Hello all,

Thanks to those who commented on the earlier version of part 1 of this story.

This is what I *think* is the final version of the first part of "True
Love", a BGC story I've been working on.  Any comments, positive or
negative, over the ML or private, will be appreciated.

Thanks!


Jeanne

*********

TRUE LOVE

by Jeanne Hedge


Tokyo, Japan
January, 2034

     I love the way she moves.
     I love the way she looks.
     I love the way she gives her total concentration to 
whatever she does.
     I love the way she smells.
     I love the sound of her voice, a siren's song that pulled me 
from the abyss.
     I love her.

     She is wonderful.

***

     "Did you have any trouble getting away from the Raven?"
     "No, we're off tonight.  But, like I was telling you, we're 
stuck there for another week.  And that club is really 
strange."
     "Oh?  How so?"  The two young women who stepped 
onto the elevator in the basement of the Lady 633 building 
began their ride companionably enough.  By the time they 
arrived at their destination though, one was irritated, while 
her dark haired friend was attempting to hide her snickers 
behind a concealing hand.  As the doors opened, the 
conclusion of the one's litany of grievances rang out loudly, 
easily heard inside their mutual destination, the penthouse 
apartment.
     "...AND Janette's impossible to understand.  Have you 
ever had to decipher Japanese spoken with a French accent?"
     "Are you on about that again?" a short, redheaded young 
woman snickered as she opened the apartment's door.  "We 
could hear you yelling from the basement!  Give it up 
already, Priss."
     "Yeah, I'll never be able to hear again," Linna said, as she 
stepped through the door and bent to remove her shoes.  
"Look, if it's so bad there why don't you just quit?"
     "Yeah.  What do you think this is?  Some plot by the 
owner of Hot Legs to get you back just so he can fire you 
again?" Nene mocked.
     A fourth young woman joined them, smiling.  "I told you 
the other day, Priss, there's nothing unusual about that club.  
I checked.  I really do think you're making something out of 
nothing..."
     "Aw, Sylia, not you too?!" Priss groaned.
     "Why are you so paranoid all of a sudden?"
     "Oh, shut up Linna.  And I am not paranoid!" Priss 
grumbled back.  Her friends continued to tease her as they 
moved to the living room.  Sylia sat back in her lounger, an 
amused expression on her face as she watched her friends 
carry on.

     In 2030, Sylia Stingray, then 20 years old, founded the 
Knight Sabers.  She had recruited and trained three carefully 
selected teenagers, Linna Yamazaki, Priss Asagiri, and Nene 
Romanova, to be her weapons in her personal vendetta 
against the Genom Corporation.  Now, after almost three 
years of extensive activity, the group's anti-Genom focus had 
mellowed somewhat.  While their primary goal remained that 
of countering the mega-conglomerate, they had also evolved 
into an elite mercenary force, available to almost anyone for 
the right price.
     They had also grown to be a closely knit group, in some 
ways closer than family.  One of the charter rules of the 
Knight Sabers, that the members do not know each other on 
the outside, had quickly fallen by the wayside when Nene, 
Linna, and Priss began hanging around with each other.  That 
it had happened wasn't surprising considering the nature of 
the jobs they took, and that half the group had no living 
family.
     Of course, whenever she brought up the fact that there 
were excellent security reasons behind that particular rule, 
one of the others invariably asked her which rule was more 
important: not knowing each other on the outside or keeping 
in contact with the other members regularly.  To which Priss 
inevitably added with a grin that if she was going to be 
executed for rule violations, she'd like to know which rule it 
was she was dying over.

