# One Minute Warning

By Jeff Williamson.

Me and Danny was the best of friends when we was young.

The Cabrini Green PubArco in the Greater Chicago Pacified Zone wasn't a bad place to be when you was seven, young and laughin' like the rest of the world don't matter. 'course, the Green *was* the whole world to us then; parent, teacher and the State all rolled into one. Danny used to swipe his mom's keys--she was a minimum-wage slave, doin' swab work to keep the kids alive--and we'd take the central stairwell three stairs a time to the roof so's we could play "Drop Troopers" in the afternoon sun. My pop was a pencil-pusher in a Loop Buro office, but he tanned my hide something fierce the one time he caught us coming back down. He always yelled at me, and told me the PubOrd was gonna run me in if I kept getting into trouble. I always had trouble believing that, but then, I was always a cocky punk.

Pop got relocated to Detroit after the food riots in 2044, so we left Danny and the Green behind. The 'Arco stank, the water tasted like piss, and you didn't see kids playing on the roofs. I still wonder what Pop did to get himself in so deep that they moved him to Detroit.

They caught up with me when I was fourteen. I'd been running with some of the older kids, rolling elderly consumers and leaving our mark on Buro property. Steve dared me to spray paint one of the PubEye camera 'bots, and bein' the runt, I couldn't say no. So I lined up a good run, waiting for the 'Eye to make another pass, then when I was ready to do the job right in Safety Orange, I moved maybe two meters before this big gloved hand grabbed my shoulder and yanks me back.

"PubOrd, son. Come with me."

* * *

The cop frog-marched me down this maze of back streets, while the whole time I'm sniffing some mighty unclean jeans, sweating bullets and shaking like impending roadkill. He didn't say a word, just looked imposing in the grey-and-black standard issue. When he took me into this abandoned building, I was sure he was gonna turn my brains into a graffiti mural and leave me for the Willards. But no, he pointed and shoved me at a back staircase, and I stumbled into the basement.

Next thing I know, I'm standing in the middle of a bunch of gimmes--consumers _sans_ scratch, at least from the way they looked. They gave me the hairy eyeball, then this pretty redhead girl--maybe eighteen, at most--with grease smeared on her face laughs and talks to the cop.

"Picking up strays again, Jude?"

I look back, and whaddya know, the cop's not a cop--at least, no cop I know would take off his helmet and start joking with a buncha rabble.

"Be fair, Maxie. This kid's got big rocks."

"In his head, you mean, if *you* caught him!" The rest of 'em roared, and she giggled like no other kind of music. I was gettin' a real mad-on now, ready to spit fire for bein' their rube. Jude--the not-a-cop--musta seen that, and he grabbed my elbow sort of warning-like.

"Maybe so, Maxie, maybe so, but Rockhead was ready to spritz a PubEye when I nabbed him." Some folks perked up at that. "He's our kinda boy."

I shook off his hand, pissed at being talked about in the third person, pissed at all of 'em for laughing, and was about to cuss 'em out good, when Maxie strolled up, ruffled my hair, and whispered, "What about it, Rocky? You ready to do some *real* damage?"

Smitten dumb, I just nodded.

* * *

They explained the whole mess to me: how they was guerrilla fighters and monkeywrenchers (I wouldn't know why that was funny for a couple years), ready to give the Buro a little payback for grinding the consumers under heel. Most of what they said even started to make sense after a while. Funny how you live without hearing boo about stuff like that, then all the sudden you're part of it. "Confess, Conform, Consume" is how they taught it to us in school. Now there was a new law: Conspire.

Monkey Max (Maxie's handle) and Jude ("Just yell 'Hey Jude' if you need me") introduced me to the rest of the local Jammers, made me swear some goofy oath, and let me go. He didn't say so, but I got the idea Jude would be watching to see I didn't rat 'em all out. I went back home. Pop didn't even ask where I'd got to. Steve and the other guys, though, that was a different story. They was mostly worried I'd ratted on *them*. I told 'em PubOrd let me go on account of I was just a punk kid, but they had me on record and I couldn't bust windows or heads with 'em anymore. They was relieved, I guess, and told me to get lost.

Must of been less than a week before I was learning new tricks with a brand new gang. Seems most of my talent went toward demolitions. And when I finally got to blow up the same PubEye I tried to give a new paint job to with a pipe bomb I made myself, Jude gave me the big thumbs-up.

"Welcome to the Jammers, Rocky."

* * *

By the time I finished my stint at PubEdu when I was seventeen, I'd already been making explosives for dozens of Jammer raids. My pals were crucial backup, too, and I'd stared into the eyes of a couple of Abominations, thinking I was about to be Mutant Chow, when a buddy with a big gun capped the beasts. The more I saw of what the Buro did, the more I liked my life as a social engineer. Happy Crunches (tm) may be the drug of choice for Joe Consumer, but when you've seen what happens to the "enemies of the State"--namely, undisclosed medical experiments--your mellow gets harshed real quick.

