NEVER FADE AWAY
"Yo! Rockerboy!" one of them yells, "Good show!
Good noise!" Johnny Silverhand waves absently.
Fans. They're right; the gig was good. He'd rarely
been better. But the show's over.
They start walking towards him. One waves a
bottle; the light strikes oily yellow tequila sloshing to
and fro. "Yo, Silver-rocker!" he says. The smaller one,
with the face scarred in African tribal tattoos. "Join
us! Share some! Fair price for a good gig, eh?" The
distance is closing, Johnny steers Alt, his girlfriend,
to his bad side. The one without the Hand. "Hey,
Icebrothers," he says, noting the gang's colors and
speaking in a temporizing tone. "Your offer's solid,
but it's been a long gig. I'm nearly flatlined as it is.
How 'bout a replay, next night?" By that time, they're
almost on him. He lets the 9mm Federated Arms X-9
drop from the spring holster, settling into the Hand.
Probably nothing, he thinks.
''Yeah. Replay next night," the big one says enthu-
siastically, and that's when they hit him. This fast,
they're a blur. The X-9 booms in the close confines
of the alley; whines as spent rounds ricochet off into
nowhere. There is a metallic "snick" as the smaller
punk brings up his arm—light reflects off the fistful of
razors that pretends to be a hand; then an excruciating
impact lifts Johnny off the ground. Blood sprays over
wet concrete. Silverhand hits with a bone wrenching
impact. His pale eyes stare blankly at the sky. Alt's
terrified screams recede swiftly into the dark. Sixty to
zero in eight seconds flat.
•••
Johnny comes to. There's something like broken glass
in his guts. Red fire blots out the cool blue neon. He rolls
over in a pool of something greasy. Blood.
His.
A cat topples off the dumpster, picking a cautious
pattern around his body. No fool, this cat. A survivor.
Not going to get involved. Its eyes are tiny red LEDs
moving upalley; Johnny watches it. Smug bastard, he
thinks. And closes his eyes.
Behind his eyelids, red digitals feebly clock out his
remaining moments. Bio-clock running down. Cars
whispering past on the filthy, rain-wet street beyond.
A Trauma Team ambulance in the distance, siren
screaming. But not for him. He's checking out.
He stares blankly up at the flat black ceiling of the
city. Overhead, there's the shimmer of distant heat
lightning interacting with the pink actinic glow of the
City lights. The stars look painted in. A VTOL passes
overhead, giant propblades thrashing the night.
Johnny tries reaching up to it. He can see the Hand
etched against the sky; slick, superchrome winking
back at him. He balls the Hand that is his trademark
into a chromed fist, servos clicking in one by one.
He thrusts it into the gaping belly wound, gasping
at the shocking pain. Somehow, he gets to his feet;
staggers to the alleyway. He leans his feverish face
against the cool, wet bricks. He makes a decision.
He's not going to die. They're going to die. Closing
his eyes, he pitches forward into the streak of passing
traffic blur.
Something stops him. Hands firmly grapple him,
holding him up. Silverhand has just enough strength
to open his eyes. There's a face looking intently at him,
thin, bearded. "Lord Almighty," the face says. "They
really did you, didn't they?"
Fade to black.
T
rauma Ward
Something is screaming when Johnny wakes up. Fine.
Just as long as it isn't him. He must have missed the
ambulance ride to the hospital, but here in the trauma
ward he can hear the sound of jet engines. That's the
screaming. It mounts higher and higher, while the ward
fills with warm air and the smell of ozone. From his
stretcher, he can see the bulky AV-4 vehicle spin on
its fans and hurtle upwards. The din dies down and he
can hear screaming for real all around him; casualties
of the regular firefights around the City.
The doctor puts him back together. The same doctor
who did his transparent Kiroshi eyes; his trademark
silver hand. The same doctor who "plugged" him for
interface and installed the software chips in the back
of his skull. Johnny considers taking out a service
contract.
Microsurgical waldos cut through the perforated
guts, swabbing, tying off, prepping. The doctor
stitches in three feet of glistening wet, tank-grown
intestine; plugs the punch holes with synthetic
skin and muscle. Airhypos inject the area with