     "I said, 'don't you agree, Sylia?'!"
     Sylia jerked from her reverie.  A quick look around 
showed she was the center of attention.  "I'm sorry, Linna, 
you caught me daydreaming."
     "Some daydream.  You were really out there," Priss 
grinned at her leader.
     "He must be really cute!  Do we know him?"
     "Nene, really," Sylia frowned, embarrassed to have been 
caught in such a state.  "What were you saying Linna?"
     "Just wondering when we were going to get started with 
this.  I've got an appointment for later this evening."
     "Appointment, huh?" Priss teased.  "Blonde, brunette, or 
redhead?"
     "Hush, you, or I'll make you go back to the Raven."
     "Ladies, please," Sylia interjected, before things could 
escalate further.  "Linna has a point.  The sooner we get 
started the sooner we can be about our business."
     The trio joined Sylia, taking seats on the couch and chairs 
scattered about her living room.  "Before we begin," Sylia 
said, "I've an announcement to make.  I need each of you to 
schedule a time to come in for your physical measurements 
to be taken."  Nene groaned, and Linna and Priss snickered 
in response.
     "What's the problem, Nene?  Don't you want your new 
suit to fit properly?"
     It took a moment for Sylia's words to sink in.  "But Sylia, 
they were just upgraded!" came the stunned response.
     "Yes, Priss, I know.  But you can only do so much with 
upgrades.  Recent data leads me to believe that it's time to 
bring a new generation of suits on-line."  Sylia looked at the 
still surprised faces around her, and forged ahead.  "It will be 
a few months yet before they are designed, built, tested, and 
ready for use, so we'll be getting plenty of use out of this last 
upgrade."
     She smiled slightly.  "If there are any special 
modifications you would like from your current suit, see me 
later."  Priss began to grin in return, picturing more, more 
powerful weaponry, while visions of enhanced electronics 
danced in Nene's head.  Linna, on the other hand, vowed to 
have a chat about making the 'monomolecular' ribbons 
attached to her helmet retractable.
     "Now that that's out of the way, I'd like to discuss the real 
reason I asked you here."  Sylia took a deep breath.  "2033 
was a difficult year for us, in many ways.  We had many 
obstacles to overcome, and, personally speaking, I think, on 
the whole, we did admirably."  Sylia stopped, swallowed, 
and said fiercely, almost in a whisper, "I am so very proud of 
each of you."  She turned her gaze upon her friends, each in 
turn.  Friends she knew she could never do without again.
     And they looked back at her: proud, confident, strong, 
with total devotion to each other, and total trust in her, 
shining in their eyes.
     The moment came to an end too quickly, and after a pause 
to regain her composure, Sylia was able to continue in a 
more businesslike tone.  "But, there were also some things 
we didn't perform quite so well at.  And since we'd rather 
repeat the things that we do well, and improve on the things 
that we don't do so well, I think it's time for a performance 
review."
     As good-natured grumbles filled the room, Sylia dimmed 
the lights and activated a monitor set into the wall.  A series 
of computer generated images, featuring a blue hardsuit in 
action against various boomer opponents, filled the center of 
the screen.  Suit telemetry covered the bottom and right side 
of the monitor, while suit-wearer telemetry ran up the left.  
"OK, now then.  Priss.  How many times have we told you 
not to...."

     "Ms. Asagiri?  Edward Haskell, Nezumi Records."  The 
tall, blonde man in the gray suit extended his right hand.  
Priss stared at him for a few moments, then went back to her 
burger.
     "Nezumi, huh?  Interesting name for a label," Priss said 
around a mouthful of food as she stared out the window next 
to the booth.  "Have a seat.  How'd you find me?"
     "Followed you from the Raven.  You're a big hit over 
there."  Haskell slid onto the bench seat opposite her.
     "Maybe.  But tomorrow's the end of the run.  We're 
opening someplace else next week."  She took another bite of 
her burger and feigned disinterest in the conversation.  
Actually, she was paying careful attention to him, what he 
had to say, and, most importantly, how he said it.
     "I know.  Going back to the Legs."
     Priss turned back to stare at him.  "You been checking up 
on us Haskell?" she asked with an edge in her voice.
     "Of course.  How else am I supposed to decide if you 
guys are worth signing?" he replied smoothly.
     "The usual way is to listen to the music, bud," she 
laughed.  She took a sip of her beer, then continued.  "So, 
you want to sign us, huh?"
     "Maybe.  What can you do to make it worth my while?"
     Priss stared at him, then scooted out of the booth and 
stepped across to his side of the table.  "Haskell," she began 
tonelessly as she looked down at him with disgust, "I think 
you just lived up to your label's name."
     "Come on, Priss.  You're a big girl; you know how the 
game is played.  Why don't we--"
     He never got to finish, as Priss reached back across the 
table, grabbed her beer, and dumped it over his head.  
"That's not how I play the game, asshole."
     As she stomped across the room, headed for the door, she 
heard Haskell, still sitting at the table, laughing.  "See you at 
Hot Legs, Priss!"