After getting my useless diploma (genuine faux sheepskin with a genuine faux laserprinted signature from Bonengel himself), I moved out of the 'Arco and in with the roving resistance cell. That was the year that Maxie and I figured out by ourselves that the gap between eighteen and twenty-two was a hell of a lot different than the gap between fourteen and eighteen. It was also the year that Jude got himself fried in an access tunnel by an automated disintegrator that wasn't on the blueprints, and we sang his song as we blew things sky-high in his name.

I was making a name for myself, and I even got to see some of the big monkeys when they blew through town. You ever wondered why the bad guys on the TriVid animateds were always gun-toting gorillas? It's 'cause the Buro controls the air, and the Buro don't like talking cybernetic monkeys bein' instigators of subversion. Furious George (I still don't get why they call him that) was impressive, even at a distance; and I even got to talk to the Battlechimp. He let on that plans were brewing big, and that there might be a spot for someone like me if I kept up the good work. I think Maxie was trying hard not to be jealous, which wasn't too hard, since I was too awe-struck to strut.

* * *

Things don't always move quick when you're on the side of the righteous underdog. Three years it's been, and finally three nights ago I get my call--they're moving in on some juicy targets in my old stomping grounds, Chicago, and they need some heavy-duty backup by tonight, since the targets are about to move. I've been spending most of my time in the makeshift lab, brewing some Nasty Plasty, my signature specialty, and some small-time stuff for the amateurs. Today, I've been anxious--if they're moving tonight, they'd better hurry up, 'cause Chicago's still hours away. Maxie doesn't want me to go, but she knows that I've gotta do this. Finally my contact arrives by motorcycle, just as it's getting dark. His name's Austin, and he's one of the metalheads, a patch cyborg job after the unlucky stiff lost some limbs in a wild explosion. Field surgery never was one of our strong suits.

I toss my detonators in a bag and kiss Maxie goodbye, and Austin speeds to the East Side with me in the sidecar. He yells some stuff to me about not wanting to miss our portal, but that doesn't make much sense, especially with the wind rushing by so quick. When we finally stop, he tells me we'll be meeting up with a bunch of other roughneck types he calls Dragons. "As long as I can trust 'em at my back," I mutter under my breath. Austin looks at me sideways and herds me into an abandoned train station.

"Big group," Austin says, and I have to agree. We had maybe a dozen at the local cell. There's at least fifty here, and most of them expert types, hand-picked by the 'Chimp himself. I see one of the other Jammer bigwigs off to the side. It's the Mapmaker, Hopkins, and he's talking to some long-haired Asian guy with an entourage of rank newbies, trying hard not to look intimidated by the monkey with treads patrolling the perimeter. I don't see anyone else I recognize.

The natives are gettin' restless when Hopkins finally decides to give us the scoop. He spins us this screwy science-fiction yarn about taking a shortcut to the Windy City through a place called the Netherworld, and meeting up with the Chicago cell about a half-hour from now. I'd heard folks talk about other worlds before, but they were just supposed to be rumors. No one'd ever actually *been* there. When I realize the Mapmaker is serious, I start getting nervous.

"New to travelling, huh?" This blonde piece grins at me through a face smeared with engine oil as she tucks her hair under her cap, and I get the feeling I've been here before. I ask her which cell she's from and she gives me a funny look. "Oh no, I'm not with you guys. Local Dragons 182, scout's honor!" She doesn't make much sense, but I laugh with her anyway and try not to think about what Hopkins is saying.

"Look, here's a tip: don't look too long at anything when we're going through, and you should be fine. Some of the stuff you'll see will turn your stomach inside out." She wipes a hand on her jeans and sticks it toward me. "I'm Lucy, by the way."

"Frank. But call me Rocky." I don't understand why she starts trying to hum and laugh at the same time.

We're almost ready to go. Hopkins' seconds are coming around to give us last-minute briefings and synchronized wristwatches. I'm working mostly solo, time-sharing my armed backup with a Chicago group. We're to get out and be ready to pass back through by midnight. Lucy looks a little disappointed that we won't be working together.

When the Mapmaker does his magic, suddenly we're all looking down the wrong end of a dimensional sphincter, this big greenish tear in mid-air that swirls in patterns that make my stomach want to follow them. We move in by twos, swallowed up by a bad special effect.

Lucy's right. It helps not to look.

* * *

We come out in the old coal tunnels under the city, another new one on me--I never had a reason to leave the Green when I was living here. Most of our escort is tunnel guard, but still, a lot of us are going in.

