol in mind. They didn’t really look like they had minds; just imitation Tokyo sunglasses and suits which somehow fitted over muscles that bulged like a cyberboy’s stomach.

I considered pulling a bill from my pocket, dropping it on the table, and casually but very, very quietly leaving They looked like all kinds of news, and if I’ve heard any good news on the radiovox, I sure couldn’t remember. I figured my best move was to be out the bathroom window before they began their dispute with the bartender or themselves or a table or something.

I envied the speed with which they moved. Somebody had enough dough to buy these boys some real training, not just robot rock ’em sock ’em. One of them was on the stool on my left, and he casually took my own left arm and put his huge hand over mine in what might be interpreted as a reassuring manner, The other hadn’t sad down yet; he was waving a shadowback, and while I hadn’t seen one for a while. And then it wasn’t mine; ransom in a kidnap case gone all Soyuz on us.

Suddenly, the bartender’s prosthetic legs propelled themselves in our direction. He had suddenly became extremely attentive. “Laphroaig 40”, said my new best friend.

The Yak boys ordered some extremely expensive imported stuff (in my past experience) was great if you enjoyed Everclear with sesame oil. My new friend took our two glasses with ice, and filled them like a college student sneaking Martian Comfort into an exam he knows will destroy him.

Then we both sat there, being too polite to drink before the ice had done a little work. His associate removed his hand from mine. For just the briefest moment, I considered hurting him a lot. There are several working Hapkido moves from this position. However, they weren’t enemies yet, and you can waste a lot of blaster fire on your friends. I learned that in the Other War.

Then he smiled, as if the whole thing was silly. His hand, lifting the drink to his lips, was rock-steady. I brought my mouth right to the glass and took a healthy slug. Manners were not my forte right now.

Besides, I like my pinkies where they are.

He had two, which he provided by raising one as if it were two hundred years earlier. Of course, back then the glasses would’ve been made of glass and the Yakuza wouldn’t be hanging out making small talk.

II. “Mr. Slate,” he said, “my only daughter has a robot boyfriend. I’d like you to steal her away from him. For this service, I will pay you 20,000 credits.”

I didn’t blink, but only out of pure training. “I don’t know if I am the most qualified lothario around here.”

He took a huge drink of his huge drink. “Mr. Slate,” he said, “When she was young, my daughter was saved from a kidnapping by a…colorful character such as yourself. She’s a bit attracted to danger, more than she’d be attracted to a pretty face.”

He was not a subtle man; but for 20,000 credits, subtlety can go hang. “Just set up a date, I guess.”

II. Robbie came along. He wasn’t supposed to. We had a very specific reservation for two; but Yuki was a talented hacker.

Yuki was a very smart, very attractive woman, but Robbie was…a lot like me. Not exactly me–but very, very similar. By the appetizers, we were holding hands. By dessert, Yuki had left.

My nameless friend sent me 40,000 credits.

I like robots, but would I let my daughter date one?

I’d probably prefer it to paying someone else a fortune. But to each their ownest. Some people just REALLY don’t like robots.

I can’t imagine why.

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