     Priss stepped into the taproom, a secondary bar at Hot 
Legs used mainly by those more interested in drinking than 
music.  She stood at the entrance until her eyes could adjust 
to the darkness.  Most of the night's crowd had left by the 
time she had finished her shower and changed clothes, so she 
had little trouble scanning the room.  She quickly spotted the 
two people who always made it to her opening nights.  Over 
the past couple years Nene and Linna had become sort of 
good luck charms for the Replicants.  If they made it to an 
opening, things went well for the run.  If they didn't, for 
some reason things usually became a disaster.
     Priss stepped over to the bar to collect a drink, then made 
her way across the room, nodding or exchanging a word with 
people she knew, ignoring those she didn't.  Nene and Linna, 
seated at a corner table, stood to greet her as she approached.  
Nene, as usual, was overly enthusiastic in her appraisal of the 
performance, Linna only somewhat less so.  Priss smiled to 
herself as the three sat back down at the table.  If she ever 
needed an unbiased critique of her musical performance, she 
knew where not to go.
     Still trying to unwind from the show, Priss closed her eyes 
and leaned back into the chair, sighing blissfully.  She let 
Linna and Nene's discussion of the relative merits of 
cheesecake versus fruit for a between-meal snack wash over 
her.  After a few minutes, Priss had relaxed enough to nod 
off, only to be startled back to wakefulness by a kick in the 
leg.
     "Hey, are you listening to me?"
     "Uhh, whaa?" Priss responded intelligently.  "What is it?"
     "Geez, Priss, if you're so tired why don't you go home?" 
Linna asked.
     "Wish I could.  Got a meeting with an A&R guy later."
     "Oh, that's terrific!" Nene enthused.  "Which label?"
     "Nezumi Records."
     Dead silence.  "You're going to sign with 'Rat' Records?" 
Linna said slowly, as if she couldn't believe her ears.
     "We're not signing with anyone yet, I'm just meeting with 
their guy."  Priss stifled a yawn.
     "Is that him over there?" Nene asked, nodding in the 
direction of a booth by the door.  "He's been staring at you 
ever since you came in here."  Priss and Linna both turned to 
look.
     "Him?"  Priss studied the leather-clad man Nene had 
pointed out from across the room.  "Nah, the Rat guy is tall, 
blonde, and acts like one."
     Their sudden scrutiny seemed to disconcert the booth's 
occupant.  He stood, and, after looking about a little wildly, 
grabbed a paper bag off the seat and left the bar, exiting back 
into the main room of the club.  Priss and Linna turned back 
in their chairs.  "Just another flake, I guess," Linna said with 
a snicker.
     "Whatever," Priss replied, running her fingers through her 
hair.  "Hey, either of you got your brush?  Mine's turned up 
missing."  Just bought a new one too.  Pisses me off, she 
grumped to herself.
     "Someone stole your hairbrush?" Nene asked in disbelief.  
"What's the world coming to?"  She dug into the depths of 
her bag for her own brush, to lend it to Priss.

     Outside the club, a man in red leathers walked swiftly to a 
line of motorcycles.  Working his own machine out of the 
bevy of bikes, he made his way to the streetlight illuminating 
the parking area.  After putting the kickstand down, he 
leaned back against the seat.
     Opening the paper bag he'd been carrying, he examined 
its contents.  Carefully removing a towel from inside, he held 
it to his face, inhaling the residual scent of its user.  A few 
minutes later, he folded the still damp towel, and placed it 
back in the bag.  The bag, in turn, was stowed in his bike's 
storage compartment.
     That task concluded, he reached into the pocket of his 
jacket and removed a hairbrush.  Reaching forward, he 
adjusted the bike's mirror until he could see his own 
reflection, and began to brush his hair.