BuroBank Plaza is the heart of Chicago's economic infrastructure, but it also houses one of the largest Arcanotech research labs not directly controlled by BuroMil. Tonight, according to Jammer sources, the Architects are prepping to transport some of the biggest, nastiest Abominations *anyone's* ever seen. Fortunately, we're not the only ones lookin' to shove a grenade up Bonengel's butt and pull the pin.

The Dragon hackers bypass electronic security to make our jobs that much easier. Now it's just a matter of dodging the human factor. Here's where the Asian guy and his trained newbies come in: the first squad we run across in the basement, they leap out, and with just their fists and feet, put the security into nighty-night land. With these guys on point, I'm starting to get a real appreciation for team play.

The bulk of our larger group makes its way to pre-selected strike zones. Our comm tech says the local boys are near the top floor, which is where I need to go. Leaving another lookout, we have the hackers lock us down an express elevator--two stops only, one for my backup and one for me.

I keep expecting someone to open up a major can of firefight, but the ride to the top is eerily quiet. My escort gets off at 39, spot-checking all the corners as they leave the car. The doors close again, and re-open a few seconds later. I step into an empty hallway, prepared to go to work.

It doesn't take me long--these things never do anymore--and I pack up my gear and head for the elevator. I hear a door open behind me, and my heart jumps into my throat. I turn, and there's a pale guy in a white lab coat smeared with...something. He starts, then steps out of the doorway into the hall. So does something else.

The thing is at least three meters tall, crouching in the hallway. It has four arms, and looks like someone peeled it and covered it with snot. Most of all, it has TEETH, chomping together in a weird four-way jaw that seems to be opening and closing as it decides I might be on the menu. The scientist smirks at me and says, "Fetch."

The Abomination can't move too fast in a hallway that's not designed for its size, so I take the time I have to pull out one of my toys: a Nasty Plasty pipe bomb. I whistle as I pull the quick fuse.

"Here boy, get the stick, get the stick!" I throw the bomb at its head. The jaw opens wide in all directions and clamps down on galvanized steel filled with a gelignite mix. I dive for the far end of the hall as the scientist yelps an incoherent cry, and when the big bang comes, I feel wet bits of things man should not know hit the back of my jacket.

I chance a look back. The hall's been painted green and red, like a freak-show Christmas. The scientist is out cold and covered in goo. All that's left of the beast are the legs below the knees, standing like boots by the side of the bed. I wipe slime off my jacket and punch the down button as a klaxon goes off.

On 39, I step out of the elevator. My backup's nowhere to be seen. I punch the emergency stop--now that the alarm is up, no one's gonna notice that--and move around the corner. Another office is open, and I hear a voice.

"--s, Lieutenant, I've neutralized the threat. Will continue double blind and herd remaining rebels to your position after securing top floor. Do not compromise my cover at any time. Out."

Sonofabitch, a mole! Shoulda figured. Damn, damn, damn! I risk a peek around the corner. One guy, dressed like the rest of us, not looking at the door. Four others, including my escort, all suffering from terminal lead poisoning. I'm trying to figure out what to do next when the mole looks up at the door and sees me.

Thirteen years, sure, but you don't ever forget a friend.

"Frank?"

"Danny." Shit.

We stare at each other like idiots, and we're both thinking the same things. Surprise to find each other here, disappointment in what the other guy's become, joy at facing a friend, anger at facing an enemy. Danny's faster, to my shame. I have no time to grab anything before he yanks open a desk drawer and pulls out the biggest hand cannon I have ever had the displeasure of staring into. The Buro Godhammer, which looks every bit as intimidating as its spec sheet implied.

He looks determined, then just resigned. He checks the clip on the gun, then underhands it to me. I nearly drop the huge piece of metal, surprised and confused. Danny sighs loudly.

"Get out of here, Frank. You don't want to be here when the heat comes down."

I don't know what to say to that. Best friends. I raise the gun to salute him, nod, and back out of the office. I hit the elevator sweating like a pig, drop the alarm and punch for the sub-basement. Danny comes out behind me, stares at me, and shakes his head as he takes the stairs up, three at a time. That's the last image I have of him before the doors close.

I try to think how many I can warn to get out of the Buro trap. I look at my watch just before the doors open. 11:59. I mow my way through a bunch of security goons with the new gun, making my way to the service stairwell. And upon reflection, I realize it would only have been fair of me to warn Danny that I'd wired the top floor to blow.

Shadowfist and Feng Shui: The Shadowfist Roleplaying Game as well as all characters described therein are copyrights and trademarks of Daedalus Entertainment, Inc. All rights reserved.

Last modified: September 12, 1996;