     Priss had a headache.  After four meetings with Haskell, 
four loong meetings with Haskell, they'd finally gotten to the 
point where he brought out a contract.  She'd taken it back to 
the guys, and they were ready to sign on the spot.  But she 
was having her doubts about the whole thing.
     It wasn't that the sections related to the contractual 
obligations of the band for performance and the label for 
support were bad.  In reality they were perfectly acceptable; 
she'd hoped to have been offered better, but could live with 
this.  The problem, as usual, was with the legal-ese.  And the 
money.
     Translation rights, reciprocal agreements, mechanical 
reproduction rights, performance rights, synchronization 
rights, sheet music....  merchandising for God's sake.  And 
Nezumi wanted a piece of everything.
     No, more than just a piece.  They wanted it all.
     And they guys didn't care.  They just wanted a contract.  
Now.
     Hot Legs was fine if you were starting out, or if you had 
no other place to go.  But it was beyond time for the Reps to 
have moved on.  If they didn't sign with somebody soon, 
they ran the risk of becoming old news.  Has-beens.  Or 
worse, never-weres.
     Two band meetings later, she was back at the bargaining 
table.  After three hours, she and Haskell had come to an 
agreement about most things, but were stuck on something so 
ridiculous she'd couldn't believe he was trying to get away 
with it.  In exchange for giving the band a percentage of the 
net for foreign translation of their songs, Nezumi wanted 
100% of the gross profit for merchandising.
     Translation rights were chump-change, unless they hit it 
huge.  Getting a few points of the net meant they'd never see 
a penny; the label was always the one that determined if there 
was a net profit on anything.
     Merchandising was going to lead to a tidy sum.
     She wasn't going to stand for it.
     The guys said take it.
     Priss demanded to meet with Haskell's boss.

     "Aw, no, not tonight!" Priss groaned as her pager alarm 
went off.  She was due on stage in ten minutes.  After the 
show she was supposed to meet with Haskell again, and 
maybe, finally, sign the contract.  And now it looked like all 
her plans for the night were shot.
     How the hell do I get out of this? she thought as she 
silenced the alarm.  There was no way she could ignore the 
call-out.  If Sylia found out, she was dead.  Maybe literally.  
She was going to have to blow off another performance, 
which wasn't good, and Haskell, which was worse.
     She stuck her head out of the dressing room, and waved 
over the bouncer stationed at the back door.  "What's up 
Priss?  Aren't you supposed to be on stage?"
     "I need a favor, Kenji.  I'm not feeling well; it must have 
been something I ate."  Well, the tako-yaki at dinner was a 
little off...  "I don't think I can go on tonight."
     "Oh, Priss, that's terrible.  I know how you so look 
forward to playing here," Kenji said with false sympathy.  
"You want me to go get Paul?"
     "No.  Just tell him I got sick and went home.  Have him 
reschedule the meeting with that guy, Haskell, for tomorrow.  
I should be feeling better by then."  The pager went off 
again, and again Priss, now red-faced, acknowledged it.  
Kenji stared at her for a second, then grinned hugely.
     "Uh-huh."  He turned and began to walk toward the 
backstage area.
     "Tell him to tell Haskell I still want to talk to his boss!" 
Priss called after him, and he acknowledged her with a wave 
as he made his way in search of the Reps bass player and 
second lead singer.

***

     The demons are trying to tear us apart.
     They tempt my love with the pleasures of the flesh.
     They will be warned.

     Just this once.

***

     "This is Haskell.  I need to speak with the Director.  ...  
Yes, I know what time it is.  ...  Look Anya, I know she's 
there, now put me through."  Haskell sighed with 
exasperation as his boss's executive assistant put him on hold 
while she went to 'see if the Director is in.'  Dammit, who is 
Anya trying to kid?  The Director is always in this time of 
night.
     "Yes, Haskell," came the throaty voice across the audio-
only line.  "What do you have for me?"
     "Good evening, ma'am.  I've just concluded a meeting 
with members of Priss and the Replicants.  They are the 
group that--"
     "Yes, Haskell.  The group with the grabby lead singer that 
has an overly high opinion of both herself and her 
negotiating skills.  Continue."
     "Yes, ma'am.  The group's leader was unable to attend 
tonight's meeting due to a sudden illness.  I met with other 
members, who informed me that the group is more than 
willing to sign our contract as it currently stands."
     "I see."  There was a pause, and Haskell could picture the 
Director sitting back in her chair, eyes closed.  She tended to 
do that whenever she was analyzing information.  "Have you 
checked into those rumors about the singer?"
     "Yes, ma'am.  The stories are true: on several occasions 
she has left the venue shortly before or during the 
performance, claiming to be ill.  At other times she has left 
with no explanation whatsoever.  Additionally, several times 
in the past she has been unable to perform due to injury.  
There are no overt signs of the illnesses being drug or alcohol 
related, or due to some sort of physical or psychological 
problem.  The injuries are apparently related to accidents on 
her motorcycle."
     "And you still think it prudent for the company to invest 
in this band?"
     "Absolutely, ma'am!" Haskell responded enthusiastically, 
finally breaking from his "corporate report" demeanor.  "The 
musicians are not much more than a talented garage band, 
and, of course, the standard changes will be necessary.  But 
the singer is worth the investment by herself.  Looks, singing, 
performance... she even writes her own music.  When we 
match her with better players, she'll be a gold mine."
     Another long pause.  "I don't think so, Mr. Haskell."
     "Ma'am?"  Haskell was stunned.
     "Mr. Haskell, we have too many prima donnas under 
contract as it is.  Prima donnas who are good looking, who 
can sing, who can write songs, who can perform, and who 
can show up for their performances.  No, Mr. Haskell.  We 
don't need any more headaches."
     "But ma'am!" Haskell protested.  "Surely we can--"
     "Mr. Haskell, that is enough!" the Director snapped.  
Haskell immediately shut up.  "Thank you.  Now then, on 
second thought, I'm willing to reconsider my position.  Is the 
singer still asking for me to enter the negotiations?"
     "Yes, ma'am."
     "When is your next meeting scheduled?"
     "Tomorrow night, after their last set at Hot Legs."
     "That hole?  I thought they were playing at the Raven."  
The Director shuddered as she thought of all the time she had 
put in at Hot Legs.  "Very well, Mr. Haskell.  I'm assuming 
all negotiations with this group, personally.  I want all of 
your files and reports on them updated, completed, and on 
my desk in three hours."
     "Are you sure, ma'am?  You shouldn't waste your 
valuable time.  I can--"
     "Don't worry, Mr. Haskell.  When I sign them tomorrow 
night, and I will sign them tomorrow night, you'll get your 
commission.  Three hours."  She cut the circuit.
     Anya stood from where she had been monitoring the 
conversation, and walked into the small kitchenette off of the 
office.  When she emerged again, she was carrying two cups 
of tea.  She set one on the Director's desk, and, returning to 
her own desk to the side of the office, kept the other for 
herself.  "Ma'am, are you sure about this?  They sound like 
nothing but trouble to me."
     The Director sipped her tea.  "When you have been in this 
business as long as I have, Anya, you'll learn that you can 
find a use for everyone.  Even the problem children."
     "If I may ask, what use will you put these 'problem 
children' to?"
     "Our contracted performers are getting pushy again.  We 
need an example."  The Director smiled coldly.  "Miss Priss 
is going to be my example."



Continued in 2/2




Jeanne Hedge

jhedge@waterw.com ==================== 75512.1214@compuserve.com

"The truth is the one thing that nobody will believe."
           --  George Bernard Shaw  (1856 - 1950)

================================================================